Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 24: The Wild Animal

DAMON

She's going to be the death of me. But I don't care. I would gladly die if it meant that the last thing I saw was those dark green eyes. Eyes that are staring at me, screaming, pleading, fucking begging me to stop. I turn up the dial to fifteen, and Emery grips the edges of the podium, lips parting as she struggles to speak, to breathe, to focus on the dozens of colleagues seated in front of her, all of them eagerly taking notes on her presentation.

I shift in my seat, willing my blood to flow away from my throbbing cock. This was supposed to be her punishment, not mine. Yet here I am. Just as uncomfortable. Just as desperate. Just as disgustingly deprived as the minx on stage. She doesn't follow the rules. My rules. And that infuriates me. Not because she's blatantly disrespecting me. No. It infuriates me because I like it. It's sick and twisted, but goddamn, I fucking love it. She likes being bad. She likes watching my face redden with anger when she doesn't listen to me. She enjoys it. The pain. And the inevitable pleasure it'll bring. Pleasure that I alone will bring. No one else.

A blast of fury tingles in my thumb and I kick the vibrator up to seventeen. Her tiny moan echoes through the surround sound speakers, and she quickly covers it up with a cough. But I know better. I know that her pretty little cunt is drenched right now. Soaked. Waiting to be destroyed. And I will destroy it. I'll ruin her so that she won't have the desire to look at another man. To think of another man. To fucking talk to another man.

Doctor Marquis. I inwardly wince. His name on her tongue is like a knife through my goddamn heart. A heart she has no intention of protecting. Not yet. But I refuse to give up, to give in, to accept that she'll forever remain inches away from my grasp. I want to consume her, body and soul, and when I do, Quinton Marquis will be a mere memory. He has no right to occupy her mind. He knows that. He knows that she'll forget about him. That's why he's chasing her, making himself visible. So that she has no choice but to see him. That'll end. That'll stop today. It must. For the sake of my heart and my fucking sanity.

"Questions?" Emery whimpers, scanning the audience. A few hands shoot up. She feigns a polite smile, knees twisting as I turn the dial to the highest setting. A sheen of sweat coats her forehead, and I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. She points to Ferris in the back row. "Yes, go ahead."

I should stay seated. I should enjoy watching her suffer the consequences of her foolish actions. This isn't supposed to be pleasant. This isn't supposed to bring her joy or relief. This is supposed to hurt. It's supposed to teach her a fucking lesson. But I can't control my legs, my tongue, my mouth as I stand up.

"That'll be enough," I state, addressing the audience. "If anyone has any questions, send them to Miranda and we will issue a company-wide response." I subtly power down the device. Emery gives a look of unveiled gratitude, looking at me for the first time like I'm a hero, a fucking savior. "Thank you for attending." I glance up on the stage. "Miss Jones? A word?"

With uncoordinated and sloppy steps, Emery descends the stage. "Thank you," she mutters, defeated and drained. "That was—"

I lift an amused brow. "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you just say thank you to me?"

A little life returns to her eyes. "You're a fucking asshole."

"Tread lightly, Miss Jones. I could make you come all over the hallway in mere seconds," I say, placing my hand on the small of her back. "Let's go chat in my office."

"I need to use the restroom," she says, glaring at me. "I have a foreign object stuck up my vagina."

"And whose fault is that?" I ask, leading her out of the conference room and toward my office. Emery rolls her eyes at me, and I click my tongue. "Watch it, Emery. Last warning."