Christmas on the Thirteenth Floor

by Lee Jacquot

Garnering a reaction out of her is something like a hobby of mine.

She then dumps everything else on the floor—my dry cleaning included.

“Oh, and Miss Cartier, can you remember the number six for me?” Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. “Yes, sir.”

Two little words. One phrase. Good girl.

I want more of him.

“Do you recall the number I told you to remember this afternoon?” He steps closer, leaning forward and closing me in as he places both hands on either side of the arm rest. I nod. “Yes, sir. Six.” “It’s seven now.” He moves his face closer, running his nose along the edge of my jaw and up, then sliding around the shell of my ear. I shiver against him but don’t move an inch. “One for every time you made me lose control. For every time I had to go against my ability to never let another person dictate my mood. For when I had to come in my hand and not over this smooth skin.”

I release my lip and straighten my back. “Do you plan on hurting me?” A smirk. “In the best ways.”