The dim lighting of the Watery Lane offices does nothing to quench your thirst for John fucking Shelby. The oak of his desk where you have been so close to getting caught is covered in piles of notes, the ash of cigarettes stuck to the paper and chasing away the smell of that cologne Tommy picked up the last time he was in New York for him. ("Gotta dress and act the part now we are legitimate business men, John boy".) His interest is far from the garters around your thighs, still counting out the winnings from yesterday's races for the regulars that stop by on their way to the factories. Usually his joke is about how they'll end up spending it down in the Garrison anyway but today his focus is on the job at hand and not wrapping you around your finger. Not that he's really have to try anyway.
The chalk that should be marking out statistics is idle in your hands ("writings almost as pretty as you are, doll"), too caught up in the shadows that mark out his jawline and the way his tongue curls around silent numbers to take anything from the gazette, wondering instead if he even had a reason for bringing you in so early. His cheeks hollow as he finishes one stack and he pops his lips together to make the sound that always causes Tommy to throw things in meetings, stupidly frustrating both in his childish nature and natural charm. The white shirt that sits beneath his waistcoat fits too snug on his arms and when he reaches to grab for something else you see the muscles straining beneath the lining and think about how good that arm would feel tied around his waist as you ride him.
"You just going to stare at me, love?" he asks without moving his attention from another worker's takings. "Pretty sure that's not what we pay you for."
You take the bait and set the paper and chalk next to the phone, crossing the room so the clack of your heels will force him to give you the attention you rightfully deserve, "You don't pay me for other things though, John. I do them for the fun of it."
His smirk is telling but all he does is run the plush of his tongue along that lower lip of his and go back to counting, "What have I said about calling me that?"
"Nobody else is here though, Mr Shelby," you pout, reaching to fix his tie as you emphasise the name.
"Far from the point. Wouldn't want to punish you now, would I girl?"
The gravel in his voice makes you want to plead for him to do just that, draw you across his thigh and colour your arse so you're left all day dealing with the familiar tide of pain and wetness between your legs but really you should know better than to tempt him when there's not long to go before the doors have to be unbolted and your privacy is stollen away.
"No, daddy," his response is instantaneous as soon as you press that button and the hand still lingering around his neck is held by the wrist so tightly you're sure he's going to leave marks.
"You've got one last chance before you get yourself in real trouble," he looks so like his brothers when he tries to be serious, jaw clenched and brows turned inwards. "Now go get those numbers up and maybe I'll think about giving you what ya want."
He tugs on your arm so that you're forced to stand on your tiptoes to keep your balance from tipping over the desk, "That understood?" It takes your nod for him to release you, smug smile as he leans back in his chair enough to tell you what he has planned. "That's a good girl now."
The pout on your lips feels pathetic and childish, no way to getting what you really want but still it sits across your face as you grab at the things you'd so easily thrown to one side before. The newspaper seems to punish you for it by nipping at your index finger and a smear of blood makes you even more angry with your boss turned sometimes lover. The chalk does little to drown your pulse from your ears but despite its groan as you draw it heavily down the board you still hear John's chair push backwards. You don't dare to look, assuming Polly's made a rare mistake and miscounted so he is off to the safe when you copy another figure from yesterday, eyeing the horses name and realising it's one of Tommy's favourites to heighten the odds. It's only when you're pushed into your own work that you realise exactly what he's up to.
