Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
"Are you even listening to me?" she grumbles, her blue eyes narrowed like I'm pissing her off again. It's not a surprise. I've managed to piss her off every damn day since she waltzed her curvy ass through the door and turned my office upside down.
I'm used to pissing my cousins off. Keeping them on task is like trying to herd feral cats. They all mean well, but they do what they want and let someone else figure out the mechanics. A business can't work that way, so I make it work.
They bitch about it, but they know they can't do what I do, either. I'm not saying they aren't capable. They are. But Jax prefers working the fields. Haven would rather work in the winery. Trystan is focused on the restaurant. Oliver and Gabe prefer spending their time crafting the wine. Jareth is currently in Tennessee, and Ridley only just got home after years of managing the vineyard in Italy. Everyone else has their own little thing they'd rather be doing, and dealing with the everyday minutiae of running the business isn't it.
They need someone pissing them off to get shit done, or they find nine reasons to do something else instead.
Constance is different. Smart. Motivated. Dedicated. Driven.
She's fucking fascinating.
"Bastian!"
"What?" I growl, resisting the urge to squeeze my cock through my pants. If Constance doesn't stab me with the very-pointy heel of her fuck-me shoe for doing it, Haven absolutely will when she finds out. My cousin is already threatening to maim me if Constance quits.
I guess they've become good friends.
"Did you hear anything I said?"
"I heard everything." I've never missed a word from her lips.
"Oh, really?" She arches a brow, her expression all cool disbelief and boiling frustration. "Then what did I say?"
"Engagement with our content is up six percentage points across apps, but we need to reevaluate advertising assets as our CPC is on the rise," I recite. "You'd like to see it inch back down, particularly on lead generation advertisements. And then you launched into a rant about one of the apps changing all of their targeted reach options yet again."
"Fine, so you were listening," she says, her tone begrudging. "But you do realize that conversations require participation, right? Otherwise, it's just me giving a monologue, and I did enough of that in college. I'd rather not repeat the experience because you're in your feelings about not being able to browbeat that wrinkle out of your tie this morning."
"Browbeat the wrinkle out of my tie?" I quirk a brow at her.
She just shrugs. "Seems like something you'd get off on."
"You have no idea what I get off on, Constance."
"I can guess," she sniffs, rolling her eyes at me. "I've worked under you for three months. I've learned plenty."
I should not entertain this conversation. I need to shut it down. But…curiosity is a motherfucker, and I'm dying to know what she thinks I'm into.
"Like what?"
"Probably all kinds of things you can't write home about."
"Humor me," I growl, motioning for her to share her—sure to be colorful—thoughts on what gets me off. "What have you learned about me that makes you think you know what gets me off?"
She eyes me levelly for a moment, almost as if she's waiting for me to change my mind. I absolutely should, let's just be clear about that. I'm crossing all kinds of lines here. But at this point, I don't care about that anymore. She's talking about what gets me off, and I'm just desperate enough to want to hear her thoughts on the subject. I'm sure I'll replay this conversation when I'm jerking off to the memory later.
"Fine," she finally says, sitting up straight. "I know you get off on control. If you aren't in charge, you can't stand it. It makes you twitchy. You need to be the one calling the shots. You're probably like that…well, everywhere. You definitely aren't crawling for anyone or asking permission. You could be a sadist, but I don't think you actually enjoy causing pain or humiliation. It does nothing for you. I think you're just…"
"Just what?" I growl, leaning forward in my chair, intrigued by what she thinks. Fascinated that she's pegged me so fucking well. I want to be the one who decides when and how she comes. I want to be the reason she gasps and quivers. I want her weak for me, quivering on the edge because I drove her there. I don't want her humiliated or in pain. I want her broken with pleasure.
"A complicated grouch with no soul," she says, smirking at me.
I shouldn't ask. I fucking know I shouldn't…
"What about you?" The question rasps from my lips anyway, more desperate need than passing curiosity. I'm rabid to know what makes her tick and what makes her sweat.
"Oh, I have a soul," she says, teasing me by purposefully misunderstanding the question.