Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 58185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
That broke the paralysis that had come over me when he had mentioned the naughty selfies. Part of my mind felt desperate to know what kind of logic lay behind… behind any of this. Logic… law… reason… whatever. How could this lunacy actually be taking place on the thirtieth floor of an office building in a major American city? Something about Mr. Alden’s outlandish threat of… of a paddling, though, stopped the futile analysis and got my body moving.
I stood up, and despite the trembling in my legs I managed to maneuver myself around the chair in the direction of the door. I didn’t want to look at the man behind the desk, but I couldn’t help it; my desperate need to know how he had reacted to my rising made me cast a glance toward him. Mr. Alden had leaned back in his chair. I thought his right hand might be reaching for a desk drawer, and my stomach flipped at the interpretation that came instantly into my mind: He’s getting the paddle out.
I walked in the direction of the door, and each step seemed to take an absurd amount of time.
He was lying, I told myself. The door is unlocked. I will open it, and walk out, and walk down the hall to the elevator. I will leave this building behind and I will never think about what just happened, or—above all—how it made me feel.
I half expected Mr. Alden to say something. Like, “Come back here. I was just testing you, and you passed,” or “I’m sorry—I was joking,” or even “Stop right there, Ingrid Vogel!”
He remained completely silent. I managed to keep myself from turning back to look at him. Did I hear a drawer opening? I bit my lip and told myself I had imagined it, and then I found myself at the door of the office. I reached for the handle, and I pressed down.
It didn’t move. I tried again, my heart sinking lower than my belly. I felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I rattled the handle.
Then, just a moment before I felt his hands on me, I realized that Mr. Alden had come up behind me. I started to turn, crying out in surprise and alarm, but he kept me in place, facing the door, with his left hand around my chest and his right hand, even worse, on my backside.
“I told you, Ingrid, sweetheart,” he growled into my ear. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve finished evaluating you.”
CHAPTER 2
Ingrid
I let out a sob, my body’s purely physical response to all the conflicting sensations, emotions, and thoughts that raced through my nervous system. The hand on my bottom squeezed firmly—not painfully, but very possessively, as if to make it completely clear to me that this awful, gorgeous executive considered himself entitled to treat me exactly as he pleased.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice becoming less gravelly and more gentle, as if he meant to coax a timid animal into relaxing. “I know this is very difficult for you.”
I turned my head, but the sheer proximity of his handsome face made me turn back to look at the wood grain of the door. I felt Mr. Alden shift and stoop a bit, releasing my rear end from his grasp. Then I cried out in alarm as I felt his hand much lower, at the hem of my skirt, brushing up against my nylon-clad calves and starting to raise the fabric, sliding it up over my knees.
“No… please…” I said. “You… you can’t!”
I started to struggle, only realizing very belatedly that I hadn’t really tried to resist at all until that moment. A split second later I had a good idea why I hadn’t tried to get away before: the feeling of Mr. Alden’s right hand and left arm holding me in place drew a terribly ambiguous response from my mind and my body.
I twisted against his restraining grip, and he easily kept me in place, still raising my skirt slowly and steadily all the while.
“Oh, but I can,” he said, and then he had my skirt up above the tops of my stockings, and I knew he could see that I had indeed, foolishly, worn the red lingerie—the same tiny panties and garter belt he had, to my mortification, apparently seen in the stupid selfies I’d taken for an utterly undeserving man.
Undeserving, but not… not… horrid, like this Mr. Alden.
Horrid, but also… arrogant. Superior.
Dominant.
When that word popped into my mind, my body responded in two contrary but unfortunately also intertwined ways. First, I tried again to twist myself out of his grasp, because second, I felt between my uncovered thighs, inside my humiliatingly exposed lacy panties, a warmth I wanted to put a stop to at all costs. To my distress, the strength with which Mr. Alden kept me in place had the opposite effect. I bit my lip and whimpered as I felt his huge hand return to my bottom, which the narrow back of the red thong left almost entirely bare.