Page 10 of His for Christmas
His brow furrowed. “Why not?”
Because I didn’t have a choice. But that would only prove his point. And besides, it wasn’t strictly true. “It felt good,” I whispered.
For a second his eyes darkened, and I knew he was remembering the feel of my body climaxing against his fingers, the sounds I made as I came. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Whether you enjoyed it or not isn’t the question. What I did was immoral. If you won’t call the police, at least call the workforce commission. Or human resources.”
He wanted me to report him to his own employees? I blinked. “I’m not going to tell anyone what happened.”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, clearly frustrated. “Jesus. I never wanted this to happen.”
Never wanted to accidentally finger his secretary? It seemed like a very specific worry. “I don’t understand.”
A humorless half smile twisted his lips. “It’s irony, that’s all. The thing I was doing to prevent the problem led to the problem.”
“You’re not making sense. And I’m not very sharp to begin with, so could you please just… explain it to me?”
He frowned. “You keep saying that—that you aren’t smart. Why?”
My stomach tightened. “Don’t change the subject. Why would you think you hurt me? Why would you think you would hurt me?”
He studied me for a moment, then blew out a breath. “I’m not surprised that I’d hurt you. I hate myself for it, but I’m not surprised.”
My blood ran cold. “What do you mean? Have you hurt a woman before?”
I knew for damn sure he hadn’t raped me last night—whether he believed me or not. But he still could have hurt some other woman. Maybe that was why he was so afraid to do it… again.
His jaw tightened. “No, but I could have. Every so often I need…” A sound almost like a growl escaped him. “I need to use and to hurt. I need… fuck, I need relief. And I won’t risk it with a woman I know and care about. I use a service, and every woman that signs up knows exactly what she’s getting into.”
A small sound escaped me. Of surprise. Of disgust? But not at him. At whatever strange darkness he felt he had to hide. That he put himself through this just to take care of ordinary needs. Needs like sex. Like human touch. Like intimacy.
“They tell the women what to expect, make sure they understand the kind of man they’re coming to service. I pay them above their asking rate to compensate for the risk.” He paused. Regret flashed through his eyes. “Not like you.”
“Mr. Thompson. It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“It does,” he snarled. “Last night proved that. It proved I’m an animal who can’t even ask what you’re doing here. Can’t even figure out whether you’re there to file papers or fuck me. I just saw you bent over, and I wanted you, and I took you.”
I knew from his voice how much that hurt him, the thought that he’d acted on impulse. He held himself so rigidly, left no room for error, pretended he wasn’t even human.
“So tell me what you want,” he said, his voice rough. “If you won’t report me, let me repay you. Money, a car, anything. Name it, and it’s yours.”
I couldn’t help but gasp. “I don’t want anything.”
“There has to be something.” His voice sounded tight, like a steel cable in a bridge, holding thousands of pounds of metal and cars, keeping the two sides of land apart. What would it take for him to snap?
I closed my eyes against the need in his expression—need to atone for ever touching me? Or need to touch me again? “Can we pretend this never happened? That’s what I’m asking for, Mr. Thompson. Let me finish my temp position. That’s all I want.”
And if my voice trembled on the lie, he was kind enough not to mention it. “Then stay,” he said instead, gruff and almost angry. “Stay.”
Chapter Five
I kept my head down for the next week, working through the files Christy had left. I also answered the phones and greeted visitors who met with Mr. Thompson. Despite that, I didn’t have much interaction with him. By tacit agreement, we spoke quietly to each other and with the minimum amount of words. Even when I’d hear him yell at some poor asshole who’d overpromised or underdelivered, he would always speak to me courteously and succinctly.
Thank you, Ms. Cole. If you please, Ms. Cole. It was like he’d never had his hands under my bra or inside my panties. As if he’d never spilled what was obviously his darkest secret to me.
We were strangers, as we should be, but it still felt like a loss.
The only other room on this floor space besides his office was the supply closet. Closet wasn’t really the right word—it was bigger than the bedroom I had rented. The whole building was spacious, but this area, the secured area reserved for the CEO, was an oasis of space, so much space I sometimes felt choked up with it, as if my body didn’t know how to react to open air without bars or grime or violence to block me in.
