“Do it, or I call the cops.”
“Sir, I—”
This cannot be happening. This is a dream, some kind of surreal nightmare.
“You have five seconds. Take off that fucking jacket, or we’re done here.”
Numb, her fingers worked at the buttons, the jacket falling to the floor. The quick beat of her heart thumped loud in her ears.
His hands took hold of her blouse, and automatically she grasped his forearms, pushing at him. “What are you doing?”
“Hands at your sides, Ms. Hart.” His perfect smile flashed, the strong, white canines gleaming. “You’re doing whatever the fuck you’re told to do from here on out. It’s that or prison. Your choice.”
With a frustrated little sound, she dropped her hands, feeling the pulse pounding at her throat.
Buttons flew in all directions as he ripped the blouse open. He yanked down on each side, exposing her further, and she cried out.
His glittering gaze dropped to the white lace of her bra, her breasts heaving as she sucked in a great breath. She’d gained a couple more pounds since the divorce, the bra now not quite up to the task of containing her breasts.
“You can’t—”
“Oh yes, I can, Ms. Hart.”
Yanking the torn blouse from the clutch of her skirt, he ripped it down each arm in turn, pulling it from her and tossing it on his desk. He pointed down.
“Pull the skirt up and hold it at your waist.”
“Wh— Right here?”
“Right here. And I’d better hear some respect in your tone, Ms. Hart. I might think better of this and call the whole thing off.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, dropping her gaze.
“I’m waiting.”
She pulled her skirt up, clutching it in her fists at her hips, her cheeks heating.
“At least those panties match the bra.”
“Why are you doing this?” She cleared her throat, her voice breaking. “Sir.”
“Because I want to see if you’ll do as you’re told.”
Will walked back to his chair and sat down once more, his legs extended, feet crossed. His ease galled her almost as much as her exposure.
“Drop that skirt, pick up your jacket and leave.”
“What about…my blouse?”
“What about it, Ms. Hart? You’ve got your jacket.”
Another tear rolled down her cheek as she smoothed her skirt down her thighs, stooping to snatch up her jacket. She buttoned it up quickly, then looked up at her tormentor.
“It’s—it’s showing too much. I can’t leave here like this, sir.”
The jacket was low cut, intended to be worn with a blouse or sweater. Her jiggling cleavage was entirely exposed, the bra itself barely hidden by the open neckline.
You look like a whore, Alyson.