揌ow are you??he asks.
I kick off my heels, placing them on a chair beside me. 揥hat are you doing right now??
揑t抯 called conversation, Gemma. You tell me you抮e fine, then you ask how I am.?
He needs to shave桰 bet it would feel like fine-grit sandpaper between my thighs.
揇o I have to pretend I care about your answer? Because that sounds like a lot of work.?
He holds my gaze. 揊ine, then tell me something卙ave you thought about it? I抣l admit it if you will.?
揧ou just admitted it already.?
His laughter is low, over-confident, already certain how I抎 answer if I was willing to answer. 揑抦 wondering which part you thought about,?he begins, stretching back in his seat, palms behind his neck, as if he抯 lounging at the pool.
Next, he抣l mention my hands in his hair, which hardly implies unwillingness. Or my intake of breath, the way I arched against him seeking more.
I rise to my feet, buoyed by seventy-two hours of pent-up frustration and rage. 揝top.?
換uitting so soon??he challenges. 揟ypical female. Mouthy until the going gets tough. With the way you were棓
I was reaching for my shoes already, but it抯 as if my brain has mixed up my intent. I grab only one卆nd I whip it at him, as hard as I can, realizing after it抯 airborne that if that spiky heel hits the wrong thing he could wind up in the hospital梠r worse, the heel could snap.
But he catches it, and his eyes gleam梐n evil look if I抳e ever seen one. 揟hanks,?he says, rising to his feet. 揑抳e always wanted one of your shoes.?
And then he turns and walks out of the room.
I stand frozen, astonished by the whole thing. And then it hits me: He has one half of my lucky heels, my irreplaceable seven-hundred-dollar Manolos. What the hell? Why couldn抰 I have thrown a book or a stapler, or a microwave like a normal person?
He might break it. He will break it, intentionally. 揌a-ha,?he抣l say, laughing maniacally like the villain he is, 搒he抣l have to go home barefoot.?
I need that shoe.
Panicked, I grab the other Manolo and run around the table to chase after him. 揥ait!?
He goes into his office and shuts the door. 揃en! Please! I抦 sorry! Don抰 destroy it!?
There is no response, so I grab my phone and text.
Me: Please. I抦 sorry. Please don抰 hurt my shoe.
I hear the low hum of his laughter from the other side of the door and the distinct sound of scissors. Then there are three dots beneath my text, which means he is replying.
Ben: Beg.
Rage spikes in my chest, but for once in my life common sense overrides it. Those shoes are irreplaceable.
Me: I抦 begging. Please give me back my shoe.
Ben: In person.
I try his door, which is now unlocked. He抯 sitting behind his desk with a broad grin on his face. He holds my shoe aloft in his left hand, the scissors in his right. 揌ello, Miss Shoe,?he says. 揌ave you met my friend, Mr. Scissors??
揇on抰，？I plead. 揑抦 sorry I threw it, okay? I抦 sorry.?
He spins the slingback around on his index finger. I want to demand he stop because he might stretch out the delicate suede, but I somehow refrain. 揧ou know what you have to do,?he says.
I squeeze my eyes tight, breathe deeply, and pray for patience. 揚lease give me my shoe back. I am very sorry I threw it at you.?
揇id you think about our kiss??he asks.
My jaw grinds. 揑s a confession you extorted really the best you can do??
揑抣l take your refusal to answer as an answer.?He rises and comes to my side of the desk, where he then kneels beside my foot and picks it up in his hand, his thumb sliding slowly over the arch.
Goose bumps break out across the surface of my skin. A small fever starts to spread through my blood.
He slips the shoe on before he takes the other from me and slips that on as well, his hand lingering on my ankle. 揧ou aren抰 very good at begging, by the way,?he says, his voice low and rough.
揗aybe you抮e not good at making women beg,?I reply, my words husky and full of longing.
揥hat抯 that??he asks. And then slowly, insistently, his hand slides up my leg. The soft trail of his palm over my skin and the rough purr to his voice make it hard to think. All concern about my shoe is abandoned and now there is only want, a wave of it so strong that I need to grip the desk to keep my bearings under it.
揑 said棓 I inhale as his palm slides above my knee 摋maybe you抮e not good at making women beg.?
His hand brushes against my inner thigh and I make no move to stop him.
揧ou know what I think??he asks, climbing to his feet just as his hand reaches my thong. He抯 never watched my face more carefully than he is at this moment. 揑 think you get off on fighting with me.?