Margo shakes her head. “That wasn’t part of the agreement and you can’t just add things to better fit what you want.”
I smile, catching her off guard and forcing the door open. “I’m your boss, remember. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” I take a step closer until I’m crowding her space. “And right now, what I want is your ass downstairs seated at the dinner table.”
“I’m off the clock. Right now, you’re just Beck. You're not Mr. Sinclair until tomorrow. I don’t have to listen to you.” She means to say “Mr. Sinclair” mockingly, but it has the opposite effect. Her sweet tone only fuels my growing erection.
“I’ve already cooked you one dinner you didn’t come down to eat. It isn’t happening again.”
“You can’t make me.”
An idea pops into my head. Grinning ear to ear, I pin her with a wide smile. “Oh Violet, yes I can.”
The ground is swept from underneath my feet, completely catching me off guard.
“Beckham!” I scream, smacking his back with all my might. “Put me down right now.”
His footsteps don’t falter one beat. He continues down the hallway, undeterred by my slaps and attempts to wriggle free from his grasp.
“Smack my ass again, Margo, and I’ll bend you over my knee and return the favor.”
“You wouldn’t even dream of it,” I seethe, kicking my legs back and forth. The movements only make him grip me even harder as he brings us down the stairs.
His laugh is sinister. “That’s where you’re very wrong. Nothing would make me happier than to dream of making that tight little ass of yours red, other than actually doing it, of course.”
If I wasn’t mad at him for earlier today and then for taking me down here against my will, I might be totally turned on by the comment. Let’s be honest, my clit throbs at the mental picture of his handprint on my ass. I’d gladly accept the sting of his palm against my sensitive skin if it meant he’d be playing with other parts of me as well.
What? No. I clench my thighs together, attempting to get my clit and mind on the same page that we’re currently pissed at Beck.
“Wow. Did me talking dirty to you really get you to shut up? I’ll have to try it more often.”
His actions are a complete contrast to his words as he gently sets me into one of the chairs saddled up to the kitchen island. He smirks at me, laying a hand on the armrests on either side of me. Whatever has gotten into him, it’s shifted the balance between us. I hadn’t expected him to be so brash, to talk so dirty to me. If anything, I thought reminding him of the terms we set going into this fake fiancée situation would deter him from me.
The way he leans in until his lips are barely brushing over mine shows it’s the complete opposite.
“Tell me, Margo, is your pussy wet at the idea of me spanking you? Fuck, it’d hurt at first, but I promise I’d make you feel good after.”
I’m stunned. I’m completely at a loss for words. I expected our conversation after this kiss and the conversation at the office to make things awkward. Beck had other plans, like taking an axe to all the reasons us hooking up is a terrible idea and appealing to the part of me that wants him so fiercely that I’d say fuck the terms if it meant he made good on his word and did all the things he’s threatening.
He clicks his tongue, pulling my bottom lip out from between my teeth. I hadn’t realized I’d been doing it, but it was all in an effort to stifle a moan at him saying pussy and spanking in the same sentence. They sounded filthy but hot as fuck coming from his mouth.
“Don’t worry, I’m just as turned on—maybe even more—by the thought of how wet you are underneath those pajama pants of yours. If my words can make you that wet, I’d have the best time figuring out what certain parts of my body can do to you.”
My sexual history is filled with one vanilla encounter after the other. I already know just by the dirty mouth on Beck that sex with him would be anything but.
My palms reach out to grab the soft fabric of his T-shirt. In a last second decision, I have to figure out if I want to pull him to me and kiss the hell out of him and force him to make good on every one of his promises, or if I want to shove him away and force the space I desperately need from him to get my shit together.
I choose the latter, pushing at him with all my might. “Stop,” I plead, my voice completely unconvincing. The only reason I’m able to get him away is because he lets me push our bodies apart.
He stands, his toned arms no longer caging me in. When he walks to the other side of the counter, grabbing plates from a cabinet, I’m able to take a solid, deep breath for the first time since the moment he showed up at my bedroom door.
“Did you hit your head or something since we were at the office?”
His back is to me as he plates whatever he’s made. Whatever it is, it smells delicious. My stomach growls, eagerly wanting whatever food he’s prepared. “Not that I recall,” he deadpans. “Why?”
I wiggle in the chair, trying to find a position that’s comfortable and makes me feel my throbbing clit a little less. Even the smallest brush of fabric against the swollen part has me almost panting with need. His words have had such an effect on me. He’s right, if I can pretty much get off by just that filthy mouth of his, I know other parts of him could make me see stars.
“Because you seem to have forgotten our earlier conversation. The one where I said that we probably shouldn't, you know, kiss and stuff since you know, we’re pretending to like each other and all.”
He looks over his shoulder. “I thought I made it clear this afternoon that I wasn’t pretending.”
My mouth snaps shut. I have no idea what’s happening anymore. I went from kind of wondering if Beck was into me to him full blown admitting that he was attracted to me.
Silverware clatters as he reaches into a drawer to his left. He’s silent as he places a plate in front of me. The dish looks like it came from a fancy restaurant, not made by him in the comfort of his own home. There’s what looks to be perfectly cooked salmon with some kind of glaze drizzled over it paired with green beans that look to be the perfect amount of charred and seasoned. I can smell the garlic, my stomach growling in anticipation.
Beck places another plate next to me, properly putting silverware next to both our plates. I should thank him but I’m too busy working through the sudden shift between us in my head.
He doesn’t take a seat next to me. Instead, he steps out of the kitchen and disappears for a few moments. When he returns, he carries a bottle of white wine in one hand and two glasses in his other.
Without words, he sets the glasses down in front of him. He works with expertise to open the bottle of wine, his forearm muscles rippling the entire time. He doesn’t ask me if I want any, pouring two hefty glasses and pushing them across the counter so one sits in front of my plate and the other in front of his.
“I probably shouldn’t drink this much wine before my first day,” I admit, trying to break the tension in the room. It doesn’t help much. I’m still throbbing between my legs, and it doesn’t seem in his nature to relent in whatever crusade he’s begun.