Charlotte
The list is on my desk when I come in the next morning—the list. It’s opened to page four, the unanswered questions. Words like anal, nipple stimulation, threesomes, orgasm denial stare back at me, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet.
“What’s this?” I ask, glancing at Emerson as he walks in. He’s dressed impeccably in tight blue slacks, brown leather shoes, and a white button-up shirt that looks a couple sizes too small. Has he always looked this good or is it my lovesick brain starting to distort reality?
After taking a sip of his black coffee, he sets it down on his desk and walks over. Standing only a foot or so away from me, he glances at the paper in my hands. My cheeks start to heat up, this unspoken thing between us growing more intense by the second.
“I realized that what we did yesterday was wrong of me. I should have never used that…toy on you as punishment because it was an unanswered question on this form. I don’t normally make mistakes like this.”
“But I was okay with it,” I reply quickly. Is he really worried that he did something to me against my will?
“But I need to know you’re okay with it. I need to have your consent beforehand for everything, Charlotte. Not just some things…”
His piercing green eyes lift from the paper to my face, and I instantly liquefy from the contact. He wants to know about the sex stuff. Can I really answer these?
“But you said…”
God, I can’t say it. I can’t bring up sex so casually again. Without a hint of romance between us, treating it like a check mark on a list of activities, like it means nothing.
“I know what I said, and just because you say it’s okay for these things to happen it doesn’t mean they will.”
My eyes shift downward, hopefully conveying the disappointment I’m feeling from that statement. It’s not how I wanted any of this to go down. Where I’m in the position to say, ‘yes, I’d like you to fuck my brains out,’ only for him to tell me he won’t. I feel like an idiot.
Should I just save my pride and write a zero next to all of these? How would that make him feel?
“It’s best to be safe than sorry,” he says gently as if he’s trying to spare my feelings.
“Okay.”
This whole conversation first thing in the morning puts me in a sour mood. I’m feeling vulnerable and embarrassed, like a stupid young girl pining over her boss, who has no intention of ever reciprocating these feelings. I’m just another Monica.
Stupid, stupid, Charlie.
I shove the packet aside as I get started on my tasks for the day, mostly replying to emails and helping to organize the vendor forms for the new store going into the club. I am so distracted by everything that I didn’t realize, until almost lunch time, that today was supposed to be what I like to call our ‘special’ days. I wonder if he even remembered. Does he even care that I’m not kneeling by his side?
Gotta love anxiety, when one paranoid thought spirals into a hundred. Like how I’m suddenly wondering if Emerson even wanted me for a submissive secretary at all, or if I was just a dumbass who threw myself at him and he was too polite to say no.
During my lunch break, I eat alone in the kitchen. With my earbuds in, I pick at the leftovers I packed. I feel his presence behind me before I hear him. Pulling out one of my buds, I turn toward him.
“What’s up?” I ask with a touch of attitude that makes his brow twitch.
“Why are you pouting?” He seems strangely unraveled.
“I’m not pouting.”
“Yes, you are. Ever since this morning, you’ve had an attitude. I should be clear that I don’t really like the brat thing, Charlotte.”
My mouth falls open. “Brat thing?”
“Yes. Where you intentionally misbehave and warrant yourself punishment for my attention.”
This time I audibly gasp and turn in my chair. “You can’t be serious.”
He crosses his arms, standing in front of me like a pissed-off statue. “I am serious. You pulled it yesterday at the club, flirting with Drake just to spite me.”
For some reason, I stand up. He still towers over me, but at least this time I don’t appear to be cowering so much. “I can flirt with whoever I want. That had nothing to do with you. You know what…maybe you should fill out a form too, so I know exactly what you want and we can settle all of this confusion right now.”
“So that’s what this is about,” he replies with a nod of his head. “You don’t want to fill out the form. Charlotte, I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to. The form is there for your protection.”
I throw my hands up with a scoff. “Yeah, I get it. You want me to lay all of my cards out on the table for you, but what about you, Sir?” I throw so much sarcastic emphasis on his title that it makes his jaw clench. “Where’s your form? Why aren’t you obligated to admit to everything you want, even if it means making yourself vulnerable? Come on, Emerson.”
I stomp my way out to the office and grab the legal pad on the desk and a pen from the drawer. Shoving them both against his chest, I snap, “Here. Write down everything you want to do with me, just so we’re clear.” My tone is teasing, chock-full of snark, and I expect him to yell back at me or toss the paper on the floor.
What I don’t expect is his body suddenly crowding mine until my ass is against my desk. He presses himself between my legs and leans me backward, so I’m defenseless, letting out a yelp as his face peers only inches from mine.
“You think this is how I want to do this?” he mutters darkly. “You think I’m not dying to know what you’d rate those things on that list, even though I know I’d be the worst father in the world if I ever did any of them?” His hand scoops my lower back as he leans so close to me, I can feel him between my legs.
Staring up into his eyes, my pulse quickens. He wants me. He’s basically saying that now.
Before I can even think of a response, he continues, “I’ll fill out that form for you if you want, but I don’t need to. You want me to tell you that I want to taste you, Charlotte? Because I do. I want to touch you, tease you, fuck you, bend you over my knee and turn that pretty little backside red. There’s not a thing on that list I don’t want to do with you, so you can put the paper and pen away, little girl. Every single thing would get a five from me.”
A small sound escapes my lips.
“You have no idea how hard this is for me, Charlotte. To have you as mine, but not in the way I want.”
“I…I don’t know what to say…” I breathe in response.
“Just fill out the fucking form,” he growls, his mouth only inches from mine.
And just like that, he backs up and lets me breathe again. I take in lungfuls of air as I watch him march out of the room, leaving me standing here alone, thinking about what he just said.
This whole time I was so afraid to admit that I wanted more with him, and he basically just admitted that he wanted it too…but also that he would never give in to that want.
There’s no sign of him for the next hour as I take the list to the kitchen with me, hovering over each item. A swarm of butterflies assaults my stomach at the mere thought of experiencing these with Emerson.
Exhibitionism…five.
Oral…five.
Sex toys…five.
Anal…deep breath, Charlie…five.
Am I going overboard? Putting down a five basically says that not only do I want these things, but I’m practically demanding them. And it’s not like I’m saying five for everything. There are a few things on this list that fall deep into the negative one range—hard pass on fisting and golden showers. But how can I possibly hand this paper to him with these fives all over it?
I’m tempting him on purpose, and sure, maybe I am being a little bit of a brat. It’s as bad as me using my tits and red lipstick to get my sister a copy of her book at the store. I’m purposefully manipulating Emerson to get what I want…and that’s cruel, but I don’t feel bad about it. There are so many fun things we could do with me as his submissive servant if sex was on the table, and I don’t want to be a PG version of Monica. I want it all.
After lunch, I set the list on Emerson’s desk. He’s still MIA, but I get back to work anyway. Well, I try. Can’t exactly focus on anything with a written confirmation basically proclaiming I’ll be your fuck toy. Bonus: with anal! just sitting there on his desk, waiting for him. And I have to be here when he does read it. That shouldn’t be awkward at all.
It’s almost two, and Emerson is still missing. I haven’t gotten anything done, and I feel as if we need to have a conversation since he just left me with that truth bomb from earlier. So after setting up the coffee pot to brew his afternoon caffeine fix, I gather up the courage to go investigating. Emerson’s house is huge, but I’ve only really seen the lower level which is the office, kitchen, bathroom, and sitting room. There are large wooden stairs that lead to the second floor.
One quiet step at a time, I sneak my way up. The left side leads to another sitting area, and it has the telltale signs that he actually uses this one. The leather sofa has wear marks; there’s a giant flat-screen TV, and a couple of books on the nightstand.
He’s not in here, so I tiptoe silently to the right, where there’s a door open just a crack. It feels like a massive invasion of privacy, but I can’t help myself.
Stepping up to the sliver between the door and the frame, I spot his back as he sits on a workout bench, his feet on the floor. So this is how he keeps up that perfect body. It looks like he’s turned a spare bedroom into his own personal gym. There are weights, a treadmill, a huge contraption meant for who knows.
And Emerson is shirtless.
Tan skin stretched over muscular shoulders grab my attention and won’t let go. Judging by the way his elbows rest on his knees and his head hangs low, Emerson is deep in thought, and something about that bothers me. Like the day I knelt by his side and eased his stress, I want to take it away now.
“Knock, knock,” I say, tapping on the door.
He spins and gazes at me with a guarded look of concern written on his face.
“You disappeared,” I whisper, stepping into the room. “I didn’t even know you had this up here.”
He grabs a towel and brushes it against his sweaty brow. Still sitting away from me, he replies, “I had to work out some…aggression.”
After our encounter at the desk, he had to come work out to let off some steam?
Walking over to where he’s sitting, I lean against the mirror on the wall and stare at him.
“You know…” I say with a teasing smile. “You could always work out some of that aggression on me.”
His head hangs as I let out a laugh. “Jesus, Charlotte.”
“Come on, it’s a joke,” I reply, stepping toward him. Then his hand latches around my thigh and he holds me close to him. I don’t breathe for a moment as I rest my hands on his shoulders.
“You make everything a joke, don’t you?”
I shrug. “I find it makes things easier that way.”
“It doesn’t make anything easier for me,” he grumbles lowly.
His hand strokes the back of my leg as I stand between his knees. His touch is like fire, sending a thrill through my body. This forbidden contact isn’t just crossing the line—we’re pretending that line doesn’t exist. And I lean into his touch to send home the message that I want—no, I need—more.
“I filled out the form,” I whisper.
“Good,” he replies.
“You should know I marked a few zeroes.”
He lets out a deep chuckle. “A few?”
“Yeah. No shame to those who like the golden shower thing…but not for me.”
I’m keeping the mood light because everything else about this moment is tense.
“Good to know,” he mumbles.
He’s still holding me close, and as my hands drift along his shoulders, I realize that Emerson and I have grown close since I started working with him. But this is first time we’ve really touched each other like this.
“Is there any use trying to avoid this?” His head tips back, and he stares up at me as he pulls me closer, and I realize he’s about to kiss me. The fingers of his hand drift higher and higher up my thigh. “Because I gotta tell you, Charlotte. I’m a little tired of trying.” I interlock my fingers behind his neck and squeeze him closer. At this angle, I’m so close, I could kiss him if I wanted to, and I want to.
“Then, stop trying.”
My face leans in, and Emerson’s eyes close, squeezing me tighter. Then just before my lips touch his, the doorbell rings.
We open our eyes and stare at each other.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
His brows furrow as he pulls out his phone and opens the front door security camera. Then he looks as if he’s seen a ghost, jumping up from the bench, practically pushing me away.
“Who is it?” I ask.
He stares at me with wide eyes. “It’s Beau.”
