The Ride Home

Victor's hand is on my thigh, and I'm going to die. "You're distracted." His voice cuts through the leather-scented darkness of his car, clinical and cold despite the intimacy of the enclosed space. "You've been distracted all day." I force myself to meet his eyes, praying he can't see how my pupils are blown wide with want, how my skin is still flushed from what I did in my office an hour ago. "I'm fine, Mr. Ashford." "You're not." He shifts gears, and his hand moves higher on my thigh—accidentally, professionally, steadying me as the car accelerates. But my body doesn't care about intent. It only knows his touch, his heat, the way my core clenches in response. "If you're not feeling well, you should have taken the day off instead of forcing yourself to come in and affecting work progress." Shame floods through me, mixing dangerously with arousal. He thinks I'm sick. Incompetent. When really I'm just drowning in wanting him while being controlled by someone else. "I'm sorry." The words come out breathless. "It won't happen again." "See that it doesn't." But his tone softens fractionally. "I'll drive you home. You need rest." I should refuse. Should insist I can take the subway like always. But the thought of his continued proximity, of sitting in this dark, intimate space where his cologne fills my lungs and his hand is inches from where I'm already wet again— "Thank you," I whisper. The city blurs past in streaks of light. Victor drives with the same controlled precision he applies to everything else, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift dangerously close to my leg. Every turn presses me against the door, the seatbelt cutting between my breasts, and I'm acutely aware that I'm still bare beneath my clothes, still vulnerable, still his even if he doesn't know it. "Amelia." His voice is quieter now, almost gentle. "Do you feel a lot of pressure working with me?" The question catches me off guard. "No, I—" "Because if you can't handle it, you can apply for a transfer." He glances at me, and something flickers in those grey eyes. "I wouldn't hold it against you. The work is demanding. I'm demanding." Panic seizes my chest. "No! I don't want a transfer. Please, Mr. Ashford, I love working for you. I just—" I just spent the day following another man's orders while fantasizing about you. "Today was unusual. It won't happen again." "You said that already." But there's something almost like concern in his expression now, buried beneath his typical reserve. "You're sure you're alright?" I nod, not trusting my voice. Because I'm not alright. I'm spiraling, caught between two men—one who ignores me in daylight and one who commands me in darkness—and I can't tell anymore which one I want more. Or if they're somehow, impossibly, bleeding together in my mind. Victor pulls up to my building, and the loss of motion makes everything suddenly, unbearably still. We sit in the quiet hum of the engine, and I should get out. Should thank him and leave. But I'm frozen, hyperaware of how close we are, how his hand is still resting near my thigh, how easy it would be to— "Amelia." His voice is rough. "Whatever's going on with you, whatever's making you distracted—deal with it. I need you focused." I need you. The words shouldn't affect me the way they do, but they burrow under my skin, making my breath hitch. "Yes, sir." It slips out automatically, the words I've been saying to V all day, and Victor's jaw tightens. "Go inside. Rest. I'll see you tomorrow." It's a dismissal, but I hear something else underneath it—something strained and uncertain, as if he's not entirely sure he wants me to leave. I stumble out of the car, my legs shaky, and don't look back as I walk to my building. But I feel his eyes on me the entire way, burning into my back, and when I finally glance over my shoulder, he's still there, watching. He doesn't drive away until I'm safely inside. I lean against my apartment door, heart racing, and pull out my phone with trembling hands. V: You still haven't answered my question. Me: I don't know how to answer it. V: The truth is always a good start. Me: The truth is complicated. V: Try me. I close my eyes, Victor's scent still clinging to my clothes, his hand on my thigh still burning my skin. Me: I was thinking about you. But also about someone else. They've started to blur together in my head, and I don't know how to separate them anymore. The three dots pulse for what feels like an eternity. V: Your boss. It's not a question. Me: Yes. V: And if I told you that was exactly what I wanted? That I've been deliberately pushing you toward him in your mind? My breath catches. What is he saying? That this was planned? That he's been orchestrating my descent into this twisted fantasy where Victor and V merge into one impossible desire? Me: Why would you do that? V: Because I know what you need, Amelia. Even better than you know yourself. You don't just want to submit. You want to submit to someone who makes you feel alive. Someone who challenges you. Someone who, in your real life, seems completely unattainable. Me: That's cruel. V: That's honest. And you're going to thank me for it. V: Now, about your performance today—you exceeded my expectations. You deserve a reward. My pulse quickens despite my confusion, despite the strange tension coiling in my gut. Me: What kind of reward? V: The best kind. I'm sending you a gift. It should arrive in three days. And when it does, I'll give you your third task. Me: What is it? V: Patience, my good girl. All will be revealed in time. For now, rest. Dream of me. Dream of him. Dream of everything you're too afraid to ask for. The chat goes dark, leaving me alone with too many questions and a body that's still humming with unspent need. I drag myself to the shower, let scalding water wash away the day's sin and sweat, but it can't touch what's happening inside me—the way V's words have lodged themselves in my chest, the way Victor's unexpected gentleness has cracked something open. Three days until the gift arrives. Three days to wonder what fresh hell V has planned for me. Three days to pretend I'm not already desperate to obey.