The Dictation

Your Move, Mr Alejandro

Belinda didn't sleep that night.

She lay in her studio apartment, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word. Stop breathing so loud. It is distracting. The way his voice had dropped. The way he had stood behind her chair. The way he had looked at her like he could see straight through her clothes.

She grabbed her phone. Opened a blank document. And before she could talk herself out of it, she typed.

Dictation Number One. Unofficial.

To L.A. From B.S.

You think you're the only one who can dictate terms. You're not. Here's mine.

You want to know why I breathe loud? Because two weeks ago, I saw you in the lobby without your jacket. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Forearms. And I have thought about those forearms every single night since.

Your move, Mr. Alejandro.

She stared at the words. Her face burned. Then she printed the page, folded it into a tight square, and tucked it into her work bag.

You're not going to give it to him, she told herself. This is private. This is practice. This is just you being stupid.

But even as she thought it, her fingers were already smoothing the edges of the paper.

The next morning, Belinda arrived at seven forty five. Fifteen minutes early. She placed the folded note directly on his keyboard. Not hidden. Not subtle. Right there, dead center.

Then she sat down at her desk, opened her steno pad, and waited.

The elevator chimed at eight o two.

His footsteps approached. Paused at the threshold. She could feel him looking at her. That heavy, assessing gaze that made her skin prickle.

He didn't say good morning.

He walked to his desk. She heard the soft rustle of paper. A long silence.

Then, "Miss Sparks."

She looked up.

Lucas Alejandro was holding her note. Reading it. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles had gone white around the edges.

"Did you write this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You understand this is wildly inappropriate."

"Yes, sir."

"Sexually explicit content about your employer constitutes harassment, Miss Sparks."

"Yes, sir. So does telling your assistant to stop breathing because it makes you hard."

His eyes flashed. He walked toward her. Slow. Deliberate. He stopped when his thighs were level with her desk, towering over her seated form. He placed the note down in front of her, face up.

"I did not say it made me hard," he said quietly.

"You didn't have to. Your voice dropped an octave. You stood behind me for thirty seconds longer than necessary. And when I read it back, you didn't correct my grammar. You were distracted."

His jaw tightened. "You are playing a very dangerous game."

"I'm not playing anything. I'm telling you the truth." Belinda met his eyes. "You asked what I started. That's the answer. The truth."

Lucas crouched down. Suddenly they were eye level, his face inches from hers. Up close, she could see the faint scar through his left eyebrow, the stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils had blown wide.

"Let me be clear," he murmured. "If we do this, if I do what that note is asking, there is no going back. I do not do casual. I do not do once. I do not do 'this was a mistake.' Do you understand?"

Belinda's heart slammed against her ribs. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if I touch you, Miss Sparks, I will not stop. Not until you are mine. Not until you cannot remember a time before me. Not until the only thing you can think about is my voice in your ear telling you exactly what to do."

Her breath caught.

"You wrote 'your move,'" he continued. "Here it is. I am not making a move. I am telling you that if you want me, you have to say it. Out loud. Right now."

Belinda's throat was dry. Her hands were shaking. Every rational part of her brain was screaming no.

But the rest of her, the part that had written the note, the part that had dreamed about his hands, that part opened her mouth and said, "I want you."

The words hung in the air.

Lucas stared at her. His chest rose and fell. His hand came up, slowly, and his thumb brushed her lower lip.

"Say it again."

"I want you, Lucas."

Something broke behind his eyes. He stood up, pulled her to her feet, and before she could breathe, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was not gentle. It was the kiss of a man who had been starving for weeks and had finally been given permission to eat. His tongue swept into her mouth. She tasted coffee and hunger. She fisted her hands in his shirt. He walked her backward until her spine hit the wall.

"Tell me to stop," he said against her lips.

"Don't you dare."

He kissed her again. Harder. His hands slid down her hips and gripped her thighs. He lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. The wall was cold against her back. His body was hot against her front.

"I have wanted to do this since the first day," he said.

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Every day. Every single day."

His mouth found her neck. He sucked. She moaned. His hands squeezed her hips, her waist, her breasts. He rolled her n****e between his thumb and forefinger through her blouse, and she gasped.

"Lucas."

"Say that again."

"Lucas."

He pulled back just far enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, wild, nothing like the cold CEO who dictated contracts without emotion.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said.

"Show me."

He carried her across the room and laid her down on his leather couch. He knelt over her, bracketing her body with his arms, and looked down at her like she was something precious.

"I am going to take you apart," he said. "Slowly. Thoroughly. And you are going to write down every word I say."

"Now?"

"Now."

He reached over to his desk and grabbed his silver recorder. He pressed it into her palm.

"Hold this," he said. "And do not drop it."

Belinda's hand shook around the recorder.

Lucas lowered his mouth to her ear. "Dictation," he whispered. "Take this down, Miss Sparks."

She pressed record.

"I am going to undress you now," he said. "First, your glasses."

He removed her glasses. Folded them. Set them on the table.

"Your blouse."

He unbuttoned it slowly. One button. Two. Three. He pushed the fabric aside. She was not wearing a bra.

"Beautiful," he said. "Your breasts. Your n*****s. The way they tighten when I look at them."

She whimpered.

"Your skirt."

He unzipped it. Pulled it down her legs. Her underwear was black and already wet. He saw. His eyes darkened.

"You came to work like this," he said. "Knowing what you wrote. Knowing what would happen."

"I was hoping."

"Hoping what?"

"Hoping you would lose control."

He lowered his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Pressed a kiss there. Then another, higher. His breath was hot against her core.

"I lost control the moment you walked through my door," he said. "I have just been pretending otherwise."

His tongue found her through the thin fabric. She gasped. Her hips bucked. He held her down with one hand flat on her stomach.

"Patience," he said.

"I don't have patience."

"Then you will learn."

He pulled her underwear aside with his teeth. The sight of him there, between her legs, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his mouth hovering over her most private place, was almost enough to make her come on the spot.

"Lucas, please."

"Please what?"

"Please touch me."

"I am touching you."

"Please"

He lowered his mouth to her.

The first touch of his tongue was electric. Belinda cried out, clamped a hand over her own mouth, and arched off the couch. He held her steady, one hand on her hip, the other sliding beneath her to cup her ass.

He was good. Too good. He knew exactly where to touch, how to circle, when to suck. She was already close, had been close since he kissed her against the wall.

"Not yet," he murmured against her.

"You can't"

"I can. And I will. You don't come until I say so."

Belinda sobbed. She had never been told no before. She had never wanted to be told no. But the authority in his voice, the absolute certainty, made her want to obey.

He went back to work. His tongue was relentless. He added two fingers, curling them inside her, and she saw stars.

"Please," she begged. "Please, Lucas, I can't"

"You can. And you will."

He increased his pace. His fingers pumped in and out of her. His tongue circled her c**t. She was shaking. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"Now," he said. "Come for me now."

She shattered.

Her orgasm ripped through her like a wave, stealing her breath, stealing her thoughts, stealing everything except the feeling of his mouth on her and his fingers inside her and his voice in her ears saying her name.

She came for a long time. Longer than she ever had. When she finally stopped shaking, he kissed his way up her body and settled his weight on top of her.

"That," he said, "was just the beginning."

Belinda looked up at him. His face was flushed. His lips were wet. His arousal was hard against her thigh.

"Your turn," she whispered.

"Not yet."

He sat up. He pulled her with him, settling her onto his lap so she straddled his hips. His hands rested on her waist. His eyes met hers.

"I said I don't do casual. I meant it." His voice was low, serious. "I am not going to finish this on my office couch, Belinda. Not today."

"Why not?"

"Because when I finally take you, I want you in my bed. I want hours. I want all night. I want to hear you scream my name and not care who hears."

Her breath caught. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. My penthouse. Seven o'clock." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "If you come, you are mine. If you don't, we pretend this never happened."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." He kissed her forehead. "But I am. I am giving you a choice. No pressure. No manipulation. Just a question."

He looked at her. His whiskey eyes were soft now. Vulnerable.

"Will you come, Belinda?"

She stared at him. Her body was still humming. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses.

"Yes," she said. "I'll come."

Lucas smiled. A real smile. The first one she had ever seen on his face.

"Then I will see you tomorrow."

He helped her dress. His hands were gentle now, reverent. He tucked her blouse into her skirt. He smoothed her hair. He pressed one last kiss to her lips.

"Seven o'clock," he said. "Don't be late."

Belinda walked out of his office on shaking legs. She made it to the elevator, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes.

What had she just agreed to?

She didn't know. But she knew one thing for certain.

She had never been more ready for anything in her entire life.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor. Belinda stepped out into the lobby.

And standing there, waiting for the elevator, was Lucas Alejandro's head of security. A man she had never spoken to. A man who should not know her name.

But he looked at her. And he smiled.

"Miss Sparks," he said. "Enjoy your evening."

He stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

Belinda stood frozen.

How did he know her name?

And why did she feel like someone had been watching her this whole time?