Page 21 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Which makes it that much more exciting, no?”
“No.”Yes.“No.”
“Two nos?” He lets out a soft laugh. “That’s a whole lot of resistance, Miss Jones. It’s just a phone call. What harm could it do?”
“A lot, Mr.Lush,” I say, tone sour. “God, you have some balls on you.”
“Thank you,” he says lightly. “My first compliment. I’ll cherish this moment forever.”
“This isn’t funny. If anyone in my office finds out?—”
“Finds out what?” He lowers his voice. “That there’s a sexy little slut underneath all that beige?” My breath hitches and heat pools in my belly.Say it again. “Oh…” A husky growl floats into my ear. “Do you like that, Miss Jones? Do you like being called a little slut?”
“Stop it,” I whisper, biting my lip. Whatisthis?Living.“I don’t?—”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, Miss Jones, I think you and I would have a lot of fun together.”
“Being called a slut doesn’t sound very fun,” I mutter, forcing myself to be logical despite all logic withering into primitive thought. “It’s degrading. It’s?—”
“What you crave,” he finishes my sentence. “Isn’t it?” He pauses. “There’s no need to be ashamed, Miss Jones. We’ve all got our kinks.”
“And what’s yours, Mr. Cavanaugh?” I ask. Deflect. Now. “Do youalsolike being called a little slut? A whore, maybe? Does that make you hard?”
“Please.” He snorts. “Do I look like the sort of man who’d get off on that?”
“Yes,” I state defiantly. “You do.”
“Careful, Miss Jones,” he warns. “I’d hate to come down there and teach you a valuable lesson in respect.” I swallow, my heart beating fast at the idea of an impromptu visit. “I can see it now. Bent over your desk. My handprint across that perfect little ass of yours. The entire office hearing you scream.” He releases a breath. “Mmm, What a pretty picture.”
“So that’s your thing, huh?” I clear my thoughts, adjusting my position in the chair, my ass somehowalready stinging from the hypothetical discipline. “You like to beat women?”
“Beat?” He sounds offended. “I do notbeatwomen, Miss Jones. I carry out appropriate punishments and rewards. And yes, the punishments can be brutal at times, but the rewards,” he hisses out a breath of air, “those make it all worthwhile.”
Clips from conversations with Ginger and Crystal play in my head. They offer the patrons of Lux a little more than lap dances. I’ve heard it all. Men who like being spit on. Men who like hot wax on their balls. Men who cry out for mommy. And the men—the ones they praise the most—who like to dominate in every arena of their lives. This isn’t new to me. It shouldn’t be as jarring, as shocking, as outrageous to hear. But it is. Because I don’t offer side specials. I dance. Just dance. Even though I’ve always wanted a little bit more.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Damon says after a few charged seconds of silence. “Talk to me, Miss Jones.”
“I’m thinking that I’m at work,” I say as an email lands in my inbox. This conversation needs to end now. Why the fuck am I even entertaining this man? “I need to work, Mr. Cavanaugh, and you need to respect my wishes and not call here ever again.”
“You can’t play hard to get forever, Miss Jones,” Damon says, ignoring everything I just said. “Eventually, you’ll get tired of running.”
“Luckily for me, Mr. Cavanaugh, I have impeccable stamina.”
“Oh, I don't doubt that, Miss Jones. But still.” He pauses. “Are you near your computer right now?”
I frown. “Maybe.”
“Why don’t you check your email, Miss Jones? Perhaps that’ll give you some motivation to finally stop running.”
Frowning, I open my inbox. At the top of the page, with the subject line reading “Possibilities”, is an email [email protected].
“What did you?—”
A gasp leaves my throat as I open the email.Holy fucking hell. Filling the screen of my desktop is a cruel photo of a long, thick bulge hidden under light gray joggers, a familiar hand wrapped around the tempting girth. My breathing turns shallow.
“You’re awfully quiet, Miss Jones. Has something caught your eye?
“I—” My brain temporality short circuits as my pulse quickens.Dirty, dirty boy.“You?—”
