Page 5 of His to Enjoy
“This is exactly the kind of insight Selecta needs,” Sharon said, closing the folder with satisfaction. “Someone who understands our products from personal experience, but can think strategically about market positioning.”
She stood, moving around the desk to face me directly. “I’m very impressed, Grace. Very impressed indeed. I think you might be exactly what Scott Yellen has been looking for.”
“Scott Yellen?” The name was vaguely familiar from Selecta’s corporate communications.
“Head of programming. He’s been searching for a special candidate to serve as his personal intern.” Sharon’s smile had an edge to it that made my insides flutter nervously. “Someone with your unique combination of experience and analytical ability would be perfect.”
CHAPTER 3
Grace
Sharon returned to her desk drawer, pulling out more items. My eyes widened as I recognized a garter belt and stockings in the same delicate pink as the lingerie I wore, along with matching heels.
“Put these on,” Sharon instructed, gesturing to the items on the desk. “The panties go over the garter straps, not under. I want you to understand that distinction clearly.”
I blinked at her, not sure what she meant, but Sharon only looked back at me steadily and with clearly growing disapproval despite her words of praise only a few moments before. I lowered my eyes to the floor so that I wouldn’t have to see her expression, my cheeks burning at having to take the lacy panties off again in order to wear these lovely, degrading garments correctly.
Awkwardly I removed them and put them on the chair, and then my hands trembled as I picked up the garter belt, the pink lace so delicate it felt like it might tear at the slightest wrong movement.I wrapped it around my waist, fumbling with the tiny hooks in back while Sharon watched with that same clinical assessment that made my skin burn.
“You’re taking too long,” she observed. “In a corporate environment, efficiency matters.”
I finally managed to secure the belt, then sat in the chair to roll the stockings up my legs. The sheer pink fabric felt impossibly soft against my skin, and I tried not to think about how I must look—like something out of a lingerie store rather than a serious business candidate. The clips that attached the stockings to the garter belt proved even more challenging than the hooks, my fingers clumsy with nervousness.
“Stand up,” Sharon commanded once I’d managed to attach all four clips. “Now the panties.”
As I reached for the wisp of fabric I suddenly understood what she had meant by her order—with the panties over the straps, they could be removed without unfastening the stockings. The implication made me quiver with that familiar mixture of dread and unwanted arousal. Everything about this arrangement suggested easy access, suggested availability in a way that made my cheeks burn.
I drew the delicate pink panties back up, settling them over the garter straps as instructed. The heels came last—not impossibly high, but enough to change my posture, to make me acutely aware of every step.
“Good,” Sharon said, moving around the desk to inspect me. “Now your dress.”
Relief flooded through me as I reached for my navy dress, pulling it over my head with desperate gratitude for even thissmall covering. But I could feel everything underneath—the lace against my skin, the pull of the garter straps with each movement, the way the heels made me stand differently.
Sharon returned to her seat, pulling out a tablet and making several quick notes. “Scott’s office is on the twentieth floor. Suite 2012. You’re expected there immediately.”
“Now?” My voice came out higher than intended. “Like this?”
“Yes, like this.” Sharon’s tone brooked no argument. “And Grace? Remember that Scott’s standards are even higher than mine. He’s accustomed to absolute obedience from his interns.”
I stood frozen for a moment, acutely aware of the pink lingerie beneath my conservative dress, of how the stockings whispered against each other when I moved. But Sharon’s expression made it clear that hesitation would only earn me another session with that horrible paddle.
“Yes, Ms. Fagan,” I whispered, turning toward the door.
“Oh, and Grace?” Sharon called as my hand touched the doorknob. “Scott will want to verify that you’re properly dressed according to company standards. He has the right to inspect you as he chooses. Don’t be surprised if he checks that you’ve followed instructions correctly.”
My legs felt unsteady as I made my way to the elevator, each step a reminder of the heels and the way the stockings pulled against the garter clips. Other Selecta employees passed me in the hallway, and I wondered if they could tell—if they could somehow see through my modest navy dress to the scandalous pink beneath. My face burned with the certainty that everyone must know exactly what kind of ‘interview’ I was undergoing.
The elevator ride to the twentieth floor seemed endless. I stood in the corner, trying to take up as little space as possible, terrified that someone might brush against me and somehow feel the lace through my dress. When the doors finally opened, I found myself in a hushed corridor lined with dark wood paneling and thick carpet that muffled the click of my heels.
Suite 2012 was at the end of the hall, the nameplate reading ‘Scott Yellen, Head of Programming’ in elegant gold lettering. I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated. Sharon’s words echoed in my mind—absolute obedience, even higher standards. What if I couldn’t do this? What if I broke down sobbing the way I had in Sharon’s office?
But I needed this. I needed something beyond being someone’s discarded wife, beyond the humiliation of Jacob leaving me for his secretary. I knocked.
“Come in.”
The voice was deep, assured, and something about it made my pulse quicken even before I opened the door.
Scott Yellen was nothing like what I’d expected. Where Sharon had been severe and businesslike, he possessed an almost relaxed confidence, leaning back in his leather chair with the easy grace of someone who never doubted his own authority. He was handsome in a way that brought butterflies to my belly—mid-forties, I guessed, with silver just beginning to touch his temples and eyes that seemed to take in everything about me in a single sweeping glance.
