Thoroughly Whipped

by Tillie Cole

  Thoroughly Whipped

  Tillie Cole

  Copyright© Tillie Cole 2020 All rights reserved

  Copyediting by Stephanie Ward

  Cover Design by Murphy Rae Designs

  Custom Illustration by Ashley Ranae Art

  Formatting by Stephen Jones

  French Translation by Célia Gaunt

  Ebook Edition

  No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  “Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.” — Lord Byron

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Follow Tillie At:

  Chapter One

  New York City

  “Holy shit,” Novah whispered, leaning into me. “Little boy blue blood is all grown up!”

  I rolled my eyes. “You do realize he’s only a year older than you, right?”

  “I’ve only seen him in pictures, Faith. Unlike some, I haven’t been graced with the younger duke’s company before this moment. Let me bask in his mighty presence.”

  “He’s not a duke yet. That happens when his old man kicks it and passes down the title. And nobody is graced with that dick’s presence. He’s arrogant and so rich it’s made him beyond stupid, and he walks with a permanent pole shoved up his ass. Il duko has no redeeming qualities whatsoever,” I snapped and folded my arms across my chest to exaggerate my point.

  The object of our musings hovered in the doorway to the conference room. He was conversing with Sally, our editor, and Henry Sinclair II, his father. Or, as his father was better known, King. Apparently, it was quite the amusing nickname among the British elite. Oh, how they must have chortled at the “cheeky” reference to their most famous royals. But to us, his American working-class worker bees, calling himself King Sinclair just made him sound like an entitled douchebag, too full of his own importance.

  “Well I, for one, wouldn’t mind delving into those khakis the duke trainee wears so well and deep fishing for said pole in his pert, tight posterior, if you know what I mean.”

  I took hold of Novah’s arm and met her eyes with my most serious expression. “It’s irremovable, Novah. That pole is wedged in deep, like oil-rig deep. You’ll need a fucking crane to hoist it out. A crane, Novah.”

  Novah waved her hand in front of her face. “Jeez, Faith. Even that image has my thighs clenching.” She whistled low. “I could never be that close to his peach of a tush. I’d end up biting his firm, toned, polo-playing cheek. I know I would. Or at least give it a swift lick. I’m better off keeping my distance so as to not be arrested.”

  “You’re sick.” I smirked as she crossed her legs tightly.

  “I never claimed otherwise.”

  “Right, minions!” Sally shouted, standing at the front of the room. The staff grew silent. Our editor clapped her hands with impressive speed. She forced a smile. It wasn’t a good look on her. She appeared constipated whenever she attempted “friendly.” Or as though she were battling a mild-to-medium case of hemorrhoids.

  “Today’s a big day here at Visage.”

  I held my breath, waiting for more, dread seeping into the very marrow of my bones. My skin itched in irritation seeing Henry “Harry” Sinclair III stepping out from behind his father. No, I prayed, hands lowering into a death grip on the arms of my chair. I looked up toward the heavens. God, I know we’re not always on the best of terms. I drink, cuss, and enjoy fornicating far too much for your liking, but please, please, please, do not say he is here for—

  “As you may have heard, Mr. King Sinclair is slowly taking a step back from the running of HCS Media Group and focusing solely on his British investments. He is still very much ‘in charge’ on the global stage, but he has decided to start delegating the US enterprises to his son, Henry Sinclair Junior.”

  I closed my eyes and felt Novah’s hand grip my thigh at this revelation. “So today I have the great pleasure to welcome Henry as the new CEO of Visage Magazine and the New York Journal and everything that falls under that impressive umbrella.” The people in the conference room broke out into somewhat enthusiastic applause, and I reluctantly opened my eyes. I’d hoped if I kept them closed, this would somehow turn out to be a bad dream. But as soon as I opened them, my gaze railroaded right into Henry’s or, as I liked to call him, the eternally entitled ball-sack.

  Fuck my life. What had we mere mortals done in the world to deserve three of these Henry Sinclair jerks on the planet? His father was an asswipe of the highest order, and I’d heard the grandfather, who’d created the empire, had been the worst kind of human being. His grandson had apparently followed suit. Henry didn’t smile at me. His nostrils flared and his lip curled up. I wasn’t sure if he was silently passing gas or exposing the fact that he disliked me as much as I disliked him.

  King Sinclair nudged his son from his malevolent reverie. Henry pulled his hands from his pockets, nodded curtly, and instantly became the leader I was sure he had been molded to be since birth. “Good morning, I’m Henry Sinclair, but please call me Harry. Only my teachers ever called me Henry.” He smirked a little at that. I blinked slowly in confusion. I had never seen him smile. This was a barely-there smile and, no matter how brief it was, it indicated Harry wasn’t always the dour bastard he appeared to be.

  “I know most of you have never met me, but I’ve been living between New York and England for the past few years and am extremely happy to be taking over here at the New York Journal and therefore, of course, Visage.” Visage was the in-house style magazine, which went out every Sunday along with the Journal’s other Sunday offerings. The in-house magazines of such prestigious newspapers had always been considered the ugly stepsisters in the world of newspaper publishing, but I loved it here. Always had…until, I feared, now.

  “For the past few years I have been overseeing HCS Publishing, here in Manhattan, part-time. I’ve assigned someone else that role, and I will be based in these offices from here on out. I have moved to Manhattan from England for the foreseeable future, as my father takes his steady step back from HCS Media, and look forward to making an already stellar publication even greater.”

  I didn’t know it was possible for an accent to grate on someone to such a degree. As Henry Sinclair III spoke, his too-British, too-posh timbre was akin to nails being scraped down a chalkboard at a slow and torturous velocity.
In vain, I tried to control my eye twitching to avoid looking demented.

  “I’m gonna come,” Novah whispered, pulling my attention from said ball-sack. She dramatically bit her lip. “You think he keeps that accent in the bedroom too?” She cleared her throat and donned a terrible English accent. “Do kindly bend over, dearie, I am about to embark my large royal naval vessel into your splendidly tight vaginal shaft.”

  A loud snort left my mouth as I tried to bite back my laughter. The sound was like a thunderclap in the small room. Sally swiftly raised her thinly microbladed black eyebrows in my direction, seeking me out like a nuclear missile. Target locked and loaded. I winced under her stern scrutiny; then I felt another set of eyes burning into me. Harry Sinclair stared my way, his cheeks slightly reddened by, I presumed, anger. I immediately straightened my shoulders. I had no idea what it was about this man, but it was like my body positively gleamed at his disapproval, craved his disgust, and preened at successfully pissing him off. I wasn’t sure if this was evidence of a new fetish I was developing but, regardless, I couldn’t fight the rebellion those narrowed blue eyes inspired.

  I waited for public censure from the to-be duke, but Harry just nodded at the room, forcing a tight smile, and said, “Anyway, I am sure we will talk more soon. I’m happy to be here.” He looked at his father and indicated, with a wave of his hand, that they were leaving the room. “We have meetings with the other subdivisions about my takeover, so I’ll let you get on with your day.”

  Harry and King Sinclair left the room as elegantly as royalty would retire from their subjects. I exhaled a loud sigh and whipped my head to Novah. “Royal naval vessel, Nove? Really? Vaginal shaft?”

  She was still laughing, wiping tears from her eyes, unable to speak. I pushed to my feet and walked to the exit. Sally stepped into my path. “Are you a child, Faith?”

  I sighed in defeat. “No, Sally. I’m twenty-five.”

  Sally turned on her stiletto heel, giving me her back. “Well, you sound like a child to me. Funny, I do not, and will not ever, assign children feature stories in my magazine.” With those acidic parting words, she left for the elevators. And that was my boss. A frightening hybrid of Miranda Priestly and—one wouldn’t say Hitler exactly, but maybe a lesser dictator. Mussolini perhaps?

  “Sorry, Faith.” Novah grimaced in contrition.

  “It’s okay.” I felt a pit cave into my stomach. It wasn’t from Sally’s usual reprimand and threats but from the knowledge that, from now on, Henry Sinclair III would be present in these offices, lingering around me like a bad smell. Harry Sinclair, the famed future duke and heir to the HCS Media dynasty. Billionaire, British, twenty-eight, and arguably one of the, if not the, hottest bachelors on the planet. Six-foot-three, wavy dark-brown hair, tousled just enough to make it bedroom sexy, bright blue eyes, and two-hundred pounds of nothing but lean, cut muscle—we’d all seen the paparazzi pictures of him topless at his villa in Monaco. Harry was a walking GQ model, eye candy for the masses…until he opened his mouth and ruined the God-given masterpiece that was his fine exterior.

  In truth, Henry Sinclair III was the most arrogant, aloof and coldest man I had ever met. He had such an aura of superiority that even standing beside him made you feel like a medieval maid scrubbing the stone floors of his majesty’s castle. And for some reason, I knew that castle would boast at least six turrets and, no doubt, a moat with an impressive girth.

  “You think he’ll bring up ‘the incident’?” Novah asked quietly as we walked past the journalist’s cubicles, in the Journal office, to the small Visage quarters at the back of the building. Once in the safety of our two-man cubicle, Novah sat beside me, waiting for my reply. Novah Jones was a red-headed bombshell. Curves out of every 1950s pin-up fantasy and a face that would make a priest throw away his dog collar and bow at her feet begging for a spanking. She was not only a colleague but also one of my best friends. She was Visage’s beauty editor. The title suited her well. There wasn’t anything that this woman didn’t know about makeup and skincare.

  “I don’t know if he’ll bring it up. It was three years ago.” I leaned back in my chair and stared at the generic white-tiled ceiling. “He never has before. Then again, I have only seen him once since, and it was in passing. A very awkward passing.”

  “But he was never directly your boss before. He had no official power over you then.” Novah leaned over me. She took an unopened PR tube of lipstick off her desk, ripped off the packaging, and began to paint my lips. “He was the son of your boss, who you crossed paths with a few times. Now it’s entirely different. You’re his bitch now.” She smiled widely at my painted lips. “Oh, I knew this would be your perfect shade of red. More orange and less blue in its undertone.” Novah stepped back and held up a mirror in front of my face. “With your olive skin, dark hair, and espresso eyes, I knew this color would make those full lips pop, you gorgeous tanned bitch!” I rubbed my lips together. It felt nice on my mouth. Not too drying and I loved a good red lipstick.

  “Love it,” I said absently; then I proceeded to dramatically drop my head to my desk with an audible thud. I groaned at the memory invading my mind. “I called him an overprivileged cockface, Novah. An overprivileged cockface who needed nothing but a good spanking and a thorough fucking. And he heard my every word. And now he’s my boss.” I peered to the side. “Help me!” I cried pathetically as Novah sat on the end of her desk.

  “I can’t, gorgeous,” she said and took her place at her desk chair. “This is one hole you’re going to have to crawl out of on your own. Or should that be a cave? And you know I’m claustrophobic.”

  Novah patted my head like one would a puppy, moved to her computer, and began writing her column for this week’s press. I stared at the grains of wood in my desk and thought back to last year and the moment I’d shoved one of my size-eight red Jimmy Choo rip-offs into my big, stupid mouth. I had interned at The New York Journal one summer, when I was twenty-two. Everything had been going great until I’d met a man with bright blue eyes and silky brown hair. Then everything went wrong. So completely wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Three years ago…

  “You got this, Faith,” I said to myself as I stepped through the door to the conference room where the interns were meeting. About ten interns were already present. Smiling at the mix of boys and girls as I passed, I moved to the back table, which offered coffee and muffins. I poured myself some coffee and took a seat in the back row.

  “Hi, I’m Faith,” I said to the girl beside me. Luckily, I wasn’t shy. It always helped in situations like this.

  “Jayne,” she said and shook my hand. I introduced myself to the people around me. In minutes, my nerves settled. Too busy talking to Jayne and a beefy jock type named Blake, I didn’t see who sat beside me until I turned my head, and I had to clench my jaw to hide my reaction. Fuck me…the guy was beautiful. Tall and dark and those blue eyes… He was wearing a ridiculously nice suit and was rubbing his eyes like he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep last night. Or maybe he was nervous.

  Feeling like this day had improved immensely, I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Faith.”

  I held my hand out for so long that my muscles started to ache. The man eventually stopped rubbing his eyes and glared at my outstretched hand. His lip curled as if my fingers were covered in shit. I pulled my hand back with rising anger. Blue Eyes reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some Advil. He dry swallowed a couple of pills and folded his arms across his chest. Ah, he had a headache. That explained things.

  “Rough night last night?” I asked. I pointed to the beverage table behind us. “There’s coffee and muffins there. Caffeine and sugar might help you feel better.” Blue Eyes kept facing forward, not even acknowledging me. “Hello! Did you hear me?” I said, my hairs standing up on the back of my neck in irritation. Was he sick, or was he really this rude?

  “I heard you loud and clear.”

  “Oh. I was worried there was something wrong w
ith you.” I tried again. “I’m Faith.” When I was met with silence, I added, “And you are?”

  “Will. You. Stop. Talking.” As the words left his mouth, I tensed in complete shock. His jaw clenched and he flicked his lofty gaze at me before looking back at the front of the room. Second by second, my shock turned into red-hot blazing anger.

  “Excuse me?” I hissed. “Stop talking?” But Blue Eyes didn’t even flinch. “You can’t speak to me like that.”

  “I can and I did,” he said, and I realized he had an accent. British. English.

  “How dare you!” I snapped, just as someone entered the room. “You won’t get far here if you treat people like this—” I was cut off as Colin Frank, the internship program director, entered the room and clapped his hands to get our attention.

  Seething, I tried to listen to Colin talk about what the internship entailed. I bit my tongue in fear that I would give the English dick beside me a piece of my mind. I had earned this internship fair and square. I wanted to work for HCS Media in some way in the future. I wouldn’t let some stuck-up twat ruin my chances.

  “You’ll report to me,” Colin said, “but we have Henry Sinclair of HCS Media here for the summer, and he will also be present sometimes. He is here to see how things are done at the New York Journal.” Before I’d even had time to wonder where Henry Sinclair was, Blue Eyes got to his feet. He fastened his jacket button as he stood; then he walked to the front of the room. With every step he took, I felt my excitement about this internship lessen.