Trapped Against the Wall and Feeling My Wetness

Clara

My bare feet pad against the cold wooden steps the next morning. I slept terribly. Every time I closed my tired eyes, vivid visions of the wrong email attachment—my explicit erotica draft—flashed behind my eyelids in agonizing detail. I spent the entire night tossing and turning, dreading any possible fallout. I figured a strong cup of dark roast coffee might calm my racing nerves and settle my churning stomach.

I step into the kitchen and freeze. My heart flatlines in my chest.

Sitting casually at our small, worn dining table is Alistair Kincaid. My dad’s boss. The billionaire CEO of the company. He looks even more intimidating in person than he does on his corporate social media profiles. He wears a sharp, dark tailored suit that accentuates his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and commanding physical presence. He looks terribly out of place in our modest, mundane suburban kitchen.

The moment our eyes meet, a knowing smirk spreads across his handsome face.

"So," Alistair starts, his deep, velvety voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, "you are the little novelist who writes erotic stories about older men with chiseled bodies and six-packs to die for, huh?"

My jaw drops. The floor needs to open up and swallow me whole right now. He read it. He read the exact scene where the male protagonist—who looks eerily identical to him—bends the heroine over a mahogany office desk and has rough anal sex with her. Heat rushes to my cheeks in a furious wave, burning my skin as I stand frozen in the doorway. I am staring at the walking, breathing manifestation of my dirtiest late-night fantasies.

Before I can formulate a single coherent word in my defense, my mom bustles over to the table. She holds a steaming glass pot in her hands, wearing a bright, cheerful smile that contrasts sharply with the sheer mortification plainly written on my face. She is oblivious to the tension suffocating the room.

"Your coffee is ready, Mr. Kincaid," she says brightly, pouring the dark liquid into his ceramic mug. "It is probably not a brand your rich taste is familiar with, but it is the best we have in the pantry. I hope you will enjoy it."

Alistair turns his attention to her, flashing a charming, polite smile that makes him look like the perfect gentleman. "I am sure it will be lovely, Mrs. Arden. But where are your cinnamon rolls? Your husband always praises them at work, and I have been dying to try them."

My mom blushes a deep red at the unexpected praise. "Oh! I will get them in the oven right now. Give me just a few minutes."

She hurries off into the adjacent cooking area, humming a happy tune, leaving me alone with the man I practically sent a digital sex tape of my own mind to.

The heavy silence stretches between us. Alistair takes a slow, deliberate sip of his hot coffee, his piercing blue eyes locked onto mine over the rim of his mug. He is enjoying this. He is enjoying watching me squirm under his intense gaze.

I swallow the thick lump in my throat. I force my shaking legs to move, stepping further into the kitchen. I glare at him, trying to muster whatever shred of dignity I have left in my possession.

"What are you doing here in my house?" I demand, keeping my voice down so my mom will not hear.

"To personally see my potential new hire," he answers smoothly. He sets his mug down on the wooden table with a soft clink. "I am also here for your autograph. I could not possibly miss the chance to meet the author of such an intriguing story. Especially when she might become the next big thing."

I choke back a sharp gasp. My short nails dig hard into the soft palms of my hands. "You... you are doing this as a joke? You are not mad?"

He raises a dark eyebrow. "What? Did you think I would be offended by that draft? That I would fire your father and ruin your life?" A wide, mocking grin stretches across his lips. "You are wrong, Clara. Your story was engaging, to say the least. I found the whole situation amusing. Your application was by far the most interesting one I have ever received. Who am I to discourage such raw creativity?"

He is playing with me. His voice drips with thick sarcasm, and his piercing gaze disarms my defenses. He is not angry about the filthy draft; he thinks this whole ordeal is hilarious. My face burns anew from the sheer humiliation. The man is infuriating. Yet, my traitorous brain notices how the morning sunlight catches his messy brown hair, how his expensive suit stretches tight over his muscular chest every time he shifts in his chair. In a very irritating way, he is overwhelmingly attractive. My pulse races.

My mom pops her head back into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral apron. "The rolls are baking! I do not think my husband realizes you are here yet, Mr. Kincaid. He is outside talking to the neighbor by the fence. I will go fetch him."

"Take your time, Mrs. Arden," Alistair says smoothly, never breaking eye contact with me.

The second the back door clicks shut, the atmosphere shifts in a terrifying way. The polite gentleman facade drops instantly. Alistair sets his sights on me, his gaze turning dark and predatory. He stands up slowly from the chair, unfolding his massive frame.

He looks at me and drops a massive bombshell.

"Your sex scenes lack depth," he says, his voice flat and critical. "Some of them read like they have been written by AI."

I blink, stunned by the sudden, brutal critique of my writing. "Excuse me?"

He tilts his head, studying my flushed face. "You are a virgin, aren't you?"

My breath hitches in my throat. "My personal life is none of your business!" I snap, glaring daggers at him. Yesterday, reading his strict email, he seemed like a serious professional. Today, standing in my kitchen, he lacks any sort of filter. He is arrogant and obnoxious.

"None of my business..." he repeats slowly, tasting the defensive words on his tongue.

He begins to walk toward me.

I instinctively take a step back, but he closes the distance between us with terrifying, predatory speed. I have to crane my neck up just to meet his blue eyes. He towers over me, a massive giant of muscle and expensive fabric. I always thought men in corporate suits were boring and overworked. Alistair is none of those things. His broad shoulders block out the rest of the room. His physical presence is a heavy weight pressing down on my lungs, stealing the oxygen from the air. My stupid, traitorous brain immediately finds his dominance incredibly hot.

I take another step back, my spine hitting the hard kitchen wall. I am trapped.

He steps directly into my personal space, pinning me flat against the plaster. He raises his right hand and plants it firmly against the wall just above my head. His left hand moves to my face, his long fingers gripping my chin firmly, forcing me to tilt my head up and meet his intense stare.

"You know," he warns in a low, dangerous murmur, "if you were my plaything, I would not let you raise your voice at me like that."

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to escape its cage. "I... I was not raising my voice," I manage to mutter, trying hard not to let raw fear creep into my trembling tone.

"No?" He leans closer. His mint and coffee breath fans across my heated cheeks. "It sounded pretty loud to me."

"Why are you so close to me?" I stammer, my hands resting nervously against the hard, unyielding wall of his chest.

"Just testing a theory," he replies smoothly.

"What theory?"

Alistair smirks, a devilish glint in his eye. "You find me attractive, do you not?"

"No. I do not," I lie, shaking my head as much as his firm grip on my chin allows.

Alistair easily sees right through the weak lie. His eyes darken with knowing amusement.

"You do."

To prove his point, he lets go of my chin and slips his large hand down my body. My breath catches in my throat as his hand slides between my legs. His long fingers press deliberately against my crotch right through the soft fabric of my pajama pants. I gasp at the sudden, blunt contact. He applies firm pressure, rubbing the seam, immediately finding the undeniable wet proof of my heavy arousal soaking my underwear.

A satisfied, wicked smile curls his lips.

I push shakily at his solid chest, my knees turning weak and useless. "No," I stammer, my voice breaking. "You are... you are just messing with my head."

He does not budge an inch. His hand stays firmly planted between my legs, feeling the damp heat of my arousal radiating through my clothes. "Am I now?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a dark rumble. "Your body does not seem to think I am messing around. It wants me. And the feeling is mutual."

I stare up at him, breathless and dizzy from the sensory overload. I cannot escape him. My body is betraying my logic, practically melting into his rough touch. "What do you want?" I ask, my voice barely a frantic whisper.

"Isn't it obvious?" Alistair answers, his fingers leaving my crotch to trail back up my stomach, tracing the edge of my shirt. "I want you as my secretary for the summer. And you would do far more than just typing and answering calls, of course."

I stare at him, my mind spinning out of control.

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound, brushing his thumb softly across my trembling bottom lip. "The summer is a very busy period for me, Clara. I travel a lot. Having a secretary by my side would make certain physical urges easier to satisfy. Maybe we could help each other out. I get an easy way to satisfy my needs, and your erotic scenes become far more realistic."

My heart skips a beat. The offer is insane. He wants me as his secretary and his plaything. He wants to teach me how to write those explicit scenes by living them out with him. This is not fair. I never asked for this bizarre turn of events. Why does he have to be so intoxicating? The sheer danger of his proposition makes my pulse race even faster.

"I... uh..."

He chuckles again, pulling his body away from mine so abruptly it leaves me cold and shivering, desperately missing his heat. "Think about it. You do not have to answer me right now."

Before I can process his offer and formulate a reply, the sound of heavy footsteps echoes on the front porch.

Alistair takes a swift step back, putting a respectable distance between us. He straightens his dark silk tie and clears his throat, slipping his hands casually into his pants pockets just as the kitchen door swings open.

My mom and dad enter the room, oblivious to the physical boundary we crossed just moments ago.

"Mr. Kincaid!" my dad exclaims, his eyes widening in shock. He looks flustered and eager to please his boss. "I had no idea you were coming to the house today!"

Alistair smooths his expression into the perfect, polite CEO facade. He offers my dad a warm smile. "Do not worry about it, Arthur. I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to drop by. But I will not be staying long. I have meetings to get to."

He turns back to me. His blue eyes hold a secret, lingering promise that makes my stomach flutter. "I will wait for your decision, Miss Arden. The job is yours if you want it."

He smiles at me one last time, a dangerous smirk dancing on the edge of his lips, before shaking my dad's hand and exiting our home.

I am left standing against the kitchen wall, pale, flustered, and out of breath. My pulse races frantically as I watch his expensive car pull out of our driveway. That was not the kind of first meeting I expected.

My mom turns to me, her brow furrowing with concern. "Is everything okay, sweetie?"

It takes me a full second to find my voice. I swallow the lump in my throat. "Yes, Mom. Everything is fine."

"Then why do you look so pale?" my dad asks, clapping his hands together in excitement. "Shouldn't you be celebrating? You got the job!"

"I..." I stutter, my mind still in bits and pieces from the encounter, replaying the distinct feeling of his hand pressing against my wet crotch. "I need to think about it," I confess weakly.

"Think about it?" My mom frowns, placing her hands on her hips in confusion. "But darling, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!"

I wrap my arms around myself, searching for a plausible excuse. "It is just... not what I expected," I finally manage to say.

My dad steps forward and gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder. "You are probably just nervous, that is all. Do not worry; you will get used to the idea soon enough."

They leave me alone in the kitchen to ponder over Alistair Kincaid's proposition. I stand there staring at the empty chair where he sat. It is an offer that seems too good to be true and far too dangerous to accept.

Why does it feel like turning him down would be a massive mistake, but accepting his offer would be an even deadlier one?