“Such as?” Her voice has an edge now. Good. Let her worry.
I move closer, standing over her as she holds my phone. The height difference is deliberate. Everything is.
Finally, I spell it out in terms she has no hope of seeing through. I shake my head, doing my best not to smile.
“A series of... punishments.”
I see the shift in Emmaleen’s expression—the tightening around her mouth, the slight backward tilt of her head. Little Miss Take doesn’t like the word“punishments.”
“Punishments? Like I’m a child?” she scoffs, voice dripping with indignation.
“Maybe you are a child,” I say flatly. “Adults show up on time.”
The words hit their mark. Her spine stiffens, cheeks flushing with a heat I can almost feel. Pride is such a predictable weakness. The most reliable pressure point in anyone’s psychological anatomy.
I wait, giving her the space to either fold or fight back. Silence is a tool—one I’ve mastered. Most people rush to fill it, revealing more than they intend. Their desperation to end the quiet betrays everything they’re trying to hide.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“So what, you’re gonna spank me, or something?” The words come out as a joke, but her voice catches slightly on the last syllable.
The question hangs between us. I let it linger deliberately. A test disguised as a mistake.
I could take this bait. Could lean into the current now charging the space between us. Could let her see exactly what I’m thinking. The possibility of her bent over my desk flashes through my mind—unwelcome, distracting, and entirely inappropriate for this transaction. The image burns itself into my consciousness with startling clarity: her dark waves spilling across the polished mahogany, those pale green eyes looking back at me over her shoulder, defiant even in submission. My hands would span her narrow waist perfectly, fingers pressing into the soft curve of her hips as I pressed myself forward, hard cock between her ass cheeks.
I banish the thought immediately, disgusted with myself for the momentary lapse in discipline.
But even so… the electricity between us crackles with dangerous potential. A seed planted.
Power isn’t about indulging impulses—it’s about mastering them. About making others surrender while giving nothing of yourself away.
None of these thoughts leave the vault of my mind. “Absolutely not.” My voice drops an octave, turning to ice. “What do you take me for? I’m your boss, Emmaleen. It’s in your best interest to remember that.”
The rebuke lands with heat. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch—relief mixed with something else. Disappointment? Unlikely. Embarrassment at her own presumption? More probable.
I turn away, creating distance before my body betrays thoughts I’d rather keep hidden. The heat in my blood contradicts the coldness of my words.
Despite the reward of the game, the urge to touch her and ruin everything is there.
I will resist.
Wanting is weakness. And I am not weak.
Emmaleen tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Then what are these punishments?”
“I take away your desk chair.”
Her expression freezes, the machinery behind those pale green eyes grinding to a halt. Gears jammed. System error. Recalculating.
“What?”
Perfect. Confusion is the first step in rebuilding someone’s reality to your specifications. Demolition before construction.
“Make you stand up all day.” I shrug, keeping my voice flat, matter-of-fact. A statement of natural consequences rather than punishment. “Sore feet are a suitable punishment for being late.”
The confusion spreading across her face is disbelief chased by indignation, followed by the dawning realization that she doesn’t have the leverage to object.
I’ve seen this sequence play out in boardrooms across Pittsburgh when the opposition realizes they’ve miscalculated their position. But hers has a certain... transparency that the practiced poker faces of businessmen lack. Authenticity. Refreshing, in its way.