One
Emily Harper
That had been an exhausting day, I mused, my finger depressing the button to summon the elevator. The familiar mechanical whirr and subsequent clunk reverberated as I awaited the opening of the doors. I gazed at my reflection on the polished silver doors: a Dior blazer, a Prada skirt, Dolce shoes, my long brown hair pulled back, and lips painted a vivid red. It was amusing how this outward appearance belied the fact that I was merely a personal assistant to some corporate magnate.
But truth be told, I didn't serve just any corporate magnate. Over the past two years, I have been in the employ of none other than New York's most renowned business tycoon, Mr. Lucas McMillan Sr.
The elevator doors finally parted, revealing an empty interior. I felt a sense of relief that there were no witnesses save for the hotel porters and other personnel of the McMillan Residential Tower. I unpinned my hair, allowing it to cascade down, and stepped into the elevator, my finger confidently selecting the 40th floor.
The ascent was quiet, in stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts within my mind. I had endeavored to immerse myself in work throughout the day, attempting to banish the memories of the previous night's events.
To no avail.
I chastised myself repeatedly for succumbing to my primal instincts. I should not have overindulged in alcohol. I should not have attended that ill-fated end-of-month party. And above all, I should not have become intimate with my employer's son.
A shudder ran down my spine as the elevator doors glided open. Exhaling audibly, I exited the opulent metallic enclosure and strolled into my condominium unit. My hope was that he had departed in my absence.
As I ventured further into my abode, my eyes widened at the sight before me. What on earth was he still doing here?
Ryan Lucas McMillan Jr., the scion of the billionaire dynasty that was McMillan Global Industries of New York, reclined half-dressed on the bed. Discarding my belongings on the floor, I hastened toward him, mustering every ounce of fake courage I could summon. "Leave," I entreated, attempting to infuse firmness into my voice. "Please, Mr. McMillan," I added, my mind recalling that the attractive man before me was none other than the playboy son of my employer.
"Come here, my dear," he pouted playfully and blew a kiss in my direction.
I shook my head adamantly. "No."
"And why not?" Rye brushed aside the hair that had fallen over his brow, sweeping it to the side.
Embarrassment tinged my cheeks as I averted my gaze when he stood up. "Because I'm not your 'dear'."
"Then draw closer, you mischievous enchantress." He grinned, his arms extending in an inviting gesture.
"I am neither a mischievous enchantress, Mr. McMillan," I responded, pressing my hand against my chest, feeling the rapid thud of my heart. "Nor am I in any way yours. Remember, you have a girlfriend."
He chuckled lightly. "She's hardly a girlfriend; more of an associate. Besides, she's in France." A dashing smile curled his lips. "And more importantly, I require your presence."
"I am not yours to command, Mr. McMillan," I asserted, standing resolute. "Furthermore, I am not here to fulfill your desires."
"You entrusted me to bring you home last night because you felt secure in my company," he said, rising from his seated position, his muscles subtly shifting. Gosh, this is torment. With a gentle smile, he straightened and advanced toward me. "However, there's no need for you to rely on that sense of security with me. I would never cause you harm."
A reflexive flinch passed through me. How did he discern my feelings of safety? Was it so evident? My hand drifted to my neck, fingers detecting the beads of perspiration forming along my nape. "I—I was never harmed, just apprehensive."
He paused, his movement arrested, a perplexed expression crossing his features. "Apprehensive about what, my dear?"
An unsteady laugh escaped me, my nerves betraying my facade. "Nothing."
"Then draw near," he urged, extending his hand toward me. "Come to me. I assure you, I won't cause you any pain."
I directed my gaze at that outstretched hand, at the contours of his chiseled chest and the definition of his six-pack. A desire to reach out, to clasp that hand, to surrender to his advances, stirred within me — to grant him a kiss...
My head shook resolutely, and I looked away. "No. We can't revisit this. The previous instance was the final time. It's a mistake, Rye. I won't allow it to repeat."
He laughed, a carefree sound that forced my attention back to him.
My brow furrowed, arms folding defensively across my chest, and an incredulous eyebrow arched at him. "What's so amusing?" Frustration was weaving its way through me, and the scent of his just-bathed skin only exacerbated the situation. This man was driving me to the brink of exasperation.
Rye's chuckles eventually subsided, his demeanor shifting. "You just referred to me as 'Rye.' That's not a term you often use. It holds meaning. Could it be that you're attracted to me?"
Narrowing my eyes at him, I replied curtly, "No, I am not."
"Then prove it to me," he proposed, his arms reopening, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.
"I-I..." My gaze dropped to the floor, evading his persistent stare.
"Come here, darling," he encouraged, closing the distance between us, his hand resting lightly on my hip.
A startled gasp escaped me, caught off guard by his audacity.
He drew me nearer, our bodies almost touching. His warm breath danced across my skin as his lips hovered tantalizingly close. I held my breath, his fingers ascending to my breasts. "Ah, my dear," he murmured, a deep timbre to his voice. "You're exquisite. And you're mine."
My legs trembled, resistance becoming an arduous task as I fought to maintain distance. His gaze ensnared mine, my respiration growing uneven. I struggled to speak, my heart's frenetic rhythm rendering intelligible words near impossible.
"You belong to me, darling. Say it." His fingers charted a trail down my back.
"I... I'm not yours," I managed to utter, despite the rapid rise and fall of my breath.
"Say that you're mine." His lips descended to my neck, eliciting a gasp from me.
"N-no."
"Say it, my dear." He clasped my hand, guiding it, making me gasp anew. Positioning it against his groin, he moved my hand over his arousal, the undeniable proof of his desire. "All for you."
A startled cry escaped me as he guided my hand, and the intensity of his touch set my senses ablaze, weakening my resolve. My hand, almost as if acting independently, arrested his movement. "I am not yours," I confessed, aware of the falsehood in my words.
A subtle upturn of his lips accompanied his action, intensifying as he pressed his arousal more firmly against my palm. "Continue touching me like that, and you can have me. Completely."
A gasp escaped my lips, immediately countered by my resolve. "No," I managed, retracting my hand from his crotch.
His grip seized my hand again, maneuvering it back to its previous position. He initiated a rhythm, moving my hand back and forth, his breathy moans escalating in tandem.
"I'm not yours," I ground out between clenched teeth.
"But you relish the sensation, don't you?" He reclaimed control, a husky tone threading his words. He guided my hand with a fervent intensity, his vocalizations growing more pronounced.
"You yearn to belong to me. It's undeniable." He wet his bottom lip, a seductive invitation. "Embrace this connection. Fear needn't hinder us. We can navigate it together." His head dipped, lips poised for a kiss. The world seemed to teeter on an edge. His mouth, invitingly soft and warm, beckoned me closer. The urge to taste him, to experience his lips again and his body pressed to mine, surged within me.
"No." I resisted, drawing back and shaking my head. "This is not what I'm consenting to. I won't become your object of amusement. I refuse to be used and discarded, treated as mere property. This time won't mirror the past."
"When you reach that point, you'll return to me. I'll be waiting." He released my hand, offering a knowing smile before shutting his eyes. A sigh escaped him, and he crossed the room to the chair near the nightstand, where his Brioni suit hung. He donned it with an effortless grace before striding to the door.
A vexed groan echoed from me. "Don't hold your breath, Mr. McMillan!" I retorted, my voice echoing in the wake of his departure.
"See you at the office, Ms. Harper," he remarked, the door clicking shut behind him, his departure unhindered by a single backward glance.
