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  I walked into his office one early evening to deliver some copies of forms he’d requested earlier, and the flick of the blinds let me know we were about to play another of his games.

  “Come,” he said, and my legs carried me forward to him automatically, of their own accord. “This is a very nice skirt. Suits you very well. Only I noticed one thing.”

  His hand had crept up the back of it without me realizing it, and he squeezed my rump as if testing it for ripeness. “You’re wearing panties, and that's against company policy.”

  I flushed, loathing myself as I leaned into that rough massage. It felt so good. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Dole out a little punishment.”

  In a flash, I was laid out across his lap, my skirt up and my panties down, and he was thwacking me with something hard and flat. I yelped several times until I bit my lip, well aware of Peter’s erection grinding into my lower stomach, of my own wetness probably ruining his trousers.

  What was this? Was I into corporal punishment? It was such a shock, such a strange affront to this entire twisted situation that I pushed myself up and off of him, backing away from him, furious even if I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  “What’s going on, Gemma?” Peter asked, cocking his head at me as if I were the crazy one. He was holding a long metal ruler, and my rear still sang with the sting of it.

  “I have no idea,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “You tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’re two consenting adults,” he reasoned. “I think you know what this is. Haven’t you ever heard of spanking in a sexual sense?”

  “Of course I have,” my face coloring. “I’m just curious as to why we’re doing it in your office. You haven’t even visited me in the penthouse since I moved in. We haven’t gone on dates. I show up to work every day, and we have raunchy playtime just feet away from other people.”

  “What’s so wrong with that?” he asked, and his genuine puzzlement made me even angrier.

  “I don’t want to be your little sex toy,” I hissed at him. “If that’s what you think I signed on for when I accepted your job offer, then you are sorely mistaken.”

  Peter gave me a funny look, a flash of those too-blue eyes. “Gemma…didn’t you read the contract at all?”

  I frowned at him. “Well, I…sort of.”

  He blew out his breath at me, exasperated, and stalked around the desk, his boner still prominently displayed in his trousers. I had no idea what he was looking for as he rooted around in a cabinet until he yanked out a hanging file folder, ripped it open, and practically slung a stapled sheaf of papers at me that I caught awkwardly against the front of my unbuttoned blazer.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “It’s your ruddy contract, Gem,” Peter spat. I’d never seen him so angry, his face reddening, his blue eyes blazing, that erection going nowhere soon. “Why don’t you read the damn thing that you signed?”

  I held uncomfortable eye contact with him for just a few seconds too long before examining the wrinkled document. I couldn’t recall even the opening phrases on the first page from the day I’d signed it, excited to finally leave my old life behind me, to embrace the reality I’d been imagining for myself for a whole year. So what if I’d signed it without reading it? It wasn’t as if it were a contract for my soul.

  I could hear Peter’s angry breathing as I carefully read each sentence, my frown deepening as I turned the page.

  “The undersigned will not disclose anything witnessed while working in the office or working in the capacity of the office outside of the premises,” it read. That was a little creepy, but maybe it made sense. There was no way I’d be tempted to run my mouth about company secrets that might leak back to the competition. I was sure loads of offices had very similar nondisclosure agreements in place to keep just this kind of thing from happening.

  But as I read on, my horror grew and grew.

  “The undersigned understands that she is entering into a contracted sexual agreement with Peter Bly, and that no details of this agreement may be revealed at any time under threat of lawsuit and subsequent termination,” the contract continued. “The undersigned will complete any and all sexual tasks suggested or demanded by Peter Bly, including but not limited to spanking, sexual encounters inside and out of the office, oral sex during conference calls, forgoing panties, and any other requests from Peter Bly. This contract stipulates that the undersigned must comply in any and all forms of request by Peter Bly. Failure to comply may result in termination of the undersigned’s position with the company and/or her relationship with Peter Bly.”

  The papers fluttered to the floor, and I panted in absolute panic.

  I had signed my soul away after all, failing to read Peter’s twisted contract.

  I’d signed myself up to be a sex worker.

  Chapter 8

  “Gemma! You’re not a sex worker! Would you stop?”

  But that was after I’d shoved Peter’s office door open and stormed away, dozens of coworkers gaping at me as I stomped across the floor in the shoes that his credit card had bought me. I wondered how many of the women in there had signed the same contract I had, the one stipulating all the different types of sexual acts Peter was entitled to while on the job. It disgusted me.

  I should’ve known better. I should’ve known this entire thing was too good to be true. A virtual stranger set me up inside a penthouse, enabled me to buy all the clothes I could ever want or need, and I assumed there weren’t any unwanted strings attached.

  Because, let’s face it. Peter was great at sex — a savant, even — and we’d had some incredible trysts over the past few weeks.

  I just hated the idea that he’d hired me to work for his company for the sole purpose of being able to bend me over his desk at any moment he pleased. It pricked my ego, made me wish I’d never given up my shoebox apartment for a shot at my dreams.

  My dreams came with a sex worker contract. As horrible as that old apartment had been, at least it had been mine, earned and paid for through hard, honest work.

  If I’d thought turning tricks was a viable solution for my money problems, I would’ve done it far before right now.

  I made it to the elevator and across the lobby of the Bly Group building and pushed through the revolving door, before I realized Peter wasn’t even running after me. It was a testament to just how twisted up I was about this whole situation that I was actually even angrier that he hadn’t made an effort to come convince me I was wrong.

  It just proved me right. I had signed up to be his office sex toy. I was just too eager and too excited to start a real job in a real office to read the fine print. I was only there for his amusement. He probably had many more “secretaries” who were there only for the purpose of pleasing him throughout the day. That’s why he hadn’t come after me. His company owned many hotels in the city. I would’ve bet good money — his money, not mine — that he had a trollop set up in the penthouse suite in all of them.

  Not wanting anything to do with the chauffeured car Peter had set me up with, I marched down the sidewalk for as long as my sky-high heels would allow me to do so, then slipped them off and continued my angry walk barefooted. I’d gone to college. I had my degree. Why was I still so stupid? Hadn’t I learned anything about the way the world worked during my four years there? There was only one thing I could do now. I would have to admit my failure and go crawling back home to my mother.

  She would not be thrilled.

  She was busy preparing to get married — her second one, sure, but one she was much more excited over, one that would surely be happier than the first — and I would be slouching around, watching daytime television and eating ice cream out of the container. I could envision it now. By the time she did finally get around to walking down the aisle with Frank, I’d be blown up to the size of a zeppelin, bulging out of whatever heinous dress she picked out for me. Frank would probably choose his son, Peter, to
be his best man, and as Peter walked me down the aisle to our places at the altar, he’d whisper to me that he was glad I’d stormed out of his office and out of his life. I was a wretched thing who would never amount to anything.

  I found myself panting, with blistered and filthy feet, at the entrance to the hotel where I was supposed to be staying, but I couldn’t get myself to go in. It had never truly felt like him. It had felt like some kind of fantasy I was living in, being in love — or lust — with Peter and embracing the lifestyle of being in a relationship with a billionaire.

  Now, even the hotel felt hostile, and I realized I didn’t have anywhere else to go. The penthouse held all my belongings, but it wasn’t home. I didn’t even know what it was that Peter and I had shared. It sure as hell wasn’t a relationship. People who loved each other didn’t sign contracts with sex rules.

  I guessed I was just stupid in life and love. I couldn’t get a good job, even with my degree, and I couldn’t get a good guy without there being some horrible monster lurking in the closet. Peter’s monster was that he demanded to have control of me — control over where I lived, what I wore, what I ate, what I spent, and what I did at work.

  I’d fallen into a hideously silly trap, and it had been all my fault for not recognizing the poison in its sweetness.

  I couldn’t linger on the sidewalk forever, my feet blackened by the grime of New York City underfoot, bellhops giving me sidelong glances whenever they thought I wasn’t looking. All I wanted to do was wash my feet, climb into bed, and forget about all of this. Maybe, when I woke up, I’d figure some things out. Maybe things would make more sense then.

  The marble floor in the lobby was cool under my feet, and I held my head up high, pretending I didn’t see the curious stares of people staying there and staff members alike. I was dressed in labels many people couldn’t afford, and yet I looked like I’d been through the wringer. The irony wasn’t lost on me, either, everyone. I’d finally figured out that I was a kept woman, one plied with money and finery for the assurance that she’d give it up whenever sex was demanded of her.

  I made it up to the penthouse in a mercifully empty elevator and slunk inside, tossing my shoes on the rug and cracking open a beer from the refrigerator to take with me into the shower before I noticed that I wasn’t alone, after all.

  “Can we talk about this, Gemma?” Peter sat on one of the couches in the sitting room, the golden afternoon light illuminating him nicely. His blue eyes were even more stunning in this light, his blond hair ethereal. He was so effortlessly handsome that it took my breath away for the briefest of moments before I shook my head. I was so angry that I didn’t even care how he’d gotten into the penthouse in the first place. I knew how he beat me here, though. I’d been avoiding glass and pebbles and trash, padding barefoot from the office to the hotel. There wasn’t any secret in that.

  “No. No, we can’t talk about this. There isn’t anything to talk about. I’m a sex worker. That’s the only reason I’m working for you. It’s this.” I ripped my skirt up and whirled around, pointing at my rump, which still carried a faint sting from the spanking he’d given me in his office. Never mind that I’d enjoyed it — I wasn’t there to be his plaything. That wasn’t what I’d signed up for.

  “It’s not just that, though. For a normal man, that would be ample reason,” Peter said smoothly, his rich British accent making it hard for me to concentrate, hard for me to grip on to my anger. “I just want to make you understand some things.”

  “Oh, you want to make me do something?” I snarled, yanking my skirt back down. “Haven’t you made me do enough? Unless my eyes deceive me, we’re not in your office. We’re in my penthouse. I don’t have to do anything that you tell me to do. You’re not the boss here. I am.”

  For some reason, that made Peter flinch, his chest heaving, indicating that he was breathing hard. I didn’t understand what was happening until he crossed his legs and re-crossed them quickly. He was trying to hide his erection. My eyes bulged out of my head.

  “What is wrong with you?” I howled. “We’re having a fight. We’re fighting. This is no time or place for a boner.”

  “Gemma, I am helplessly attracted to you,” Peter said, spreading his hands in a gesture I was beginning to get well acquainted with. It was one he used when he was trying not to be threatening, when he was trying to tell me that something wasn’t his fault. Well, it was his cock. He should have it well under control by his age.

  “I thought you actually wanted me to work for you,” I said, taking a defensive swig of my beer. “I didn’t think it was just so you could pay me for sex.”

  “Is that what you think I was doing?” he asked. “Paying you for sex?”

  “Wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what the contract said?”

  “Is that what you read?” Peter looked confused, his blond eyebrows drawing together.

  “You tell me,” I said, insolent, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Gemma, I thought we liked each other,” he said. “I thought we agreed that we’d give this a chance and see where it went.”

  “I guess I didn’t anticipate that it would’ve taken this turn.”

  “What turn do you think it’s taken?”

  I threw my hands up in the air. “The turn where you’re paying me for sex!”

  “That’s not what this is.” He stood up, fuming, and I backed away. “How could you think I was paying you for sex?”

  “Aren’t you?” I countered. “I’m working for you. The contract I signed in your office, the one I had to sign to make it all official, it said that you expected certain things from me on a regular basis at the office. Sexual things.”

  Peter puffed out a sigh. “Gemma, the thing is, I have… Damn it, how do I say this without sounding creepy?”

  “Creepy? How about not sounding like an asshole. Try that.” He blinked at my anger, but I was at least gratified that he recognized just how seriously I was taking this situation.

  “I really enjoy having sex in an office setting,” he said finally, shrugging more to himself than at me. He plunged onward at my silence. “As in, it’s my favorite setting for sex. Don’t get me wrong. I like sex. I really like it. But there’s something special in the office, a special edge. I’ve never really been able to pinpoint what it is. Never really cared to, before now. Maybe it’s because I feel powerful in the office. I’ve had a lot of personal successes in that building, so maybe sex there is a way to celebrate all of those successes. I don’t know, Gemma. Are you satisfied? Does this answer any questions you have about it?”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you have a fetish for…office sex?” I asked, crinkling my nose. “Is that a thing?”

  “Is it?” he asked. “I don’t know. I just really like it.”

  “No.” I shook my head at him. “You…change when you’re in the office. I mean, when you’re…when we’re having sex in there. You take on this…persona. I don’t know how to explain it. You act differently.”

  Peter looked puzzled. “Differently how?”

  It surprised me that he didn’t recognize it. “You’re a gentle lover. Considerate. In the office, you’re domineering.”

  “Really?” He blinked rapidly. “I never realized this.”

  I laughed at him. “How could you not? It’s like night and day. You’re two completely different people.”

  “Is it bad?” He looked pensive. “Well, of course it’s bad. You’re angry with me. You stormed out of the office — on foot, no less.”

  I felt that old urge to be honest, the one I couldn’t comprehend. I had no problem lying to my own mother, but when it came to Peter, I could give him nothing but the truth.

  “The domineering part…that’s not so bad,” I admitted. “In fact, it’s kind of hot. Okay, it’s really hot. That’s not really the issue, here, Peter. I want to do legitimate work at the office. I don’t want to be a prostitute.”

  “That’s not what I intended,” he said firmly. “
I would never hire someone on staff just to have sex with me. That contract…that was more like a joke. Almost to tell you what you could expect being my…well, my girlfriend, working with me at the office.”

  “Well, it was a bad joke,” I informed him, trying but failing to keep a straight face. “Girlfriend?”

  Peter visibly relaxed. “Yes, girlfriend. As long as you’ll have me. As long as you don’t hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.” I padded over to him tentatively, the soles of my feet aching and sore. “I’m just trying to figure you out — figure us out.”

  “Will you write a report when you’re done?” He looped an arm around me and pulled me close. It felt really nice to be close to him again, a relief to be on our way to figuring things out. “I’d be interested in knowing.”

  “Is that an official work request?” I joked. “Am I still on the clock?”

  “I think, after our last misunderstanding, it would be prudent to take the rest of the day off to…get reacquainted.” Peter’s grip on my waist tightened, and my body responded in kind — my legs pressing together, squeezing in anticipation.

  “So, I’m your girlfriend.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that makes you my boyfriend.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “And my boss.”

  “Yes.”

  “And my soon-to-be stepbrother.”

  Peter laughed. “Don’t overcomplicate things. Let’s focus on the things that actually matter to us. The things that affect us directly. That sibling bit isn’t going to hold up in court.”

  “Okay, because the bits I’m most concerned about are the boss and boyfriend bits.” I leveled a look at him. “I’m particularly interested in how those two roles are going to reconcile themselves.”