“You work for me, rot you! Do you not realise the position you’re putting yourself in?” “I was hoping you’d do that.” Rufus stared at his secretary. Doomsday stared back, chin high, eyes a little wide. “Specifically, I hoped you might get over your moral scruples and give me the tupping we both want.” His lips curved suddenly and irrepressibly, a painfully familiar, lovely sight. “I’ve been waiting for you to exercise your droit du seigneur for weeks.” Rufus couldn’t think of a thing to say. There were things, he knew, important ones; there was common sense to be exerted, and an entire array
“You work for me, rot you! Do you not realise the position you’re putting yourself in?” “I was hoping you’d do that.” Rufus stared at his secretary. Doomsday stared back, chin high, eyes a little wide. “Specifically, I hoped you might get over your moral scruples and give me the tupping we both want.” His lips curved suddenly and irrepressibly, a painfully familiar, lovely sight. “I’ve been waiting for you to exercise your droit du seigneur for weeks.” Rufus couldn’t think of a thing to say. There were things, he knew, important ones; there was common sense to be exerted, and an entire array of second thoughts and warning signs to be taken into account. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see any of them because his vision had shrunk to Doomsday’s guinea-gold hair, the dark eyes on his, the reddened lips, just slightly parted, waiting. He lifted one tentative hand to his secretary’s face, and found it caught at the wrist in a hard, almost convulsive grip. He tried to jerk away, horrified. Doomsday didn’t let go. “Sorry, sorry. Just, not the scar, that’s all. Don’t touch it, don’t talk about it. I’m open to more or less anything else.” Rufus might have thought of that for himself. At least now he knew Doomsday had no hesitation in raising objections. It ought to have been a reassurance. “Would you please, in simple words, tell me what you want?” Doomsday relaxed his tight grip, but didn’t altogether let go. Instead he slid his hand up to intertwine his fingers with Rufus’s, sending ...
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He lifted one tentative hand to his secretary’s face, and found it caught at the wrist in a hard, almost convulsive grip. He tried to jerk away, horrified. Doomsday didn’t let go. “Sorry, sorry. Just, not the scar, that’s all. Don’t touch it, don’t talk about it. I’m open to more or less anything else.”
