He drags my panties back up, slow and taunting. Then my leggings. Smoothing them into place as if nothing had happened.
“As I was saying…” He presses his mouth to the curve of my ear. “Being spanked here”—he gives me another three through my clothing, as if for good measure—“means you’ll feel it—and think of me—every time you sit.”
Then he turns me and tucks a finger under my chin to tilt my face up to his. “You took that like such a good girl.”
I rub my thighs together, the friction delicious and torturous all at once. The tops of them burn, and between that and the deep soreness from everything we’ve done, there’s not a single second of the day I won’t remember that I belong to him.
“And don’t you dare get yourself off when I leave. That was punishment, and you’re meant to learn from it.”
How is that possible when I’m throbbing with need? And all I crave is him?
He brushes his thumb over my lower lip in a final possessive touch. “I will ask, and you can’t lie to me. You give yourself away. I promise you, you don’t want to feel my wrath. Understand?”
If I don’t come, I might die.
“Seraphina?”
“Yes, Xavier. I promise. I won’t touch myself.”
He smiles. “It gives me great pleasure to think of you suffering for me.”
Then—just like that—he straightens, adjusts his belt like the composed billionaire he is.
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
My voice is still stuck in the back of my throat.
“Nothing fancy,” he adds, tucking his hands into his pockets, casual as you please. “Unless you wear those leggings or short shorts again. Then we’ll have a different conversation. Make your choices wisely.”
I should. I really should.
Instead I’m wondering what would happen if I chose my only miniskirt.
Am I really that foolish?
Chapter Seventeen
Xavier
Fuck me ragged.
I’m fucking obsessed with her. Seraphina Hollis. My lovely, impossible, utterly distracting assistant. With her shy little smiles and sharp mind. Her stubborn streak wide enough to make traffic veer, and that sweet, submissive side she pretends isn’t there—until she’s moaning my name and begging to come.
After leaving her, something that was damn near impossible, I headed to the office. For the first time in my life, I was unable to concentrate on the files in front of me.
Frustrated as hell at myself, I change and stalk to the elevator and then the fitness center, determined to work her out of my system.
Usually being in here centers me. I’m focused on the view—glass and skyline, downtown Houston glittering like it's pushing me to grind harder, accomplish more.
So I shove everything aside so I can concentrate on my breathing, relentlessly driving my body to be stronger and my brain to be sharper.
But today it’s not working.
Even more annoyed, I hit the assault bike, feet strapped in, hands locked on, the kind of cardio punishment that leaves no room for thinking—just motion and burn. But even as I pound the pedals, feel the resistance crank and the sweat start to pour, she’s there. In my head. In my bloodstream. Everywhere.
I thought I could get rid of thoughts of her? Memories of her?
What a goddamn joke.