The Late-Night Call

POV: Tessa

The heavy, resonant thud of the front door clicking shut behind Harrison echoes through the empty apartment. I stand frozen in the middle of my living room, my chest heaving with uneven, jagged breaths. The sharp, spicy scent of his expensive cologne hangs in the air, a stubborn ghost refusing to leave my personal space.

What the fuck just happened?

My mind races, tumbling through the bizarre, overwhelming encounter. He invaded my home, crowded my space, and dropped his usual cold, corporate armor to play the role of a seducer. What was the point of him touching me? Why the sudden, overt shift in his demeanor? He has to be playing a manipulative game. My sudden rebellion must have triggered his need to conquer.

But the worst part, the most humiliating reality I have to face right now, is my physical response. My body betrayed me. I groan aloud, pressing the heels of my hands against my burning eyes. I hate myself for it, but I cannot control my own biology. I need to get laid. It has been way too long. A grueling, agonizingly long dry spell stretching close to a full year. I blame my lack of a sex life for this ridiculous reaction. I am terrible at picking up guys. I tried one of those dating apps once. It was a disaster. The guy turned out to be a relentless creep, and I ended up kicking him out of this very apartment before the night even began. I am a relationship girl. Casual sex has never been my style.

Yet, thanks to Harrison's little power trip, sex is the only thing hijacking my brain. The physical evidence is undeniable. A heavy, localized throb pulses deep inside my pelvis. My pussy is slick with unwanted wetness, the slippery moisture staining the cotton of my panties. My clitoris aches with a sharp, needy tension, begging for friction.

God, I dislike him. I truly do. He is arrogant, bossy, and impossible to please. I refuse to let him hold this strange power over my body. I need to wash this off. I need a freezing cold shower.

I march down the short hallway into my bathroom. The fluorescent lights buzz as I flick the switch. I tear my clothes off, tossing my shirt and pants into a careless heap on the tile floor. I kick off my underwear. Reaching into the shower stall, I crank the metal faucet handle all the way to the cold side. I do not bother waiting for the temperature to adjust. I step directly under the spray.

A sharp squeal rips from my throat as the icy water hits my bare shoulders, shocking my system. Water cascades over my breasts, causing my nipples to pebble. The icy stream runs down my stomach and flows between my legs, offering a harsh, numbing relief to the swollen, aching flesh of my vulva. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the damp ceramic tiles. I focus on the biting cold.

I repeat a strict mental mantra over and over in the freezing spray. This was a one-time thing. He only acted that way to mess with my head. He is punishing me because I stood up to him. He wants me off-balance. I cannot let him win.

Five minutes pass. My skin turns a mottled pink and white from the chill. I turn off the water, realizing the cold is no longer helping. The deep, internal throb still hums beneath the surface. I grab a fluffy towel off the rack, wrapping it tight around my shivering frame. If it were not so early, I would crawl straight into bed. But if I go to sleep now, I will wake up at three in the morning and stare at the ceiling.

I pad out of the bathroom and head to my bedroom. I drop the towel and pull on my most comfortable, oversized pajamas. The soft fabric offers a small sense of security. I need a drink. A large one.

Walking into the kitchen, I pull a wine glass from the cupboard and fill it to the brim with cheap red wine. I walk through the apartment, switching off every lamp and overhead light until the space is bathed in shadows. The dark is my sanctuary. I grab a leftover slice of pepperoni pizza from the fridge. It is ice cold, but cold pizza is the ultimate comfort food.

I settle onto the sofa, pulling a knitted throw blanket over my legs. I balance the wine glass on my knee and use the remote to turn on the television. I scroll through a streaming service until I find a mindless romantic comedy. It provides the perfect distraction I need right now.

For a few minutes, a fragile peace settles over me. I take a bite of the pizza, chewing slowly, letting the cinematic dialogue wash over me.

Then, the sharp, jarring buzz of my cell phone vibrating against the wooden coffee table shatters the quiet.

I flinch. I stare at the glowing screen illuminating the dark room. It is probably one of my friends checking in for the weekend. I snatch the device. A text message notification sits on the lock screen. It is from a phone number I do not recognize.

*Are you still mad at me?*

I frown, my thumb hovering over the screen. Who is this? I assume someone typed the wrong digit. I am about to ignore it when a second message pops up.

*No, I have the right number. It is Harrison.*

My stomach drops. My grip on the phone tightens. He is texting me from his private, personal cell phone. I only have his corporate office line and his assistant-managed work phone saved in my contacts. The sheer audacity of this man. He invades my apartment, turns my body into a traitorous mess, leaves, and now refuses to give me peace in my own home. Has he not annoyed me enough for one single day?

Fuming, I open the message thread. I do not bother with pleasantries or professional boundaries. I type a blunt reply.

*Yes.*

I hit send. I toss the phone onto the opposite end of the sofa, out of arm's reach. I am dealing with him tomorrow morning, and I have to endure his overbearing presence all weekend at that ridiculous family event. He is not stealing the rest of my Friday night. I grab my wine glass, take a massive swallow, and force my eyes back to the television screen.

Exactly ten minutes pass. The romantic comedy plays on, but I have not absorbed a single word of the dialogue. My leg bounces nervously under the blanket.

The phone rings. The demanding tone cuts through the apartment.

I do not even need to look at the screen to know who is calling. I flip the phone over. The same unknown number flashes bright white. I reject the call and drop the phone.

One second later, the ringing starts again. It is relentless. It is demanding. It is Harrison Vance refusing to accept no for an answer.

I groan out loud, a sound of sheer, unadulterated frustration echoing in the dark room. I cave. I swipe the green icon and bring the speaker to my ear.

"Yes?" I snap.

"I don’t like being ignored, Miss Mercer," Harrison snarls. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through the phone and settles deep in my chest. The tone drips with pure, unfiltered authority.

"And I don’t like being harassed in my free time, so I guess none of us are happy tonight," I fire back instantly.

A spike of terror hits my bloodstream. What am I doing? I am fighting with my billionaire boss. He holds the power to fire me with a single phone call to HR. He can ruin my career in an instant. I brace myself for the inevitable corporate rage, waiting for him to demand my resignation.

Instead, a dark, incredibly husky chuckle drifts through the line. The sound is deep and ominous.

"You are quite sexy when you are angry," he states smoothly.

I freeze solid. My jaw goes slack. A fierce, humiliated heat erupts across my cheeks, burning all the way down to my neck. Did my boss just call me sexy? I must be hallucinating. He has never, in over a year of employment, crossed that line.

"W-what did you just say?" I stammer, my voice faltering.

"You heard me," he replies, his voice steady and unapologetic. I cannot see his face, but I know with striking certainty that he is wearing a smug, victorious smirk.

"What is your game?" I demand boldly. I fight a desperate, uphill battle to inject unshakeable confidence back into my tone. "Why are you acting this way towards me? You have never looked at me in such a way."

"How am I acting?" he asks coyly. He plays the role of a sweet, innocent man perfectly.

He does not get to play the sweet card after his behavior. "You know how you are acting, Mr. Vance," I retort sharply. I hate how my voice shakes at the end of the sentence. I am an awkward person, but I am not timid. I bow my head at work because I need my paycheck, but outside the office walls, I do not let people walk all over me.

"No, I don't. Why don't you tell me?" he challenges.

My irritation flares hot. "How about I hang up?"

His familiar, overwhelming dominant aura immediately bleeds right through the speaker, suffusing the small space between the phone and my ear. "You can try, but I will call back. Or better yet, I know where you stay. I will come over, and we can finish the conversation face-to-face. The choice is yours, kitten."

The pet name hits me like a physical blow. Kitten. He is backing me into a tight psychological corner. He knows I will not risk him showing up at my front door again tonight. I take a shaky, uneven breath. My heart hammers against my ribs as nervous energy takes over, making me ramble.

"God, are you all bossy, even outside of work?" I whine, the frustration evident.

"Yes, I am. Now tell me what I want to know. How am I acting towards you?"

"You are flirting with me. Calling me kitten and sexy. I want to know why. I have worked with you for over a year, and you have never spoken to me in such ways." I push the words out as fast as my tongue allows.

Harrison’s voice drops into a throaty, intoxicating groan. "What can I say? Today, I have seen different sides of you I didn't know existed. I thought you were shy, quiet, and obedient. I learned tonight you are not."

I do not respond immediately. I reach for my wine glass with trembling fingers and take a massive gulp. I need the liquid courage.

"I thought you liked it when people were obedient and listened to you? Aren't you contradicting yourself?" I question directly, wiping a drop of wine from my lower lip.

"I do," Harrison rasps dangerously into the receiver. The gravelly texture of his voice sends a jolt straight down my spine. "But your sassiness seems to be turning me on for some reason. There is a chance it is because I want nothing more than to change it and turn you into a good girl."

My breath hitches hard in my throat. My lungs seize. The explicit, dominating promise in his words triggers an instant, visceral reaction. A heavy, undeniable warmth pools between my thighs once more. Fresh, slick wetness floods my pussy, saturating the fabric of my underwear. My clitoris throbs with a sharp, undeniable ache.

Panic sets in, cold and absolute. Nope. I am not doing this. I cannot do this.

I am lost for words, utterly terrified by my own extreme physical arousal. I pull the phone away from my ear and punch the red button, cutting the line dead. My hands shake as I hold down the power button, watching the screen power off until the device is nothing but a dark piece of glass.

I toss it onto the table. I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them tight to my chest. If he drives back here, I am not answering that door. I promise myself that right now. I am simply not cut out to deal with this level of sexual psychological warfare. My mind spins into a dark void of dread. How am I going to walk into the executive suite tomorrow morning? How am I realistically going to face him in the professional environment of the office and hand him his coffee?

My night was not supposed to end up like this.