Mr. Rochester: British Bad Boy (Classics Made Smutty Book 1)

by Marian Tee

  He knows. Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester knows he turns me on.

  A tidal wave of sensation threatens to sweep me away, and I find myself gripping the armrests tightly. I wish I could say it’s dread that’s trickling down my spine and making me shiver, but I know it’s not.

  It’s something worse – like excitement, or even arousal.

  He knows. Mr. Rochester knows.

  And as if the realization isn’t enough torture, my mind starts replaying events of last night, forcing me to confront reality.

  You have my fucking attention. The question is…what do you want to do about it?

  My cheeks flush at the memory, and when I find myself involuntarily searching for Mr. Rochester with my gaze it’s as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking---

  Mr. Rochester’s smile is all taunting sexiness, but it’s a complete contrast with his oh-so-polite tone as he prompts, “And your answer, Ms. Reed?”

  Arrogant bastard.

  God, I hate him.

  Jumping unthinkingly to my feet, I bite out, “Nothing. Nothing is going to happen because you’re being completely delusional.”

  Mr. Rochester’s smile continues to play on his lips. “Am I?” And then his gaze slowly moves down, lingering on my chest.

  I gasp, but he doesn’t look away, and I feel my chest start to rise and fall rapidly. Even worse, I’m horrified to feel my flesh swelling in response behind the cups of my bra, and when my breasts start to ache painfully, I realize too late what it is he’s trying to prove.

  I want him. I want him to fuck me. And the bastard knows it, too.

  Hopeless frustration consumes me, and I find myself whispering bitterly, “Bastard.” Before I know it I’m already rushing towards him, my hand raised to slap the smirk off his goddamn face---

  Mr. Rochester catches my wrist before I can hit him, and even as I gasp in outrage Mr. Rochester goes further, hauling me against him while he reverses our positions---

  In a blink of an eye, I’m trapped between his desk and Mr. Rochester’s rock-hard body, his uninjured hand holding both of my wrists captive behind my back.

  I stare up at him, confused, horrified, but most shamefully of all – I’m also aroused, more so than ever---

  And of course the bastard knows this, too. It’s there in his eyes, and even though I know it’s true, the sight still infuriates me, and I mutter under my breath, “This is harassment.”

  But Mr. Rochester only chuckles. “Harassment only occurs when someone’s reluctant.” His hips move right after he speaks, and I find myself gasping as the positions of our bodies change---

  And just like that his monstrously erect cock is cradled directly between my wet, throbbing folds.

  Oh God.

  “And you’re not reluctant, are you?”

  Biting back a moan at the feel of his cock rubbing against my pussy, I manage to snarl, “Bastard.”

  “Yes,” he agrees without hesitation. “I am a bastard. I’ve never pretended to be anything else and yet – you want me anyway, don’t you, Ms. Reed?”

  I can only glare at him, knowing that if I speak, my breathless voice will only reveal how true his words is.

  “I suggest you do the same,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “so you can put yourself out of your misery. Be honest, Ms. Reed. Tell me what you want---”

  “All I want,” I grate out, “is that you let me go now and stop harras---”

  Mr. Rochester doesn’t wait for me to finish. His uninjured hand yanks one of my hands between our bodies---

  My words end in a gasp. “What are you---”

  Mr. Rochester shoves my hand down.

  And I suddenly find myself gripping the pulsing, engorged length of Mr. Rochester’s cock.

  Oh God.

  A low whimper escapes me, and the sound makes Mr. Rochester’s eyes gleam in cruel satisfaction.

  “This, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester says silkily, “is what you really want.” And as if to underscore his words, his hand over mine tightens, and my fingers automatically tighten around his cock as well---

  Oh God.

  The feel of his enormous cock between my fingers makes my breath hitch in my throat.

  “Perhaps you can answer me now, Ms. Reed.”

  I watch Mr. Rochester’s hand lift from mine as he speaks. I know it’s my best chance to pull away---

  “What do you want from me?”

  ---but I don’t.

  I can’t.

  Instead, I watch in horror as my fingers tighten its grip around his cock---

  Oh God.

  Why can’t I let go?

  Over my head I hear Mr. Rochester slowly expel his breath, the sound filled with such languid pleasure I just know---

  He loves the way I’m holding his cock and he wants me to know it.

  “Say it,” Mr. Rochester whispers.

  It’s like being tempted by the devil himself and I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate, futile attempt on resistance.

  “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about---”

  Mr. Rochester cuts me off with a laugh, and even the mere sound of it is dreadfully alluring. He really is the devil, I think foolishly.

  “Shall I help you out then?” Mr. Rochester suggests under his breath. “Do you want me to say it for you?”

  My eyes widen. “No---”

  But I’m too late, and the words that I should never have heard are already out.

  “What you want, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester croons, “is to do what I want.”

  “No!”

  “You want me to fuck you. Wherever and whenever I desire---”

  “Stop,” I gasp.

  “However I desire,” Mr. Rochester goes on ruthlessly. “Rough. Hard. Fast. On the wall. On the floor. On this damn desk this very minute if I want it---”

  “No!” And I finally remember to struggle. “Let me go.”

  “Not until we’re done---”

  “You don’t own me, Mr. Rochester,” I hiss at him.

  But the words only make him smirk, and he whispers into my ear, “Not yet.”

  Aaaah.

  I try to shove him away even as my knees quake, but Mr. Rochester retaliates by grinding his lower body harder against mine---

  Oh God.

  Desire surges up inside of me, and I can feel my body starting to sag and mold against his powerful length.

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  Why do I want him so much?

  And again, it’s as if the bastard really is capable of reading my mind as he whispers, “I told you, Ms. Reed. You want me.”

  Chaos erupts inside of me at his words. Half of me is lost in despair: it’s so damn terrifying, knowing that this man has such a hold over me. But the other half…oh, that other, more foolish, hopeless half is delirious. It can’t wait to have Mr. Rochester ordering me to do things.

  Unspeakable things.

  Shameful things.

  Things that Mr. Rochester can only do---

  Clenching my fists, I force myself to meet Mr. Rochester’s gaze as I ask stiffly, “What now?”

  Instead of answering right away, Mr. Rochester raises his uninjured hand to touch my cheek---

  I turn my face away sharply, avoiding his touch.

  Mr. Rochester chuckles. “Stubborn to the very end, Ms. Reed?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter with a shrug and continue doggedly, “You still haven’t mentioned anything---”

  “If you’re asking about my plans,” Mr. Rochester interrupts calmly, “they’re relatively straightforward. We’ll start with having you move in with me tonight---”

  “Excuse me?” I choke out.

  “You won’t have to worry about the logistics.”

  “I won’t move in with you!”

  “Yes. You will.”

  “Or what?” I challenge bitterly. “You’ll blackmail me about the video?”

  He blinks. “Of course not.” And his tone is even mildly reprovi
ng. “That has never been my style, Ms. Reed, and even if it were I’d have no need to do such a thing with you.” When I continue looking at him with suspicion, Mr. Rochester says with a sigh, “You have an extremely low opinion of me, don’t you, Ms. Reed?”

  To my surprise, Mr. Rochester gently pulls away and I automatically take a few steps back to put much needed space between us. I watch him go around his desk and take out a sheet of paper from his drawer.

  “For you, Ms. Reed.” Exasperation flashes in Mr. Rochester’s gaze when I glance at the document suspiciously. “Go on and read it. The contract’s primarily drawn out for your benefit.”

  Yeah right, I think even as I slowly reach for the document.

  It takes me only a few minutes to fully digest what the contract’s about, and when I’ve finally convinced myself I’m not reading anything wrong I turn to him, wary and bewildered. “You really had the video permanently deleted?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re actually going to pay me if it turns out otherwise and the video surfaces and goes public?” In fact “paying” me is quite the understatement; considering the amount stipulated in the contract, he’s practically setting me up for life---

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Rochester’s mildly voiced reply only leaves me even more confused and suspicious, and I burst out, “Why?” Why would he get rid of the one thing that gives him enormous hold over me?

  Mr. Rochester walks towards the door, saying over his shoulder, “First of all, extortion of that type has never been my style. Secondly---” His hand rests on the doorknob and he turns to face me again. “I don’t need it.”

  He…doesn’t?

  “Because you want me, Ms. Reed. And as long as you want me---” Mr. Rochester’s smile is filled with dangerous promise. “I know you’ll do whatever I want.” I watch Mr. Rochester turn the knob, murmuring politely, “Now, if it’s alright with you, I’ll need you to leave, Ms. Reed. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

  The rest of the day proceeds like usual, and it’s so damn normal it’s exactly what’s driving me crazy. As I go through the motions of work, I can’t stop thinking about those few minutes I was alone with Mr. Rochester in his office.

  Did it really happen?

  I can’t help pinching myself at the thought, and a tiny part of me actually expects it won’t hurt---

  But it does.

  “Ouch.” I let go quickly and grimace at the swollen bit of flesh on my arm. Damn Mr. Rochester. This is his fault, too.

  Swinging away from the windows, I turn back to my laptop and resume banging hard on the keyboard, imagining all the while I’m poking Mr. Rochester’s body with a fork.

  Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

  But deep inside, I know I’m not really furious with him. My anger is completely self-directed, and every time my masochistic mind replays memories of this morning’s shameful confrontation---

  I just hate myself more and more.

  He deleted the video, permanently!

  You have the contract in your bag to prove it!

  So why are you still wasting your time obsessing over him?

  A great question, I think darkly, but one I unfortunately have no idea how to answer. Everything’s Mr. Rochester has so far done is nothing like I’ve expected---

  He has a video of me that he can use as his leverage, but he ends up getting rid of it.

  He could have sued me for his injuries but he chooses to overlook it.

  He has the experience – the skills, for heaven’s sake, if tempting women could be considered one – to seduce me into making me believe all sorts of things, but instead he gives me the agonizing truth.

  What kind of man does that?

  A man like Mr. Rochester, an irritatingly know-it-all voice inside of me mocks, and it’s because he’s like no other that you want him.

  The jeering thought makes me bang harder on the keyboard---

  “Ms. Reed?” a meek voice interrupts my tantrum.

  I swing my seat around, snarling, “What?”

  The intern jumps, and I curse in my mind, knowing I’m in danger of being a real bitch. It’s one thing to take my frustration out on deserving targets like Virginia, but that I’d go on a rampage on innocent bystanders, too?

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “I’ve just a lot on my plate.”

  “O-of course, Ms. Reed.” The intern does her best to sound convincing but the terrified expression on her face is a dead giveaway.

  I force a smile, but when the girl looks even more terrified, I wipe the fake smile off my face. Lesson learned: when people are used to your resting-bitch face, it’s just better to stick to it.

  I clear my throat. “So what is it that you want?”

  “I j-just need you to sign these papers?”

  Since the intern sounds like she’s about to cry any second, I say right away, “Sure.” I take a look at the documents before scribbling my signature. When I’m done, I hand it back, asking, “Anything else you---”

  But the intern’s already run away.

  Right.

  I turn to face my laptop again, but I just can’t find the energy to start working again. Out of frustration, I take my iPhone out and log in to a private forum for secretaries and PAs. What I have to say isn’t something I want security to dig out for Mr. Rochester’s benefit.

  After clicking on a private message thread, I type, Anyone online?

  A reply comes in a moment later.

  Sara Crewe: Yo.

  Sara is one of my two closest friends from the forum. She works in New York and, in her life-changing quest to get rid of her “old-fashioned” traits, has taken to talking like her vocabulary primarily consists of hip-hop lyrics.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: What did you do now?

  TLPR, on the other hand, works from Beverly Hills and is a tough cookie on the outside, but a hopeless romantic on the inside. We practically know everything about each other but for the sake of our jobs, we’ve also chosen not to reveal our identities to each other or use any real names in our conversations.

  It’s a bit paranoid of us, but in this age of Wikileaks, you just can’t be too safe.

  Me: Thank God you guys are online. I’m so pissed. And @TLPR what do you mean what did I do?

  The Little Prince’s Rose: Because you’re always the troublemaker among the three of us.

  Sara Crewe: Preach.

  Me: Am not, and Sara can you please skip the teenage talk just this once? I’m in trouble.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: Like I said.

  Me: @TLPR shut up.

  Sara Crewe: Fine, just this once – and I mean it. If I don’t practice, I get rusty.

  Me: Seriously? You need to practice saying yo?

  Sara Crewe: Yes.

  Me: You’ve got issues, Sara. Real issues. We need to talk about it one day – but not now because I’m calling dibs on today.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: So what DID happen?

  Me: It’s like this.

  I feel my forehead creasing into a scowl as I type the rest of my story, leaving nothing out except for my name and Mr. Rochester’s. While I can never be this honest with anyone else, being quasi-anonymous has a rather liberating effect on me, making both Sara and TLPR privy to many of my innermost thoughts.

  Sara Crewe: Is it true though? Were you on the verge of you-know-what just by looking at his photo?

  Me: What’s you-know-what? And I’m just asking this because I’m your friend and I want to help you become a modern-day slut.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: HAHAHAHA

  Sara Crewe: Fine. MASTURBATING. Did your boss’ near-naked photo get you to masturbate? Happy now?

  Me: Hey! Don’t be mad. I just don’t want you to get rusty.

  Sara Crewe: You haven’t answered my question.

  Me: What do you think? Of course not!

  Sara Crewe: You’re lying.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: She’s lying.

  Me:
Am not.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: We know you, Jane Eyre. So stop jerking us around. What happened next?

  Me: Okay fine but for the record – I wasn’t about to masturbate myself last night.

  Sara Crewe: Still lying.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: Still lying.

  Me: Whatever. Anyway, he didn’t use it to blackmail me. Instead he deleted it, and he told me that he doesn’t need any leverage to make me do whatever he wants.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: Ooooh. This is getting interesting. Why did he say that?

  Me: He says it’s because I want him, and that’s all the power he needs.

  Sara Crewe: How cunning! And true!

  Me: And now I can’t concentrate on anything. I just keep thinking about it and I hate how it’s affecting me. He’s made me this nasty monster---

  Sara Crewe: But you’re always nasty.

  Me: I even ended up scaring away an intern for no reason.

  The Little Prince’s Rose: You scare people away all the time.

  Me: Are you guys on my side or his?

  The Little Prince’s Rose: Yours, which is why I need to ask. Why are you chatting with us again? You said you were in trouble but from where I’m sitting I think you’re just sexually frustrated.

  I sit up in shock at TLPR’s words.

  Sara Crewe: I’m going to have to agree.

  I want to bang my head against the desk.

  Sara Crewe: Jane? Are you still there?

  I close my eyes in despair. It can’t be. It can’t be that what they’re saying is true…and that Mr. Rochester is right. Is all my inner torment simply because…I can’t wait for him to fuck me?

  I make a dash for the reception counter as soon as the clock strikes six and I’m officially off duty. I’m determined to avoid Mr. Rochester at all costs until I get myself together and I’ve thought things through. Even knowing there’s more than a grain of truth in my friends’ words, I just can’t make myself completely accept it---

  I mean, come on.

  Am I really the kind of girl who would deliberately provoke a man so he’d notice her?

  It’s a rhetorical question but the know-it-all voice residing in my head doesn’t seem to care and answers quickly – and slyly.

  You’re the kind of girl who’s always been sexually passionate. You’re the kind of girl who’s always known that only a very special man can give you pleasure, and now that you’ve found him---