Page 30 of Dying to Meet You
He pours her two fingers. That’s two more than she’d like, but you can’t always have exactly what you want.
She lifts her glass to touch his. “Cin cin, as my grandmother used to say.”
“Was she Italian?”
She tosses her hair in a way that shows off her throat. He loves her throat. “I don’t really know.” Not everyone is like the Wincotts, who can trace their history back for ten generations.
“Bottoms up,” he says, winking.
The first sip of whiskey burns going down. But she already knows, from a couple of months’ experience with Mr. Wincott, that this unpleasantness will mellow on the tongue. A few more sips and she’ll forget to be shocked.
She needs this paycheck. And that’s not even all she needs from him.
“Get the door, will you?” he says.
“Yes, sir.” She locks the door and returns to hover near his desk.
He grasps her hip and guides her into his lap, his hand on her knee, his touch a little rough.
“That’s a good girl,” he says. “I like this skirt. Very pretty.” He strokes her leg.
“Thank you.”
“Now drink your whiskey.”
She takes another sip, but just a small one. She knows she shouldn’t drink at all right now.
He takes the glass out of her hand anyway. “I have a little present for you,” he says silkily. “For a job well done this week.”
“Oh,” she says softly. The truth is that his presents are incredible. Last month he gave her a silver necklace from Tiffany’s. In the robin’s-egg blue box and everything.
It’s so nice that she hasn’t worn it yet. Before bed each night, she takes it out just to look at it.
“There was a Coach store in the New York airport.” His fingers trail up her thigh. “Made me think of you.”
“So nice,” she says breathily.
“I’ll show you in a little while. After you fix the invitation list I asked you to type. Some of the addresses are missing zip codes.”
Oh God. Again?“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wincott. I’ll fix it.”
“That’s sloppy work, Coralie. But I forgive you. On your knees now,” he says.
“Yes, Mr. Wincott.” She begins to slide off his lap.
He makes an eager noise, but she knows to take her time. To build the anticipation. With stubborn slowness, she slides down to the floor, past the bulge in his wool gabardine, until her knees hit the rug.
Looking up at him, she licks her lips suggestively. She’s better at this than typing. Much better. Sometimes a girl needs to play to her strengths.
He reaches for his belt.
Coralie allows her gaze to soften. She retreats inside herself. It’s a useful trick she learned in childhood. Had to. Whenever her stepfather took a belt to her, she would send herself to a private room in her mind. She knows how to be here on her knees, yet not really present.
She puts her forearms on his knees, her mind already drifting. His groan sounds far off. She can barely feel his hand in her hair, and when he puts his other hand possessively on her throat, it doesn’t really register.
“Straight from the devil, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “Choke on it, girlie. That’s it. The best little sinner in town.”
At peace, somewhere else, she can hardly hear him.
