by Hart, Alexa
“Fuck,” Michael mutters under his breath, still pounding into me with his own release. My pussy clenches around him, willing him to still deep inside me as he releases his grip on my throat.
“What,” I breathe, “was that?” My whole body shakes with the magnitude of my orgasm, and I whimper as he pulls out of me to discard the condom.
“Lack of oxygen can make your orgasms more intense.” He explains, stripping, and crawling in bed and pulling my still-quivering body into his strong arms. The skin on skin contact warms me, as I give in to my body’s spent demands for sleep.
Chapter 9
Sophia
The sunlight drifts through the sheer grey curtains of Michael’s bedroom, permeating my eyelids, coaxing me awake. Sliding my arm across the bed, I feel for his warmth, but I don’t find it. Instead, when my eyes finally flutter open in hungover misery, I find a small handwritten note where his head should rest.
Sophia,
I’m sorry I had to leave before you woke, there was a small emergency at work that demanded my attention.
There is Tylenol on the nightstand – take it. Mrs. Greene is in the kitchen; she will make you whatever you want for breakfast. When you’re finished, ask her to buzz for Harris, he will drive you home.
-Michael
I read over the clinical note more than once, scanning it for any underlying emotion that I can possibly read into. The events of the night are clear in my memory, but I have no idea how much Michael had to drink before seeing me. Was everything he said simply fueled by alcohol and seeing me in a skimpy costume? Or something more? Groggily, I force my muscles to move, climbing out of his soft bed to fumble through the drawers in search of clothes that I can wear. I can’t exactly meet his chef and security team in my bunny costume. Well, I could, but that may be more embarrassment than I can handle under the haze of a terrible hangover.
Finally settling on a plain white t-shirt and a pair of non-descript grey joggers from Michael’s drawer, I pull the draw-string as tight as I can get it, knotting it to secure the cozy pants to my body. After swallowing the pair of small orange pills gratefully, I follow the rest of his note, wandering out of Michael’s bedroom in search of the kitchen.
“You must be Miss Williams?” A bright voice greets me as I enter the modern kitchen, only having taken 20 minutes to find it. I nod, smiling.
“Mrs. Greene?” She confirms with a warm grin, spread across her pale wrinkle-free face. The taller blonde woman must be at least in her mid-forties, sporting subtle makeup and a professional chef’s coat. Her hair is pulled into a motherly twist, secured with a deep brown clip contrasting its golden undertones. She is beautiful, in a soft sort of way that makes me want to open up to her like she’s my own mother; or at least my relaxed aunt.
“Mr. Carter said you may be a bit hungover,” Mrs. Greene comments, pouring a cup of coffee with cream in it, sliding it across the counter, “so perhaps something with a bit of protein?”
I idly wonder how she knows just how I take my coffee, but decide not to ask.
“Thank you,” I smile sipping the miracle hangover cure, “but you really don’t need to make me anything, it’s okay.”
I try to insist, but she is already pulling a carton of eggs from the stainless steel fridge, waving my protest away.
“Mr. Carter asked me to make sure you had a full breakfast,” she explains, unyielding, and I get the feeling ‘Mr. Carter’ tends to get everything he wants around here. Pressing my lips together, I sit with a compliant smile, waiting.
When I finally clear my plate, I have to admit, the food was delicious. Mrs. Greene made me a vegetable omelet, with a side of fresh succulent fruit. I stand, moving to clear the dishes, but she snatches them from me before I make it to the sink.
“Give me those, you’re a guest, Miss Williams. The only guest Mr. Carter has had outside of family and Aaron. Let me enjoy this!” I laugh with Mrs. Greene, surrendering the dirty plate with a curious stare.
“The only guest?”
“Mhm,” she affirms, “Mr. Carter is a rather private man.”
I grimace in understanding, thanking her for the breakfast and hospitality as I make my way to the elevator door where a tall man, who I presume to be Harris, is waiting to cart me home.
The drive is pleasant enough – only 15 minutes of scenic New York blocks. I try to exchange small talk with Harris, but aside from polite ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ responses, he is stoic and silent. As we pull down my narrow tree-lined street, Harris gingerly presses the small red triangle, prompting the hazards, and hops out of the car to open my door before I can even get my seatbelt off.
“Thank you, Harris.” I smile warmly at him, earning a small crack in his utterly professional demeanor; a smile, slight and dimpled.
“You’re welcome, Miss. Williams. I’ll walk you inside.”
I can tell from his tone that the offer isn’t actually an offer, but notification of a request that I’m sure Michael made of him. I wave him off.
“That won’t be necessary Harris, thank you. Drive safe.” I gently squeeze his arm, smiling as I turn and make my way up the stairs and through my front door, leaving Harris slightly bewildered and alone on the street.
Gratefully kicking off my excessively high heels, I flick on the lights, contemplating how to spend my day. First thing’s first, after last night I definitely need a shower.
Shrugging my favorite robe over my bare shoulders, I stroll into the bathroom, deciding on a clarifying bath, rather than a shower. My bathroom has always been my favorite part of my home – if I’m being honest it’s the reason I chose to live here. The grey slate floors are cool on my bare manicured feet, complimenting the clean white walls, adorned with black-framed line prints. Flicking the light switch, I am met with a relaxing golden glow, illuminating the small room in conjunction with my eucalyptus candles. Dolloping a generous amount of sandalwood scented bubble bath onto the smooth white surface of the claw foot tub, I turn the water on, winding the handle more than halfway towards hot.
The faucet sputters for a moment before spitting out a thick stream of clear water, bubbling into iridescent bubbles as it hits the bottom of the tub, filling the room with the delicious combined scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood, soothing my busy thoughts with each deep breath.
I dip my feet into the silky hot water as the tub continues to fill, testing it out. My toes curl with the slight burning of the stark temperature change, but I ignore it, sinking into the warm reprieve, left with nothing but my thoughts.
My stomach bubbles with anxiety of what I might face walking into work tomorrow. Did Michael mean everything he said last night, or was it simply the drunk ramblings of a man looking to get laid? Either way, how can I face him? My cheeks fill with impossible heat as I remember the sound of my own alcohol-fueled voice begging him to fuck me. I’d actually done that. I begged my boss to fuck me. Flipping my hazed memories over in my head, I try to pick apart every moment from the night, gauging him, trying to decipher what to expect. But I come up with nothing. Slipping under water, I close my eyes, resigned to suffer with the unknown until I can face him in the morning.
Chapter 10
Michael
The gloomy New York day penetrates the expanse of windows in my corner office, darkening my already dim mood. I had to leave Sophia naked and beautiful in my bed yesterday morning to tend to a case that should have been handled by one of the less intelligent junior partners.
“Some coffee?” Mrs. Collins asks, already setting a mug on my desk. Sometimes I don’t know how I’d get anything done without her – the woman practically runs my life.
“Thank you, Mrs. Collins.” I flash my first smile since leaving Sophia, gulping down the scalding liquid.
“If you’d like an update, Jeremy Donovan has been relocated to our New Jersey office.” She suppresses a snicker, referencing the idiot junior partner who pulled me out of bed.
“Perfect, thank you.” I nod
, a quirk forming on my lips as I picture the lanky New York native having to move to dirty little towns like Cherry Hill, or Camden.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Actually Mrs. Collins,” I begin, ready to ask her to request Sophia’s presence, but a small figure through the glass behind her causes a smile to break my sentence. Motioning for her to come inside, I direct my attention back to Mrs. Collins, “yes, that will be all.”
She flashes me a knowing smile, turning to Sophia on her way out, “good morning, Miss Williams.” With a succinct nod toward my assistant, Sophia turns her almond-shaped eyes in my direction.
“Good morning Mr. Carter. I have the cross-examination questions you asked for.” Her voice is even and sophisticated, accompanying the fierce raised angle of her jaw, painting the perfect professional picture that I’d like to ruin.
Smirking, I swirl in my chair, standing to approach her. Her thick lashes flutter downward, shaking in their effort to focus on anything but me. I smirk at the small pucker in her perfect lips, raising a hand to lightly brush my thumb across the soft skin of her mouth.
“Sophia,” I prompt her, earning a soulful and curious gaze from her melting eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Carter?” Her tone remains calm. Brushing a stray bit of caramel colored hair from her ear, I lean in to whisper to her, ignoring my body’s reaction to her small shudder.
“Why are you acting so prim and proper when just two days ago you were begging me to fuck you?” Her breathing hitches at the abrasiveness of my words, her lips opening to respond for a moment before clamping shut. I cock my head, studying her. Her cheeks flush a brilliant red when she’s uncomfortable, giving her an air of innocence that makes my cock hard thinking about corrupting her.
“I, um,” she stutters on her response, her nipples growing visibly hard under the silky material of her white blouse. Dropping to my lips, her doe-eyes saturate with equal parts of lust and shock.
“You came around me Sophia,” I gently tilt her chin upwards with my thumb, “you came all over my cock, with my hand around your throat and your pussy still red from me spanking you. Don’t call me Mr. Carter.”
Her chest heaves with my words, but she nods dutifully, her tight nipples brushing my suit jacket with each labored breath she takes in such close proximity. I clench my jaw, struggling to resist the urge to run my fingers up the hem of her tight pencil skirt to check if she’s wet for me.
“Yes sir.” Sophia’s voice is low, but I catch the small twinge of amusement in her tone. I’ve already told her to call me Michael. She’s not disobeying, but she’s not necessarily obeying either.
“Cute.” I admonish her. She giggles, breaking her professional demeanor.
“You can’t exactly punish me here,” she observes.
I grin at her, approaching a small switch on the wall, to the right of the door. Her resolve flickers as she watches me. With an easy flip of the inconspicuous switch, the glass of the walls and door become opaque, granting us complete privacy. I don’t bother locking the door, Mrs. Collin’s would never allow anyone inside while I have the dimmers on.
“Here?” Sophia questions incredulously, though she’s already taking a few small steps towards me. I ignore her question, catching her lips and pulling her towards me. Kissing her is like finally taking a deep breath when I didn’t even know I was choking. Almost painfully good. Her small hands grip my waist, sliding inside my jacket warming my skin through the material of my shirt.
We disconnect, just barely, our foreheads still touching as we come up for intermingled air.
“I can punish you anywhere, Sophia,” I inform her. “But right now, I just missed you.”
“Oh,” her voice is quiet and shocked, and she’s giving me those doe eyes again that make me want to throw her over my desk.
“We need to stop, or Mrs. Collin’s will be spending the afternoon picking up the contents of my desk from the floor.”
Sophia nods, understanding my meaning. Taking a step backwards she straightens out her shirt, settling into an inconspicuous seat on the couch, accompanied by some folders and a cup of coffee. I flip the switch once more, relinquishing our privacy.
“Who is our first witness?” I ask her, resuming a lighthearted demeanor and joining her on the couch.
Chapter 11
Sophia
“Mrs. Thompson, thank you for coming in.” Michael greets the old woman warmly, helping her into her seat. No, old isn’t quite the right description. Her eyes are a clear, brilliant green that most people only dream about, surrounded by soft, crinkled skin. She stands tall and proud, her silky silver hair falling past her shoulders and swaying with her steps.
Lifting her slender hands, she grips Michael’s in a gesture of gratitude. “No Michael, thank you. You’ve been so lovely; your parents would have been proud of the man you’ve become.”
Michael stiffens slightly at the revealing compliment, his eyes flickering to me to gauge my reaction. I don't let on that I was paying attention, continuing to spread the various files and notepads out across our side of the table, organizing them immaculately.
“Thank you, that means a lot coming from you,” turning to me, Michael continues, grinning proudly. “Mrs. Thompson, I’d like you to meet Sophia, she’s the associate that came up with the strategy that’s going to win your case.”
I blush under the attention, “Oh, well I- “
“Oh my dear, thank you,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice is raspy with age, a commanding sort of sound, demanding both attention and respect. Not unlike Michael’s. She turns, muttering to Michael, who is still bent from helping her to her seat, “she’s very pretty.”
I suppress a smile as Michael blushes, a sight I never thought I’d see.
“Mrs. Thompson, may I get you anything before we begin? Tea perhaps?” I interrupt the exchange, earning a thankful nod from Michael.
“Coffee, please. Cream and Sugar.” I nod, leaving them alone.
When I return, Michael is in his seat across from her, leaned over the table invested in some discussion that halts as soon as I come into his line of vision. Though their smiles remain. Mrs. Thompson thanks me as I set the coffee down in front of her and settle into my seat next to Michael.
“Mrs. Thompson before we begin, I just want to warn you. The questions may make you a tad uncomfortable. They’re meant to be that way. I just want to prepare you for what his lawyers will be like while you’re on the stand. If you’re getting upset or you’d like a break, just let me know.
“The only thing that will make me uncomfortable is if you hold back. You forget I knew you in your teenage years, nothing you say now could compare to that horror.” She says.
I try my hardest to muffle my laugh, with very little success. Michael shoots disapproving looks in both of our directions.
“Okay then. Shall we begin?” Despite the expression on his sculpted face, Michael’s voice is laced with amusement.
With confirmation from Mrs. Thompson, Michael begins as promised, not holding back in the slightest.
“Mrs. Thompson, you claim that the living conditions in your apartment have been rather dire for some time now – if that’s the case, why is it that you are only able to produce one piece of written evidence suggesting that you informed Mr. Kelly of this, and requested action?”
Mrs. Thompson remains calm, answering eloquently.
“Mr. Kelly frequents the premises quite often; I’ve always found it much more convenient to simply speak to him while he is in the building rather than send him an electronic letter. However, I have in the past sent physical letters – in the post, you know? I only resorted to sending an E-mail when it became apparent that legal action may be necessary.”
Before Michael has a chance to speak, I step in calmly, “that was really good Mrs. Thompson, but try to avoid the last part. We don’t want to give them any opportunity to paint you as ‘coming after’ him. Michael nods in support of my advice, and we continue.
&
nbsp; “Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Kelly claims that his sexual advances towards you were of a joking nature – isn’t it true that the two of you enjoyed a rather relaxed relationship?”
“Well, I’ve always been friendly to him, I held no animosity for the man until the building started going bad, and he elected to ignore it.”
“Mhm,” Michael dismisses her, “Mr. Kelly claims that you took his joking as literal and sexually propositioned him. He claims you, being an old, widowed woman, were slighted at his rejection of your advances, and therefore resorted to fabricating this entire case. Isn't this true?”
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes harden at the word ‘widowed’, but she doesn’t snap, answering with a simple and concise, “No. That is not true.”
The rest of the exercise continues this way, with Michael asking harsh questions, Mrs. Thompson answering them in her relaxed tone – more relaxed than most could be, given the situation – and me inserting advice when necessary. As the interview draws to a close, Mrs. Thompson thanks me with a warm and inviting smile, waving goodbye as Michael walks her to the elevator, where, through the glass, I can see Harris waiting.
The room fills with electricity and unspoken or answered questions as he strolls back in, waiting for our next victim to arrive.
“She seems sweet,” I prod lightly.
“You can just ask what you want to know Sophia,” Michael smiles knowingly at me, earning a blush.
“How do you know her?” I start small.
“She was a friend of my parents, she took me in for a while after they died.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.” The muscles in Michael’s neck shift as he swallows hard, and I decide this particular line of questioning can wait. Just as I stand to hug him, Mrs. Collins opens the door to the conference room with who I assume to be our next witness.
