Joe was dreaming... again. Kindall was smiling at him, leaning in close, her fingers grazing his chest. Her voice soft and teasing, saying things that a sweet girl next door would surely never say in daylight. He touched her golden hair. Her skin radiated a warmth that felt impossibly tender, as if she’d been made only for his touch.
They moved together. They were somewhere private. Somewhere only they existed. She whispered his name. He moaned, hips jerking, body trembling. The sensation overwhelming him completely.
In the waking world, his wife stirred. “Joe?” her sleepy voice murmured.
He came to with a jolt, chest tight and unsteady, finally managing to open his eyes. “Sorry. Just… bad dream,” he mumbled, turning over quickly.
But it wasn’t a bad dream. It was one of the best dreams he'd ever had... one he wanted desperately to come true. He stared at the wall, willing his body to quiet, the damp sheet beneath him sticking to his skin.
. . . . . .
Down the street, Kindall stirred in her sleep, caught inside a dream that was so vivid it felt real.
A long hallway stretched before her, and the air was tinged with tobacco... and something darker. Something with a spiced undertone that drew her closer. At the end, his door stood open, inviting her to come in, spilling only a muted glow from a table lamp.
As she stepped inside, she noticed how Steven's office was paneled in mahogany and filled with alphabetized volumes. A desk of gleaming dark wood dominated the space, its surface immaculate except for a single cigar cutter and a paperweight carved from some impossibly rare stone. It looked like onyx, but she could only guess.
Steven sat in a wingback chair, cloaked in dim light, a cigar resting in his fingers. He didn’t speak. He only watched her, his gaze steady, unhurried—an authority that pressed against her as surely as a hand. The weight of it felt as heavy as the scent of leather in the air.
She patiently waited for him to speak, to be addressed. But he took his time, like he wanted her to take in his presence. To be forced to sit still in the silence. To wonder what was next.
When he finally told her to lie back on the chaise lounge, her body obeyed before she even thought to question it. His voice felt like steel wrapped in silk, smooth yet unyielding, and every syllable seemed to tighten the coil of desire inside her.
“You know what you did, don't you?”
Kindall’s breath caught before she could manage to speak. She looked up at him, trying to appear composed, though every nerve sparked with anticipation. “Yes,” she finally managed a whisper. “Another typing error?”
The man before her didn't move. Not even the leather beneath him dared to sigh — not a whisper of movement, not the faintest creak.
“Another typing error,” he repeated. “I thought we were done with typing errors. Especially after last time."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Monroe. I won't do it again."
"That's what you said... last time. He took in another deep, long inhale of his cigar. "I don't think you're grasping the brevity of this position, how important it is to proofread your work. What would my client think if they read: "The property is sold 'ass is'," he read aloud, grimacing. He held the document out at arm's length, pinched between two fingers, as if the typo itself might stain his shirt.
Kindall agonized for a moment how she had made such an embarrassing typo. She agonized how she had disappointed him. Yet again. And she wondered what he was going to do this time. Would he make good on his promise? Had he actually meant what he'd said before?
. . . . . .
She hoped he would find a way to forgive her. She really needed this job. So she decided she had to do whatever it took to make it up to him.
"Do you even care that you've made this typo?"
"Yes, Sir. I do," she said with sincerity in her eyes, but the look in Mr. Monroe's was unmistakably malevolent.
"I don't think you understand the concept of following instructions. I have instructed you to proofread these documents before you hand them in to me. So let's have a lesson in following instructions. Lift the hem of your dress. Just enough to show your panties," he commanded, sitting down his cigar.
Without pause, she felt her hand move as though guided by his will.
"I'm surprised your wearing panties at all," he said, his eyes now glowing like two embers. "You like touching yourself, don't you?”
“Yes,” she breathed. She knew his instruction was implied. She knew that she had control over her hand, but it was as if he was the one who was actually in control, making it move exactly the way he wanted it to. It only took a few seconds before she felt her body warming up, like it was preparing for something important. Something she wanted deep inside of her. Every sensation now felt ten times stronger. Every movement of her fingertips sent waves of pleasure through her.
Steven's eyes narrowed, the faintest curl of smoke drifting between them.
"You know what happens to naughty secretaries?" His baritone voice felt like it had penetrated her soul. "They get spanked."
Her heart raced as he leaned forward, voice lowering to a command. “Come here. Bend over my desk.”
She was rising, ready to walk toward him, her pulse wild with anticipation, when... CRASH.
Milo’s tail had swept a glass from the coffee table in the living room, shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces.
She bolted upright, heart pounding. Wide awake now. The dream clung to her like a mist.
And Steven's eyes—those fiery and commanding eyes—lingered behind her own.