Chapter 6

POV: Vivian | Timeline: Tuesday afternoon

"Is there something you need to tell me, Vivian?"

Alexander's voice cut through the air like a blade. I stood frozen in the conference room doorway, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

"I'm fine, Mr. Kane." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. "The room was warm. I got a little flushed during the presentation."

He studied me for a long moment. Those dark eyes swept over my face, down my body, back up again. Like he was cataloging every detail. Every micro-expression. Every tiny tell that might give me away.

"You're usually more composed."

He moved closer. One step. Two. Until he was right there, barely a foot away. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive, woodsy, with hints of leather and sandalwood. Something strangely familiar in a way I couldn't place.

My body responded before my mind could catch up. Heat pooled between my thighs. My nipples tightened under my blouse. I pressed my legs together, trying desperately to hide the evidence of my arousal.

The arousal I wasn't wearing any underwear to contain.

God, I was so wet. I could feel it—the slickness coating my inner thighs, the throbbing ache that had started during the presentation and only intensified under his gaze.

"I expect excellence from you, Vivian." His voice dropped lower. Almost intimate. Almost like—

No. I couldn't think that.

"Whatever is distracting you, handle it. I need you focused. I need you present. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Mr. Kane."

He didn't move. Didn't step back. Just stood there, too close, watching me with those unreadable eyes.

"You may go."

I fled.

In the bathroom, I locked myself in the largest stall and pressed my back against the cool tile. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.

Not from fear.

From arousal.

What was happening to me? Alexander Kane was my boss. My cold, demanding, impossible boss. He treated me like furniture. He criticized my work in front of colleagues. He barely acknowledged I was human.

So why did his proximity make me dripping wet?

I pressed my thighs together. I could feel it—the slickness between my legs, the swollen sensitivity of my clit, the ache deep in my core that demanded attention.

This was wrong. This was so wrong.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Sir.

I pulled it out with trembling fingers.

I completed the task, I typed.

His response came immediately: I know. You were beautiful.

My breath caught.

You clenched your thighs at exactly the right moments. When you said 'projections' the fourth time, you almost broke. I watched your face flush. Watched you struggle to maintain composure. Such a good girl, fighting so hard to obey me.

I stared at the screen.

He knew. He knew I had clenched my thighs. He knew exactly when. He knew my face had flushed.

How? How could he possibly know that unless—

Unless he was there. Unless he saw me.

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone.

Another message arrived: Now go home. Touch yourself. Think about how exposed you were today. How anyone could have looked under that skirt and seen nothing. How wet you got in front of all those professionals who had no idea their colleague was bare and dripping beneath her clothes.

I swallowed hard. My clit throbbed at his words.

But don't come, Velvet. Not until I give permission. You'll edge yourself at least five times. You'll get right to the brink and stop. Do you understand?

Yes, Sir.

Good girl. Now go. And Velvet? Think about who might have been watching. Think about who might know your secret.

I left work early. Told the receptionist I wasn't feeling well. It wasn't entirely a lie—I was sick with want, feverish with confusion.

At home, I stripped off my clothes the moment the door closed behind me. The suit. The blouse. Everything fell to the floor in a trail leading to my bedroom.

I stood naked in front of my full-length mirror. Looked at myself. Flushed cheeks. Hard nipples. And between my legs—glistening. Swollen. Ready.

Touch yourself, he'd said.

I walked to my bed. Lay down on the cool sheets. Spread my legs wide.

My fingers found my clit immediately. I gasped at the contact—I was so sensitive, so worked up from hours of denial.

I circled slowly. Thought about the conference room. About standing there with nothing under my skirt while a dozen executives watched my presentation.

About Alexander watching.

His dark eyes on me. That knowing gaze. The way he'd said "you're usually more composed."

Had he known? Had he somehow sensed what I wasn't wearing?

My fingers moved faster. I was climbing already, the pleasure building sharp and urgent.

I thought about him walking toward me. Too close. His cologne filling my lungs. What if he'd reached under my skirt? What if he'd found me bare and wet?

"Fuck," I moaned. I was right there, right at the edge—

I stopped. Yanked my hand away. Lay there gasping, body trembling with denied release.

Don't come. Not until I give permission.

One edge. Four more to go.

I waited. Breathed. Let the urgency fade just enough to be bearable.

Then I started again.

This time I imagined Sir watching. Wherever he was. However he was seeing me. I imagined his eyes on my spread legs, my busy fingers, my desperate face.

"You're so beautiful when you're desperate," fantasy-Sir said in my head. "When you're fighting yourself. When you want to come but can't."

I dipped two fingers inside myself. The stretch made me moan. I was so wet—drenched—my fingers sliding in easily.

I pumped them in and out. Used my thumb on my clit. Built the pleasure back up until I was gasping—

Stopped.

Two.

A sob escaped my throat.

I lay there, fingers hovering, body screaming. Every nerve demanded release. My walls clenched around nothing, desperate to hold something inside.

"Please," I whispered to the empty room. Practicing for later. "Please, Sir. Let me come."

But there was no voice to answer. No permission granted.

I touched myself again. Slower this time. Drawing it out.

I thought about Alexander. His hands. His voice. What would it be like if he commanded me the way Sir did?

"Touch yourself, Vivian." I could almost hear him say it. Cold and professional, but underneath—hunger. "Show me what you look like when you come apart."

My hips bucked against my hand. The fantasy was too good, too vivid.

Alexander standing over my bed. Watching me fuck myself with my own fingers. His eyes dark with want.

"You pretend to be so professional," fantasy-Alexander said. "So controlled. But look at you now. Desperate. Needy. Begging for permission to come."

"Please," I gasped. "Please, I need—"

"You need what I decide to give you. Nothing more."

The edge rushed toward me. I felt it crest—

Stopped.

Three.

I was crying now. Tears streaming down my face. My clit was so swollen it almost hurt. Every touch was too much and not enough.

Two more. Two more edges before I could even think about asking permission.

I slid my fingers back inside. Three this time. The stretch burned beautifully. I fucked myself hard, fast, desperate—

Stopped at the edge. Four.

Sobbed into my pillow. Cursed Sir's name. Cursed Alexander's face that wouldn't leave my mind.

One more.

I touched my clit directly. Rubbed hard. No teasing, no buildup, just raw stimulation designed to push me over—

Held the edge. Five.

Collapsed.

I lay there for a long time. Sweating. Shaking. Utterly wrecked. My core ached with emptiness. My clit throbbed with every heartbeat.

But I hadn't come.

My phone buzzed.

Good girl. You didn't come. I can always tell.

How? I typed back, tears still wet on my cheeks. How can you tell?

Because I know you, Velvet. Better than you know yourself. Better than anyone. I know exactly how many times you edged. I know you cried by the fourth one. I know you thought about someone while you touched yourself. Someone other than me.

My blood ran cold.

Who did you think about, Velvet? Tell me the truth.

I stared at the question. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I could lie. Could say I thought about him, only him.

But Sir always knew when I lied.

My boss, I typed. I don't know why. I can't stop thinking about him.

Long pause.

Then: Interesting. Tell me about him. What does he look like?

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Sharp features. He's tall. Commanding. Cold, usually, but sometimes he looks at me like—

Like what?

Like he's seeing something underneath. Something I keep hidden.

And does that excite you? The idea that he might see the real you?

Yes.

Good. Hold onto that feeling. We'll explore it more tomorrow. For now, you may sleep. You've earned it.

I put the phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

He hadn't seemed jealous. Hadn't seemed upset that I'd fantasized about another man.

Almost like he'd expected it.

Almost like he wanted me to.

The thought kept me awake for hours, turning over and over in my mind.

Who was Sir?

And why did he seem to know exactly who I was thinking about?