Chapter One
I am being used.
One moment, I am at my desk, working on a case. The next, I am bent over, my papers scattered as a thick rod plunges in and out of me. One moment, I am filing papers. The next, I am pushed back against the filing cabinet, leg hitched up around his arm, panties pushed to the side, the doctor’s flesh sliding deep inside me.
This is all perfectly legal, and entirely in keeping with the stated goals of our workplace.
I never know when it is going to happen, or even how it is going to happen. I slip in and out of awareness, never losing consciousness, but never truly knowing what is happening.
It’s wrong.
It’s perfect.
It’s all happening because of him.
I’ve been given to him as a subject to be tested. A patient whose willingness quickly became irrelevant when her usefulness became apparent.
This man is as seductive as he is dangerous.
I look up at his face, and every reward center in my brain fires all at once. A chemical wave courses through the soft tissues of my flesh, creating wetness and swelling he will take ample advantage of.
Dark, glossy, curling hair, thick brows framing brilliant blue eyes. A jaw so broad and chiseled, Michelangelo would have lost his mind if he’d seen it.
He is handsome—the kind of handsome you only get with good aristocratic breeding where generations of very bad men pick very pretty women. He is refined, yet vicious; carnal, yet conversational.
He brushes a stray hair out of my eyes and pushes his cock into my mouth. I suckle on it, tasting the first hints of his seed, knowing that this is my place with a certainty most people never get to feel about anything.
“You are such a good girl. Such a perfect subject,” he praises me. “But today we’re not just pleasuring ourselves. This isn’t for fun, is it? It’s for science.”
I am an experiment.
Not a woman. Not a lover. I am a laboratory animal being monitored every step of the way. He knows my blood pressure, the dilation of my pupils, he is aware of the levels of all the most important minerals in my blood. The intimacy he demands of me goes beyond the skin, to the cellular level.
I have no choice in it.
I thought I did, once.
I thought I was a strong, independent woman capable of looking after herself. Above concepts like submission. This man, this doctor, has proved everything I thought I knew about myself entirely wrong.
He has shown me that more than anything, I am hunger. I am desire. I am a biological creature demanding release, orgasmic rewards that are meticulously charted through the implants that sit under my skin, sending their readings back to his machines whenever I become in any way aroused.
When I look at myself in the mirror, the old me barely exists anymore. In her place is a creature of pure need, enslaved and freed by the same man.
The day I met him seemed like an ordinary day.
It was the last day of life as I had previously known it.
[divider]Chapter Two
Kennedy
Earlier…
I check myself over in the mirror. Can’t have a hair out of place. Got to make a good impression. My naturally dirty blonde hair is mid-length. Wearing it down is something of a double-edged sword. If you’re going to have your hair down, it has to be perfect.
Fortunately, it is.
I’m wearing a blue blazer with a light blue blouse. Maybe they bring out the color in my eyes. Maybe they’re strategic.
My lip gloss is matte, and just pigmented enough to make men think I’m not wearing any.
The same esthetic goes for the rest of my look. Enough concealer. Enough mascara. Enough. Enough. But never too much.
My ID badge is clipped to the top left pocket of my blazer. There’s nothing reproachable about me. I’m doing everything to the letter because there is absolutely nothing more important to me than my future at this job. Even calling it a job feels disrespectful. This is a career, a calling.
I’m a junior agent at a private security firm simply called The Company. I’ve worked here for nine months, and was hand-picked from my graduating class at a school that’s not quite Ivy League. I’m twenty-two years old and exceptionally driven and proud of myself.
I got where I’ve gotten all on my own. No family support. I worked. I got scholarships. I put myself through school, and now I am putting my all into my job. I bought a house not that long ago. It’s small, but it’s mine.
Life is going well, and it’s going well because I’m working for every damn thing I get.
Today is an important day.
Because every day is an important day.
“Kennedy!” My best work friend comes bursting through the bathroom door.
“Did you meet James Bond yet?” Lyssa giggles. She’s the same age as me, but sometimes it feels like we’re years apart.
“No.”
There’s a new guy at work. I haven’t met him yet, and I already don’t like him.
He’s ex-military. Not the usual US military I’ve gotten used to having occasionally swagger their way through these halls. He’s British ex-military, now in private intelligence.
He’s also a doctor.
A hot British doctor so attractive that from what I can gather in the gossip mill, every woman in this building spontaneously ovulates when he walks into a room.
His energy has changed the place already. I don’t like that one bit. There’s an excitement and a nervousness about many of the agents. We’re supposed to be calm and balanced. Like dogs who have been well bred and successfully trained. Not an analogy the HR department enjoys, but it is accurate.
Lyssa is practically bouncing as she fixes her hair and makeup. She hasn’t met him either yet, obviously. She’s excited about the prospect.
I am too, I suppose.
Apparently he’s going to revolutionize spying. People say that all the time, but for some reason others are buying in this time. The last time the intelligence community was this excited for anything, it was the Cold War, and the CIA was making rectal tool kits. This guy is the best thing since butt picks, apparently.
“I can’t wait to see his presentation. It starts in twenty minutes,” Lyssa says.
“I’m going to get coffee and a donut.”
I like sugar. Sugar and caffeine are the two most steadfast friends I have.
“There’re no donuts today. They didn’t want us to have powdered sugar all over ourselves.”
We bring down governments, but we can’t be trusted with confections. Make it make sense.
I am practically dragged to the briefing room by Lyssa. We’re early. Very early. But the room is already full. A bunch of donut-less private spies sitting up in their chairs with pricked ears, awaiting the arrival of a VIP.
To be fair, it’s not hard to fill this room. There’s me, Lyssa, my boss, Mr. Brown, a couple of dudes I don’t recognize who look like they are in offensive field ops. The Company is a multinational organization, with thousands of operatives. I know that my being in this room is quite a coup. I think it’s interesting that Lyssa and the others are here. We’re all what I would call low-level personnel.
That means we’ve been picked for something.
The briefing room has been designed with important things in mind. To this end, the seating is arranged in a semi-circle and is elevated looking down on the speaker’s platform in the middle.
Most people are made to look diminutive by this arrangement,
But when our honored guest takes his place, there’s no such effect. Dr. Tristan Mountford manages to tower in the middle of us all by merit of his height and breadth. I didn’t think they made them that big in England. He’s got to be over six foot four. I imagine he can tell me to the millimeter if I ask him, and probably even if I don’t.
Lyssa takes a deep, admiring breath as he enters the room. “Wow,” she says softly. “Look at him.”
I am looking. Everybody is.
“He’s almost old enough to be our father,” I point out.
“Mmm, yes, Daddy,” she grins back at me. I roll my eyes at her, which does nothing to stop her excitement.
He’s movie star good looking, and he has a magnetic presence, a dimpled smile that he graces us all with for a brief moment before becoming serious.
I remind myself that he’s a glorified marketing rep. I’m sure he has some legitimate military cred, but the fact that he’s tall and handsome is a big part of the reason he was hired to come here.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in the accent that makes half of us swoon, and half of us bristle because we still remember what the war of independence was fought for.
“The difficulty in performing deep espionage is no matter how deep your cover, or how excellent your ability to sink into character, you are still plagued by the memories of the life you lived in what you inevitably consider your real life. Of course, the life you are living under cover is real. Real enough to get you killed.”
I glance around. People are listening. If you talk about getting killed, they tend to perk up.
“We now have a new tool in the fight against breaking cover.” He lifts up a little vial filled with a blood-red liquid. “This is serum, and this makes your cover impenetrable.”
I feel skeptical. There’s just something a little too Home Shopping Network about this presentation. We’re being sold on something. Which means they want us to buy in. Which means this is dubious somehow.
I love this job, and I want to work for The Company my whole life. But I don’t want to be stupid about it, either. There’s plenty of shady stuff that goes down here. I’ve seen some of it with my own eyes. I figure a long work life is about playing the angles and knowing your limits.
There is a point at which I’ll walk away. You can’t fully commit to something unless you also know what your breaking point is. Mine is when this job changes me into someone I don’t recognize. I’ve worked hard to become who I am.
“How does it make cover impenetrable, sir?” Lyssa pipes up, nice and accommodating.
“The actual chemical action is, of course, top secret. But a simple, layman’s way of putting it is to say that taking the serum creates a distinct and separate hard drive of sorts to be created inside the mind. It layers on top of your everyday consciousness, but does not reference it. You retain knowledge of the world at large, but your sense of self is entirely separate.”
I recoil at the explanation. He’s talking about mind control. He’s describing brainwashing. MK Ultra sort of stuff. Probably more sophisticated, but I’m looking at who is in this room. Lyssa and I are juniors. We barely get into the field. The only reason I already did was a staffing issue. And the boys? They look about the same age and greenness as us.
This is experimental, and nobody wants to say it.
“So you want to wash our brains?” One of the guys speaks up. I’m grateful to him for it.
“Not brainwashing. There’s a reversing agent.” The doctor holds up a blue vial. “You take this and return to your normal state of mind. Whatever happened in what we call the ‘serum state’ remains there, nonexistent until you take the serum again.”
We exchange looks. Lyssa is starting to look uncertain. The guys are harder to read. All of us are smart. All of us are trying to work out the ramifications of this as quickly as we can.
“You’ll be assigned a handler. That handler will be aware of what happens to your serum self. You’ll debrief with them after each and every mission. But you won’t have to take your work home with you. And, when you’re undercover, there’s no chance of making any one of myriad mistakes that comes with being one person pretending to be another. It also makes you entirely interrogation proof.”
“How long does it work for? Could it run out, mid-mission?”
“The serum is in effect until the antidote is taken. A person can remain in the serum state for days, weeks, or even months at a time.”
“So we could lose years of our lives,” I mutter to myself. “Sounds awesome.”
This is some bullshit. There’s no way anybody is going to take this. We’ve been training to be able to infiltrate pretty much any part of the world. We learn languages, mannerisms, entire life stories. Each and every one of us is a well-programmed human computer—but it’s not just about data. People aren’t just information.
“The four of you have been selected to be part of the initial trial,” he says, in the same tone as an announcer might inform you that you’ve won the lottery.
I don’t trust a word that is coming out of his mouth. It only gets worse when Mr. Brown stands up. Mr. Brown is middle-aged, with thinning hair and a most dangerous intellect. He oversees all the new agents, and he rules us with an iron fist. There’s not a newbie who doesn’t look forward to graduating from his department.
He turns and looks at us.
“Graham and Barnes, you can report to the med lab. Your handlers will meet you there. Tillman, Bowers, you two report after lunch. Understood?”
There’s a general nodding and shuffling as everybody accepts their fate without question and starts filing out of the room. I hang back. As soon as Mr. Brown sees that, he sighs. He and I have butted heads more than once.
Part of the reason I am so particular about my appearance is because I know I’m on thin ice. The one mission I went on didn’t go the way it was supposed to. Wasn’t my fault, but he doesn’t like that I saw what I saw. I’m not surprised they’re signing me up for the brainwash trial.
“What is it, Agent Bowers?”
“This trial. I’m afraid I’m going to have to refuse the opportunity.”
His expression barely shifts as I tell him no. Either he expected it, or he doesn’t care. The doctor is putting his little serum vials away in a black box, acting as though he’s not listening to our conversation.
“May I ask why?” Mr. Brown inquires.
I try to frame my response in a tactful way. “I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t consume anything with red dye number five in it. I will not be taking some experimental treatment from a British laboratory, thank you, sir.”
That was not that tactful. It’s really not my forte, especially at work.
I see the doctor smirk handsomely behind Mr. Brown’s head. If he is offended, he doesn’t look it.
“You can talk to the doctor,” he says. “He’s going to be your handler.”
I try to pretend that information doesn’t tempt me. Mr. Brown turns to the side, and I am faced with the very tall, very handsome doctor.
“It’s a pity we won’t be able to work together,” he says. “I was rather looking forward to it.”
I try not to flush with excitement. Someone this appealing speaking to me with this much interest is very flattering. My body is performing chemical contortions under his attention. It’s embarrassing, actually.
“Were you?”
“Yes,” he says, dark blue eyes flashing with deep charisma. “I hand-picked you from the available candidates. This is our first foray into the American security market, and I think you have the capacity to be a poster child for serum.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re a young, upcoming, excellent agent who is already being tasked with advanced field work. You’re intelligent, willing, brave. You sometimes don’t follow orders to the letter, now being a case in point.”
If he knew about the absolute shit show in Botswana, he wouldn’t praise me about that. And frankly, it sounds like the fact that I don’t always follow orders to the letter is one of the things they’re planning on fixing with this serum.
“I believe an agent in full possession of their faculties is better than an agent who has been chemically altered,” I say.
He gives me a look that I don’t know how to read exactly, a fact I find most disturbing as my life depends on being able to read people.
[divider]
Tristan
Kennedy Bowers is twenty-two years old, extremely pretty and even more driven. I can see why she has been running into trouble with her superiors. I can also see why her superiors wish to make her more useful and less argumentative. She’s the sort of person who can do her job better than agents with many years more experience than her. An asset, in other words, who, with a little tweaking, could be one of the most effective operatives The Company has.
She is, without a doubt, the perfect candidate for the serum.
Unfortunately, she does not agree with that sentiment. We’ve met some resistance in our time, but most people stop with a polite no. Kennedy is, of course, American.
“I will personally handle everything. You will be in my care the entire time.”
I watch several expressions chasing over her face, and I am well aware that Mr. Brown is watching us to see how I handle this agent. The other three are largely irrelevant to this project. It is all about Agent Kennedy Bowers.
For a moment, I see that she wants to give in. Wants to see what it is like to be handled by me. I am aware that women find me attractive, but Kennedy is not swooning. She is keeping herself in check, in terms of her desire, at least.
She substitutes sass for swooning.
“You mean I’ll be unaware of who I am, and you’ll be in total control of me? No, thank you. I like my brain. I spent a lot of time putting the things I want in it, and I don’t intend on being brainwashed for your little experiment. Don’t you people usually test these things on criminals?”
“The serum does indeed have serious potential in rehabilitating those who have criminal patterns.”
“Hey, it’s got potential for wiping out the brains and thoughts of anybody who is inconvenient for any reason.”
“That would be unethical.”
“Welcome to Earth, buddy. Things like this always end up being used unethically. It’s a no from me.”
It’s interesting. She is doing everything she can to appear very professional in her general appearance, and I know that she is good at her job. But she has a temper, and she has a tongue, too. That has to be a challenge to keep under wraps when she is in the field.
Mr. Brown raises both his brows and shakes his head, disappointed in her and likely, in me. He had hoped this would be a simple fix. He was not counting on her being this resistant. Most of the agents I’ve met so far have been suitably awed.
“Kennedy, we need you to take this serum,” he says. “It’s not an option.”
She shoots us both a resentful look. I am sensing rather deep-seated issues with authority.
“You’re fortunate to be chosen for this,” Mr. Brown tells her. “You’ve got the White Wolf mission coming up, and this could make all the difference.”
“So I’m not being given a choice?”
Mr. Brown takes a deep breath. “You could quit.”
This is the point at which I intervene. This has escalated quickly.
“I’m not comfortable with someone not having a choice, sir…”
Mr. Brown rounds on me, his irritation clear.
“Fortunately, it doesn’t matter what you’re comfortable with. You’re here to administrate the experience, not make decisions. You’ll handle Agent Bowers, not me. Am I clear?”
“Consent is paramount,” I insist. “The serum process is quite invasive. If we don’t have a subject give permission, then it is entirely immoral.”
“Are you a priest?”
“No.”
“Then don’t talk to me about morals. Talk to me about results.”
With that, he leaves the briefing room. Kennedy and I are left looking at one another.
“I’m sorry that went so poorly,” I say. “I know you have concerns around the procedure. They’re natural. This is an entirely new substance, and you are unfamiliar with it. You need to understand what’s happening, and more important, trust me.”
[divider]
Kennedy
I’m impressed. He spoke to Mr. Brown like Mr. Brown wasn’t shit. Most people find him very intimidating. I don’t think Dr. Mountford has ever found anybody intimidating.
“Nobody stands up to him,” I say.
“I can tell.”
He smiles and some of the resistance in me breaks.
I know Mr. Brown wasn’t kidding. I either agree to this experiment, or I quit my job. It’s not fair, but life isn’t fair. I learned that lesson hard and early.
If I don’t do what he wants, and if I don’t take the serum, I’m going to be fired. I hate it. Makes me want to quit—and I don’t want to quit. Fuck.
“Why don’t you take a break,” he says. “Think about it a little. Consider your options.”
My options, as I see them, are to either take this drug or not.
Fuck it. I signed up for more than taking drugs occasionally. I signed up to be a private spy so I could do things nobody else could do, know things nobody else could know, and have experiences that I’d never get in a normal life. Maybe the serum trial is part of it.
Maybe I just need to say yes more.
I should write a book on gaslighting yourself for fun, profit, and career progression.
“Okay,” I say, agreeing to the thing I very much know I absolutely do not want to do. “Fine.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t like this, but I do like my job. I want to keep it. There’s nowhere else I’d get to do this sort of work. So give me the stupid serum.”
The doctor shakes his head, smiling to himself.
“It’s not that simple, and I don’t just give it to you. Once you take it, you’re going to be in an exceptionally receptive state. It’s best if you go in with a calm and settled state of mind. You don’t want to fight the serum.”
“What do you mean, fight the serum?”
“Have you ever given a horse sedation?”
“No, cowboy, have you?”
“Horse sedative is dosed by weight, and if a horse is relaxed when they’re sedated, they get nice and calm. But if they’re upset, or stressed when they’re sedated, then they fight it and it doesn’t work as well. It’s the same with the serum. We don’t want fracturing.”
“What the hell is fracturing?”
“It’s a technical term, not a physical one. I’m just saying, it’s best to be relaxed.”
“Sure. I’ve got to relax, or you might fracture my brain. Fuck. I should quit.”
“I can assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”
“Who did you test it on?”
“A number of subjects. We’ve been using this over in England for months.”
My outrage flowers again. Are they fucking kidding? I’m supposed to submit to this basically untested…
“Months. Wow. Sounds like I have nothing to worry about. An experimental drug that can cause brain damage if you’re in the wrong mood. Mister, I’m always in the wrong mood.”
“Doctor,” he corrects me with a sexy grin. “And don’t worry, it’s not about mood. You just need to be in a state of mind that allows the serum to work. You don’t have to be happy; you just have to be willing.”
Don’t have to be happy, just have to be willing. The motto of mediocre men who want women to do their bidding everywhere.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he continues. “In addition to some combat experience, I am a trained medical doctor. I will be taking entire and excellent care of you.”
I am sure if this Henry Cavill lookalike said the same thing to anyone else, they’d do anything for him. He has an air of quiet confidence and a certain charm that the British are known for. A blend of inward reservedness and outer warmth. He’d make a good spy.
Unfortunately for him, I am a spy. And I don’t fall for this shit.
“I don’t need taking care of,” I tell him. “I am very capable on my own.”
“I am sure you are,” he says in that tone men use when they don’t really believe a woman doesn’t need them—or at least, don’t care if that is the case. There’s an edge of condescension, like he’s talking to a two-year-old who just told him she’s a train.
Fuck me.
I tried to give in.
I really tried.
I tried to do what they wanted. I said okay.
I tried to be good.
And of course, like always, all that meant was there being more hoops. More requirements. It’s not enough to just agree to the serum, I have to also buy into the serum. I have to want the serum.
It’s never going to end. And I’m not going to make it. I can feel the career I wanted so badly slipping away from me, because no matter how much I want to do the actual work, I don’t want to play the stupid fucking games.
This is ironic, because spying is all fucking games—but they’re different. Keeping yourself alive undercover is different than submitting to the hundreds of humiliations that come with working for a company like this one.
Anger flashes through me.
No. Anger’s the wrong word. It’s closer to rage.
The two vials are still sitting in the black foam outline of the case in front of me. Before I know what I’m doing—and therefore, certainly before he knows what I’m doing—I snatch the red one up and I smash it on the floor.
The sound it makes is so satisfying, a tinkling of broken glass and a small cascade of liquid.
I know instantly that I shouldn’t have done that. It came across as erratic and spoiled.
“Oops,” I say, instantly making it possibly worse by sounding like I’m more in control than I am.
Either I’m a psycho who breaks shit when she’s freaked out, or I’m a psycho who breaks things because she’s making a point. He’s definitely going to report me to Mr. Brown over this.
I wait for him to give me some kind of lecture, or maybe just storm out to get my boss.
Neither of those things happen.
“Very dramatic,” he says with a slight sigh, taking me by the arm.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You just touched my things,” he says, locking the briefing room door from the inside. These things are soundproofed in case we want to do terrible things to someone.
He sits down on the presenter’s chair and proceeds to tip me over his lap.
For a brief moment, I am absolutely shocked. But I am a spy, and I have to be quick about some things. Freezing is not an option. I assess the threat. Lying over a devastatingly handsome doctor’s lap isn’t life threatening. It’s just… not what I expected to have happen.
“You are many things,” he says. “You are smart, you are effective, and you are clearly a handful. But throwing tantrums won’t work with me, Agent Bowers, best you learn that now.”
With that, he spanks me, his hard palm making sharp contact with my tender ass.
“What the fuck!” I gasp and then find myself laughing.
A spanking? Is he insane? Smacking my butt like I’m some naughty girl?
He repeats it several times, smacking my cheeks through my very professional skirt. Every time, I laugh. Yeah, it hurts, but I’ve always had a somewhat weird relationship to pain, and my reaction to shock and hurt is to giggle anyway. I’m a fucking menace at a funeral—well, I used to be, before I learned to cover up my feelings and give people what they need to see.
“What’s this supposed to do?”
[divider]
Tristan
This little American brat needs more than being put over my knee. She needs to be taught a real lesson in submission. She can’t imagine it now, but sooner rather than later, she will be hanging on my every word, obeying me with all her might. She’ll beg to serve me, and she’ll love every moment of it.
Her ass is soft under my hand, a perfectly curvy, ever so feminine gem. Every time I make sharp contact, there’s a satisfying jiggle.
“I don’t tolerate spoiled subjects,” I explain. “What you and I are going to do requires trust and obedience.”
“Then I’m the wrong person, because I don’t trust you, and I will never obey you. Whoever told you that I would be a good candidate was fucking with you. Setting you up to fail.”
I smack her ass again. I notice that there’s a distinct lack of outrage at this treatment. She emits another giggle, an excited sound. And I note that her rear lifts up to meet my hand, just slightly.
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I think you’re very suited to this kind of treatment. Most women, finding themselves in this position, would panic, or shout, or…”
“I’m a fucking spy,” she curses at me. “I’m not going to give you the reaction you want. I’m in control of my impulses.”
Now that’s rich. She’s not in control of her impulses at all. She’s got a hell of a temper on her, that’s very apparent. That’s another thing the serum will handle. A lot of the time, the serum self is a lot calmer than the everyday self. It has less to prove, and the neurotransmitter levels it experiences are closer to ideal thanks to the serum’s mechanism of action.
“Is that right?” I tease her gently. “Are you in control of all your impulses?”
I deliver a barrage of slaps to her sassy ass, making sure to catch underneath the curve of her cheeks each time. I note that there’s a definite response from her that she is not controlling. Short breaths, elevation of the hips, and most damning for her… a spreading of her thighs.
She’s not panicking because she’s a super spy. She’s reacting this way because she likes a good spanking, whether she knows it or not.
It isn’t uncommon for people who enjoy rough treatment to go into these lines of work. If you want to be hurt on some level, seeking out pain makes sense. We see it in Marines and Special Forces soldiers all the time. Masochism and submission are not weaknesses in my world. They are tools, finely honed and used with surgical precision.
This test tells me everything I need to know about my rebellious little subject. She’s a perfect candidate for the serum.
[divider]
Kennedy
I’m fucking wet. I don’t want to be. It’s a physiological reaction that I can’t help. He stimulated my ass, increased blood flow to the genital region and as a result, I am aroused.
It’s a very inconvenient time to discover that I like being spanked. I can’t fight back all these responses. I know my pupils are dilated. I know my skin is flushed all the way down my neck. I know that there’s a part of me that wants him to reach up under my skirt and…
That might actually be the only way out of this. If I fuck him, they’ve got to fire me. It would be so unprofessional. We’d never be able to work together.
I’m not usually this sort of girl. But that’s what every girl who wants to fuck a handsome stranger tells herself. Truth is all people are capable of almost anything at almost any time.
He lets me up but keeps one of his hands wrapped around one of my wrists. I stare him down. I don’t know what he was trying to achieve with that display of physical domination, but it won’t work. I won’t let it.
“You’re not in control of your impulses, and you’re not in control of your temper. You’re certainly not in control of what’s happening between your legs. What you are is a reckless actor.”
I don’t like that assessment at all.
“And you’re an arrogant English asshat who thinks just because he’s passably attractive and has an accent that makes American women freak out, and American men think he must be intelligent, that you can do what you want in this world. Well, buddy, there are some people who see through your little facade. You’re a pill peddler. A drug rep. You’re doing the same job they give to cute chem undergrads.”
He lets my wrist go. I take a step back.
He takes a step forward. I take a step back.
He takes another step forward. This time, my back hits the wall where presentation slides get projected. He smirks as I realize I have nowhere to go, and without taking his eyes from mine for even a single second, he hikes my skirt and runs his fingers lightly along the gusset of my underwear.
It’s a bold move, one that makes me draw my breath in between my teeth in a long hiss.
“How dare you.”
“You’re dripping for me.”
“So?”
“When was the last time you had sex, Agent Bowers?”
“None of your business,” I grit out.
He doesn’t need to know that it has been the better part of three years. And he definitely doesn’t need to know that it was with the man who gave me a reason to truly hate men.
I wish I wasn’t reacting to him this way. I wish I wasn’t flushed and…
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Fuck you.”
He smiles in that devastatingly handsome way. “Fuck you isn’t stop, is it, Agent Bowers?”
I want him to keep going, and he knows it, and as much as I’d like to push him away now my body craves his touch. It has been too long.
I have self-control. Usually I have so much of it I can’t even let a man touch me. But this one pushed past that boundary and now he’s on the inside of a wall I didn’t know I had.
This man wants to control me. Wants to be inside me. This man wants to fucking wear me in some way. When I look in his eyes, I see someone capable of controlling the most dangerous people and situations.
He has a military background, Special Forces, and a medical degree. That’s impressive. He is impressive, and goddammit, I am impressed.
“How many times have you done this before? Gone into a facility and started seducing the staff?”
“This isn’t seduction, Agent Bowers.” He lifts his hand and brushes some hair out of my face. My hair is never messy. He made it messy. He made me messy.
“What is it?”
“This is a much-needed correction.”
There is so much fucking electricity between us. This is more powerful than chemistry. This is physics. Rougher. Harsher. Impossible to resist.
“You’ve got no right to do this…”
“Keep it up, and I’ll make you beg,” he grins.
Oh, he is good. Perfectly well aware of what effect he is having on me, and willing to toy with me. There are agents who specialize in manipulating people into loving them. He’s not one, but he could be.
There are moments in the sanest, most well-behaved, strait-laced woman’s life when she lets loose. We both know this is going to be one of them.
“So let’s give that pussy what she wants, shall we?”
He cocks his head to the side, presumably waiting for a no. He doesn’t get one.
He pushes my panties to the side, and the next thing I feel is the hot, hard line of his cock pressing against my pussy. There is no foreplay, no preamble. That’s because foreplay is for getting a woman ready for sex. The arguing and the spanking, that was our foreplay.
He thrusts inside me, claiming me, going deep. I gasp as I feel my inner walls spread wide for him, my body willingly submitting to this spontaneous sexual encounter as if I have known him for years and can trust him implicitly.
I’ve never slept with a man I just met. I’ve never slept with a colleague. If I hadn’t quit, I’d be fired for sure, but I don’t care because as much as I’m pretty sure I hate this man and literally everything he stands for, the way my body reacts to him is intense.
Can you hate-fuck someone you just met? Turns out the answer is yes.
Every rough thrust makes my entire body feel as though it is melting in the best of ways. My hands go to his shoulders to brace myself, and when he picks me up by the hips, my legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
He pushes forward, pinning me in place against the wall, and he fucks me with what I can only describe as calculated passion. He’s not unnecessarily rough. He’s powerful and controlled. His eyes burn into mine, blue on blue as thrust after thrust, his bare cock spreads me open and claims me.
The notion of not doing what he wants, not being what he wants just feels impossible. Everything in me is melting. My mind is going blank with pleasure. All I know right now is that this man is making me feel fundamentally good in a way no other man has ever made me feel good.
I am going to come. I am going to fucking orgasm against this wall, wrapped around his massive, surging… everything. I can’t help it. I am finally understanding what a biological imperative truly is. It’s not something you think would be fun to do, or something that would be good to do; it’s something your body and primal brain fucking force you to do whether it’s good or not.
Right now, that means contorting, contracting, and coming on this man’s cock so intensely that he covers my mouth with his hand to stop my cries from echoing out of this soundproof room.
I look into his eyes as I feel those intense shivers still running through me. He pulls out, lowers me to the floor. Did he come? Wait. Did he not even fucking come? Does this man have the self-control to fuck someone and let her orgasm and not even finish himself? I wouldn’t have said that was biologically possible.
But now that I think about it, it’s just that men never want to not finish. They follow their instincts. This one is demonstrating considerable control over his as he zips his pants up again, the bulge remaining until he covers it with his coat.
Fuck. Me. He’s got to be suffering.
If he is, he doesn’t show it.
He gives me that flashy smile and smooths my hair down for me. The back of it must be all messed up from rubbing repeatedly against the wall.
He pats my ass too, a gentle, almost kind gesture.
“Go get cleaned up,” he says. “I’ll see you after lunch.”
I unlock the door and flee the room like it contains a decaying isotope. What the fuck. What the actual hell did I just do? Of all the unprofessional, loose, slutty things to have engaged in at work…
I can’t believe myself.
I flee to the bathroom, feeling as though shame and sex must be written all over my face.
When I get there and look at myself, it’s not as bad as I think. Yes, my face is flushed, but only to the extent that it makes me look a little prettier. He did a good job of fixing my hair for me too. In a few minutes, he took me apart and put me back together.
See you after lunch… his words ring in my ears.
“No, you won’t,” I mutter at my reflection.
I can’t believe I’ve done this. It’s completely unprofessional to sleep with the jumped-up equivalent of a drug rep the first time I meet him. And to do it at work? In the briefing room? While The Company tries to get me to take this fucking serum shit?
Shame is making me angry.
I started this day not an hour ago, absolutely determined to work at The Company for as long as they’d let me. I had no idea what was coming, how my will and even my sense of self would be broken within that hour.
The doctor must think I’m so easy. He must think I was selected because I spread my legs for every man in this place.
I look at myself with more than a little loathing. I just gave myself up like I was nothing, like my body was his to use. I don’t understand why. Yes, he’s handsome, but he’s not that handsome. Nobody is.
It’s like I somehow already took some kind of mind-altering substance—though I know that’s a cop-out. I made these choices in my right mind. I’m not as professional, contained, or controlled as I’d like to imagine I am. That’s my problem.
The more I think about this, the more it makes me angry. There’s nothing about this situation that feels legit. It’s some shady corporate crap, and I don’t want any part of it.
I was so ready to devote myself to this place. It didn’t matter what they did. Didn’t matter when they sent me to the other side of the world to witness my first corporate clusterfuck. Didn’t matter when they refused to allow leave for my grandmother’s funeral because it was a commercially sensitive time. But this mindfuck stuff is too much. It’s not enough to try to control us from the outside in. Now they want to control us from the inside out.
I look at myself in the mirror and I know that I am not strong enough for this. If I stay here, in this building an hour or two longer, I am going to end up taking that serum, and then I won’t know what shit I’ll do for them.
I take my righteous shame and I storm to Mr. Brown’s office.
He’s sitting in his chair, pretending not to be playing Solitaire on the computer, but I can see the reflection in the eyeglasses he puts on for reading.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I am sure you are going to enlighten me,” he says, unperturbed.
“You’re like the doctor. You have a military background,” I say. “You’re used to people who can’t say no because the government owns their asses. You say jump, they throw themselves off the nearest building. I’m not a soldier. I’m a private contractor. Every day I come here, I chose to come here. I didn’t sign my life away to the government. And that means I can do this…”
I pick up a yellow note pad, scribble two words on it, pull it off, and stick it right in the middle of his desk. It reads:
I Quit.
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