Page 4

CHAPTER 4

CLARICE

I sit on the edge of my bed, fully awake, staring at the flashing numbers on my alarm clock like they’re taunting me. The shrill beeping starts, and I slap it off before it can fully erupt. I take a deep breath, the kind that’s supposed to steady you but just makes you hyperaware of how tight your chest feels. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning, my brain a whirlwind of what-ifs and how-did-I-get-here’s.

First day on the job. Simon’s job. The man I’m supposed to spy on, to uncover proof he’s the one who broke into Silas’s office. I know it’s not going to happen today, probably not tomorrow either. I need time to earn his trust. How long that’ll take, I have no idea. And that’s the part that keeps my stomach in knots.

I shower quickly, the water just shy of scalding, hoping it’ll wake me up and wash away the unease clinging to me. It doesn’t. I pull on one of the outfits Simon bought for me—the ivory silk blouse and the black pencil skirt that stops just above my knees. The fabric feels luxurious against my skin, but it also feels wrong. Like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, someone who’s more confident, more daring, more… okay with this kind of thing.

I tug at the hem of the skirt, trying to make it longer somehow. It doesn’t work. The blouse, buttoned up to the collar, fits like it was tailored to my exact measurements, which of course it was. It clings to me in a way that feels intentional, not just fashionable. I catch my reflection in the mirror and stop, my hands hovering over the edge of the sink.

The heels I slip into are strappy and black, with a four-inch heel that makes me feel like I’m teetering on stilts. I look at myself, really look, and something clicks. The outfit, the shoes, the way it all fits—it’s too perfect, too calculated. Like I'm an adult film parody of a secretary rather than the genuine article.

“He dressed me up like his doll,” I mutter to my reflection, my voice low and sharp. “Why should I feel guilty about spying on him?”

The words hang in the air, but they don’t make me feel any better. I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door. The heels click against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in the silence of my apartment.

The lobby of Simon’s office building is eerily quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that makes the click of my heels sound like gunshots. The reception desk is manned by Miranda, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, her green eyes sharp and assessing. She doesn’t smile when I approach, just stares at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve—or a threat she’s evaluating.

“Morning,” I say, forcing a brightness I don’t feel into my voice.

Miranda’s gaze sweeps over me, taking in the silk blouse, the pencil skirt, the heels. Her expression doesn’t change, but somehow it feels like it does. Like she’s cataloging every detail and filing it away for later. She slides a lanyard across the desk without a word.

I pick it up, the plastic cool against my fingers. My name is printed in bold letters: Clarice Redding. I loop it around my neck, the weight of it settling against my chest like an anchor.

“Elevator’s to your left,” Miranda says, her voice flat. No warmth, no welcome. Just facts.

“Thanks,” I say, though it feels unnecessary. She’s already looking back at her computer, her fingers tapping away at the keyboard like I’ve ceased to exist.

The elevator ride is short, the hum of machinery the only sound. When the doors slide open on the top floor, I step out into Simon’s corner office. It’s as lavish as I remember, the French Quarter decor softening the sharp edges of modern tech. Simon is at his desk, his back to me as he flips through a stack of documents.

I clear my throat softly. He doesn’t turn.

“Good morning, Sir,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He finally looks up, his gray eyes locking onto mine. His gaze is slow, deliberate, moving from my face to my heels and back again. I can feel the heat of it like a physical touch, and my cheeks burn. I look away, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my blouse.

Simon snorts, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and disdain. He looks intense, arms crossed over his chest. “You waltz in here at five twenty and have the audacity to say good morning?”

I blink, thrown. “You said work starts at five thirty. I’m actually early.”

He shakes his head, a small, humorless smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “No. Successful people get up earlier than anyone else. If the job starts at five thirty, you’d better be there by five at the latest.”

The irritation bubbles up unbidden.

“What time did you arrive?”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a look that could freeze molten lava. He’s silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I feel myself shrinking under that gaze, my knees going weak for reasons I don’t entirely want to examine.

“Four thirty,” he says at last, his voice low and measured. “Perhaps you’ve heard the human saying, the early bird catches the worm?”

I laugh, a short, nervous burst of sound that escapes in a rush. “Yes, I’ve heard that human saying before.”

His face darkens, embarrassment flickering across his features before they harden into anger. He points to the floor in front of his desk. “Come here.”

My body moves before my brain can process the command, every step sending a jolt of heat through me. I stop a few feet away, close enough to feel the weight of his presence but not so close that I can’t breathe.

He’s terrifying. He’s magnetic. And I’m in so much trouble.

“Um, maybe I should explain—” I start, my voice shaky, trying to fill the silence. But Simon moves faster than I thought possible. His hand covers my mouth before I can finish the sentence, his palm pressing against my lips, his fingers spanning my jaw. The warmth of his skin against mine is startling, and I freeze, my eyes wide.

“There are times to talk,” Simon says, his voice low, almost a growl, “and times to listen.” His breath is warm against my ear. “You must learn the difference if you’re going to make it as my assistant. Do you understand?”

I can’t open my mouth—his hand is holding my jaw shut. I try to mumble yes, sir around his fingers, the words muffled but clear enough. My heart is pounding, my cheeks burning. It’s terrifying, the way he’s so effortlessly in control, but there’s something else, too. Something that makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t want to examine.

“Good,” he says, finally pulling his hand away. I resist the urge to touch my face, to feel where his palm lingered. My skin feels like it’s on fire, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the heels he picked out suddenly unbearable. I can’t stop fidgeting.

“Would you stop fidgeting like a toddler?” Simon snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut through steel.

“I’m just not used to wearing heels this high—” I start, but his hand is back over my mouth before I can finish. His fingers press harder this time, and I can feel the faint pressure of his nails against my skin.

“I see that you require greater initial instruction than I anticipated,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous rumble. He doesn’t need to hold me still—his gaze does that just fine. It pins me in place, sharp and unrelenting, and I feel like a butterfly under glass, completely at his mercy.

“Don’t move,” he orders, releasing me. He turns and strides to his desk, his movements smooth and deliberate. I stay frozen, afraid to breathe, let alone shift my weight. My mind races. Should I say yes sir ? Or does staying silent count as obedience? I don’t know what to do, and the uncertainty is almost worse than the command itself.

Simon opens a drawer, his broad back blocking my view of what he’s retrieving. My imagination runs wild—is it a write-up form? A disciplinary notice? Something worse? The silence in the room is suffocating, the only sound the faint rustle of papers and the click of the drawer closing. When he turns back to face me, whatever he’s holding is concealed behind his back, and his expression is unreadable.

Simon reveals a roll of clear packing tape in his hand. My eyes widen. This can’t be happening. This isn’t normal. This isn’t professional. This isn’t—well, it’s not anything I’ve ever experienced before. I should run. I should scream. I should do something. But I don’t. I just stand there, frozen, as he steps closer.

“Hold still,” he says, his voice calm but commanding.

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can get a word out, he tears off a strip of tape and presses it over my lips. The adhesive clings uncomfortably, sealing my mouth shut. I could rip it off if I wanted to. It’s not like it’s superglue. But the way Simon looks at me—like he expects it to stay—makes me hesitate.

My body hums with adrenaline, a strange mix of fear and something else I don’t want to name. My clit throbs insistently, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of every inch of my body. The silk blouse feels too tight, the skirt too short, the heels too precarious. I fidget, my hands twitching at my sides.

Simon steps back, tilting his head as he appraises me. “There. Now, shall I continue?”

I blink at him, unsure how to respond. How can I respond? My mouth is taped shut. I make a muffled noise, something between a question and a protest, but it comes out as a pathetic whimper.

He frowns, his eyebrows drawing together in disapproval. “The response is always yes, sir. No matter the circumstance.” His tone sharpens, cutting through the heavy silence. “You obviously need help concentrating on my words. On your knees.”

My eyes widen, and I let out a startled, muffled sound. What the hell is happening? If this were a normal job, I’d already be halfway to HR, ready to file the most epic lawsuit of my life. But it’s not a normal job. I’m here to spy on Simon, to gather evidence that he’s the one who broke into Silas’s office. I need to play along if I want to get what I came for.

I tell myself that’s why I’m sinking to my knees. It’s for my career. It’s for the payout from Silas. It’s for the chance to prove myself. But deep down, I know the truth. I’m kneeling because I want to. Because there’s something about the way he looms over me, his presence so commanding, that makes my body respond in ways I can’t control.

I look up at him from the floor, my hands trembling in my lap. He seems larger than life, like a parent disciplining a misbehaving child. And suddenly, all I want is to please him. The spying mission fades into the background, a distant thought drowned out by the heat pooling in my core.

“Enough fidgeting,” Simon says, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Put your hands behind your back and listen.”

My heart hammers a mile a minute in my chest. I mumble a muffled yes sir through the tape and slowly obey, clasping my hands behind my back. The position not only makes me feel utterly vulnerable and helpless, it also causes my breasts to thrust forward in a lewd manner, straining at the buttons of my shirt. I can feel the fabric pulling tight, the silk clinging to my skin in a way that’s both uncomfortable and electrifying.

Simon’s gaze lingers on my breasts for much longer than it needs to. He doesn’t bother to hide his interest in my body, his eyes darkening as they roam over me. I feel exposed, like he’s seeing straight through the fabric, straight through me. My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away. I can’t. His presence is too commanding, too magnetic.

He begins listing my job duties, his voice low and measured. “You’re to attend to my every need, at my beck and call night and day. If I need a report, you need to know how to fill it out, process it, and bring it back to me. If I need you to call one of my holdings and get a complete inventory, you need to know how to do that as well.”

He leans over, his face inches away from mine. His breath is warm against my skin, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. “Sometimes you will be making high-level business decisions on my behalf,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And sometimes, your duty will be to fetch me a coffee, or give my shoulders a massage. Or go get my lunch. If you have a problem with any of this, the door is right there. Otherwise, I expect absolute obedience.”

I’m so close to orgasm I can barely hold myself back. My body is on fire, every nerve ending screaming for release. I know what he wants, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I say it. Afraid of what it means that I want to say it.

Finally, I can’t put it off any longer. “Yes, Sir,” I mumble behind the tape, the words muffled but clear enough. It’s too much for me, and I cum hard, groaning behind the tape despite my efforts to remain quiet. I double over, but I don’t break the position he put me in as my body heaves with ecstatic spasms.

“What in the world is wrong with you?” Simon snaps, his voice sharp and incredulous. “Get up and stop carrying on.”

He takes me by the arms and pulls me to my feet. I continue to cum, squirting through my panties and drenching myself and the floor beneath us. My legs tremble, and I can barely stand, but Simon’s grip is firm, holding me upright.

He realizes what’s happened, and his face goes slack. He seems more embarrassed than I feel, if that’s possible. His grip on my arms tightens for a moment before he releases me, stepping back like I’ve burned him.

“Clean this up,” he mumbles, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He turns on his heel and retreats into his private bathroom, leaving me standing there, trembling and soaked, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence.

I shiver, the aftershocks still rippling through me as I stare at the mess on the floor. My legs feel like jelly, and my mind is a whirlwind of confusion and arousal. I grab a handful of paper napkins from the desk and kneel down, dabbing at the puddle I’ve left behind. The tape over my mouth is still in place, and I don’t touch it. I don’t want to. There’s something thrilling about the idea of Simon being the one to remove it, about him having that control over me. It’s a thought that sends another shiver down my spine.

But I can’t let myself get lost in this. I have a mission. Silas is counting on me, and I’m not about to let him down. I finish cleaning up as best I can, tossing the damp napkins into the trash. My hands are trembling, but I force myself to focus. I need to find something—anything—that proves Simon is behind the corporate espionage.

I move to his desk, my heels clicking softly against the floor. The first few folders I open are filled with mundane business documents—contracts, financial reports, nothing out of the ordinary. But then I find a folder labeled Veritas . My heart skips a beat. This has to be it. I open it, and my stomach drops. The page is filled with symbols and characters I don’t recognize. It’s not any language I’ve ever seen. My mind races. Is this some kind of code? Is Simon involved in something bigger than corporate espionage? Could he be… a terrorist?

I pull out my phone and snap a quick picture of the page. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. I need to get out of here. I need to think. But before I can move, I hear a noise from the private bathroom. My breath catches in my throat. Simon’s still in there. I should leave. I should run. But curiosity gets the better of me. I creep toward the bathroom door, my heart pounding in my chest.

I push the door open just a crack, enough to see inside. My eyes widen, and my breath catches. Simon is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his pants around his ankles, his hand moving furiously over his cock. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. It’s the fact that he doesn’t look human anymore. His skin is covered in deep indigo scales, and his eyes—his eyes are a burning crimson. He’s beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.

His eyes snap open, locking onto mine. I freeze, my body going rigid. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then his lips curl into a snarl, and I know I’m in trouble.