On Tuesday, I wore the black dress with the asymmetrical neckline as I marched into his office, carrying the test results from the lab. Macalister was already seated at his desk, watching coverage of the markets on the television mounted to the opposite wall, the sound barely audible. I flung the paper down in front of him.
“Clean bill of health,” I said pointedly.
He picked up the paper and scanned the results then cast it aside with indifference. I was a heartbeat away from letting loose a groan of frustration, but then he opened a folder and lifted the top sheet, thrusting it toward me.
“As you can see, the same for me as well.”
I took the paper and glanced at the text with surprise. Sure enough, his results were negative and the date at the top was from yesterday. “You went and got tested?”
“My doctor comes to me, but yes.” He finally set his full attention on me, and the gravity of it threatened to crush the world. “It’s important we both feel safe in the event things were to escalate between us again.”
I reached a hand behind me to grab on to the bookshelf and stabilize myself. What the fuck had he just implied? I wasn’t sure what kind of look I was giving him, but maybe it was confusion, because Macalister’s gaze swept slowly down my body, and as it slid back up, it was scorching hot, leaving no doubt what he’d meant.
In the aftermath of it, I was flushed and aching.
“Would you like to keep that?” He was amused.
Keep what?
His gaze went to the sheet of paper in my hand, his test results I’d accidentally crinkled in surprise. I dropped it to the desk and smoothed my hand over my hip, like I was wiping away the radioactivity of what his test results meant.
My voice was breathless. “No, thanks.”
“All right.” He motioned toward the table. “That came for you.”
Yet another white box. I bit my lip, excited to see what else he’d bought and also anxious about it. “Macalister, you can’t keep doing this.”
Oh, fuck that sexy jaw. When I tried to tell him what to do, it set, the muscle tightening and flexing. “Why is that?”
“Because people will start to ask questions, like my parents. They’ll wonder why my boss keeps giving me expensive gifts, and isn’t this, like, exactly the kind of rumor you’re trying to avoid?”
He rose from his chair, used the remote to mute the television behind me, and gave me a hard, evaluating look. My mouth went dry and my knees weak. Whatever he was considering, it was big, and . . . yeah. I was already into it.
“I won’t mince my words.” He leaned over the desk and set his hands on it, like a businessman entering serious negotiations. “I enjoy having a say over what you wear each day. This was the vehicle to do that with. If you don’t like it, I can suggest another.”
My heart galloped along, nearly coming out of my chest. “Okay.”
“You give me control.”
The word was like a flash grenade, a silent, beautiful explosion that was blinding. All I could do was stand still and experience it.
It took me forever to find the word. “How?”
“Once you’re dressed, you’ll send me a picture every morning for my approval.”
I swallowed a gulp of air. This command wasn’t sexual, and yet I reacted to it as if it were. A muscle deep between my legs clenched. There was something about the way he said the word approval. It was an arrow piercing my center, lodged inside me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to pull it back out.
He’d been the businessman, but his expression shifted into one of power and seduction. “Does that interest you?”
I knew agreeing to this was a gateway drug. I’d want more, even when it was wrong and bad for me, but it’d be too late. He was a pusher, and I’d become addicted, a junkie for Macalister’s dominance and control.
I knew all of it, and I still didn’t care. He’d asked if this interested me, and my body screamed its resounding consent.
I whispered it because there was so much meaning crowding to get out, I could barely squeeze the word along with it. “Yes.”
His shoulders lifted as he drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and expanding his already broad chest. Was this how he looked after closing a billion-dollar merger? Like he’d finished conquering the world?
Macalister pushed off the desk and made his steady, methodical approach, and he seemed ten fucking feet tall as he closed in. He came to stand just inches away from me, far too close to be considered professional. His intoxicating cologne was faintly noticeable, and his warm breath wafted down across the skin my neckline bared.