Chapter 8 Such a pretty face....
The sharp, insistent trill of a phone shatters the heavy silence. I watch Bastian pull the device from his pocket, his thumb swiping the screen with a practiced flick.
"Talk to me," he says, his voice a low, commanding rasp. A pause. His jaw sets, a muscle leaping under the skin. "I’ll be right there."
He slides the phone back into his pocket, and I feel a sudden, jarring rush of relief. He’s leaving. But as the thought settles, a traitorous spike of something else, something dark and confusing, twists in my gut. Disappointment? I mentally recoil, scolding myself.
‘Don't be a fool. You want him gone. You need the air back in your damn lungs.’
"I have to go," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. I force a polite, professional nod. "Of course. Thanks again, for the opportunity."
"We’ll have plenty of chances to get to know each other better, Kaden."
The way he says my name feels like a brand, a claim he’s already staked.
The door creaks open, and Angela walks back in, scrolling through her tablet. "Okay, Kaden, we’re all set for...." She stops dead, seeing Bastian. Her entire posture shifts instantly, her frazzled energy flattening into something stiff and deferential. "Oh. Good afternoon, Sir."
Bastian gives her a curt, dismissive nod. "Good job, Angela." He says the words to her, but his gaze remains locked on me. "I’ll let you get back to it."
He starts to move, but he doesn't head for the exit. My breath hitches as he walks toward the desk where I’m standing. I brace myself, my spine going completely taut, every nerve ending in my body firing off warning flares. I try to act casual, leaning my hip against the wood, but it’s a lie. My skin feels two sizes too small.
He stops. He’s too close....close enough that I can feel the radiating heat of him, close enough that the scent of his woodsmoke and power is the only thing I can inhale.
He reaches out and my heart stops. His hand, large and cool, cups my jaw, his thumb resting just beneath my lower lip. I’m pinned. I’m a specimen under a freaking microscope, and I can't move. I’m conflicted, caught between the urge to move away and the desperate, pathetic need to lean into that touch.
"Such a pretty face you have," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with agonizing slowness. He looks terrifyingly calm, his eyes pinned to mine with a lethal, focused intensity.
I feel like I’m vibrating, I’m an exposed wire. He leans in, his hand still firm on my jaw, pulling me toward him until his lips are a hair’s breadth from my ear. Angela is standing ten feet away, but she might as well be on another planet.
His voice drops to a low, filthy vibration that only I can hear.
"I can’t wait to cum all over it."
The world doesn't just stop....it disintegrates. My entire mental capacity fries instantly, my brain short-circuiting into a white-noise blur of shock and raw, carnal heat. The sheer, unfiltered vulgarity of it, the image he just burned into my head, leaves me paralyzed. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I'm nothing but a pulse and a desperate, aching void where my composure used to be.
He steps back. The loss of his touch is like a sudden drop in temperature. He lets go of my jaw, his expression smooth and unbothered. Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out the door, his stride confident and effortless. And I stand there, rooted to the spot, my face burning and my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. I can still feel the ghost of his palm on my skin.
"Kaden?" Angela’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. "You okay?"
I swallow hard, my throat tight. I don't answer. I just stare at the closed door, a part of me knowing that no matter how hard I run, I’m already caught.
I’m sitting in my beat-up sedan, the engine ticking as it cools in the driveway, but the heat inside the car is suffocating. My hands are shaking....not a tremor, but a full-blown vibration as I flatten the crisp pages of the contract against the steering wheel.
I barely remember the rest of the day. Angela had talked and I’d moved like a marionette with severed strings. The second I could get away, I’d practically begged for a copy of the paperwork.
Now, I’m scouring the legalese like my life depends on it.
His words aren't just a memory...they’re a physical weight, pressing into the small of my back, dragging my focus down to the sudden, violent throb between my legs.
‘I can’t wait to cum all over it.’
"Shut up," I hiss to the empty car, closing my eyes for a second, but the image is already there....vivid, filthy, and pinned to the back of my eyelids. I see Bastian’s hand on my jaw again, but this time, he isn't just whispering. I can practically feel the heat of his breath, the phantom pressure of him forcing my head back, his eyes dark with the singular intent of making that promise a reality.
A harsh, involuntary breath hitches in my throat as my cock gives a heavy, insistent twitch. It’s a sharp, aching pulse that makes my vision blur.
God, no.
I shift in the driver’s seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make the friction feel like a dare, but it’s useless. I’m painfully, embarrassingly hard. It’s degrading. It’s unhinged. He talked to me like I was a piece of furniture he’d already bought and paid for, and yet, my body is reacting like I’ve been starving for it. I’m not a toy. I’m not some rich guy's plaything!
I snap my eyes open and dive back into the fine print. I’m looking for the catch. I’m looking for the hidden clause that officially turns me into his property. I wouldn't put it past a man like him. I’m half-expecting to find a Paragraph 12, Subsection B, stating that:
The Talent hereby agrees to be available for 'after-hours consultation' at the Employer’s discretion, including but not limited to serving as a human footstool or a literal sex slave whenever his billionaire-brand blue balls get too heavy to carry..... agreeing to 'manual labor' that involves less work and more swallowing.
I read the damn thing twice. My eyes are burning, tracking over terms like exclusivity, remuneration, and image rights.
Nothing. It’s a standard, if incredibly generous, modeling contract. There's no mention of "personal services." No mention of the things he wants to do to my face. No "Devil’s Bargain" in black and white. But I don't feel relieved. The lack of a written trap just makes the verbal one feel more real. The contract says I’m an employee. The look in Bastian’s eyes said something else.
I lean my head back against the headrest and let out a jagged breath. I haven't even started the job yet, and I already feel like I’m drowning. I look at the house, Josie is probably inside, wondering why I’m sitting in the car like a freak, and I realize I can’t tell her a word of this.
I fold the papers and shove them into the glove box, slamming it shut. It doesn't matter what the contract says. The smartest thing to do, the sane thing, would be to call Angela right now and tell her I’ve developed a sudden, terminal case of cold feet. I don't need this kind of stress.
The money, though..... It’s a staggering amount. Was it a lure? A high-priced down payment on my dignity? I check the time on the dashboard and let out a sharp curse. I’m going to be late, and Tony, our manager at Orphic, mentioned he had some big announcement during the Friday pre-shift meeting. It better be something life-changing, like a massive pay raise or a bonus. If he can put a little more breathing room in my bank account, it'll make it a hell of a lot easier to tell Bastian Steele exactly where he can shove his fucking "strenuous positions."