Page 118 of Obey

I press my lips together to keep from laughing and type back with my most professional posture.

Me: Sir, I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve been nothing but a model employee.

The bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back.

Nathaniel Blackwell: Fix it, Sloane.

I copy one of the standard IT auto-responses, polish off the ticket numbers, and send it back gleaming.

Me: Thank you for contacting support. Your request has been received and will be addressed in the order it was submitted. Expected wait time: indefinite.

I get exactly two seconds of silence before my phone lights up on my desk. I leave him waiting for another fifteen seconds before I answer. “Yes, Mr. Blackwell?”

“Since the rest of my morning is apparently wide open,” he says, each word clipped and even, “I’d like you to come in and help me while I review contracts.”

“Contracts?” I say. “It’s nine in the morning.”

“Now, Sloane.”

The line goes dead.

I smooth my skirt down my thighs as I stand, my fingers not quite ready to let go of the fabric.

The moment I enter, he taps his desk console without looking up. The glass turns opaque, and the lock engages as a red Do Not Disturb halo blooms around the handle behind me, sealing off the floor's ambient hum.

Up here on fourteen, Nate had special locks installed for immediate privacy, and the only people who can bypass them are the ones with special access badges.

Guess who are the only three to have those badges.

He’s working through a file, one of a stack arranged with military precision, when he sets his pen down with a quiet, intentional click that’s louder than any shout would be.

“You cleared my calendar,” he says. “Explain.”

“I thought you could use a break.”

“Did you.” Not a question. A dissection. “What gave you that impression?”

“Three days at your desk,” I say. “You need food. Water. Sunlight, maybe.”

One brow lifts as he finally looks at me. His gaze travels down and back up, unhurried, like he’s billing for the time. “And you appointed yourself to manage that.”

“Someone had to.” I fold my hands in front of me before he can notice me worrying at my fingers.

He says nothing for a long beat. Then he pushes his chair back and crooks two fingers. “Come here.”

My feet eagerly move towards him, despite the alarm bells going off in my brain.

His palm finds my waist the moment I’m close enough. One pull, and I’m straddling him, the leather of his chair cool through the thin fabric of my skirt. My hands land on his shoulders for balance, and the solid warmth of him beneath my palms makes my breath catch.

“Fine,” he says. “Since you’ve so generously freed up my morning, you can help me with a different kind of work.”

My knees threaten to give. “I thought we were reviewing contracts.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens his desk drawer and sets something on the edge of the desk between us: sleek, royal blue silicone, the SOLAÉ logo etched clean into the side. Sapphire Collection.

“The Siren. One of my favorites for orgasm control training…” He turns it once in his fingers before his silver gaze meets mine. “And edging.”

The air leaves my lungs. “Nate, h-how about we think this over?”