Mr. Rochester: British Bad Boy (Classics Made Smutty Book 1) Read online

  My breasts ache hard at the threat, nipples poking against the cups of my bra, and my pussy isn’t faring any better. It’s throbbing so madly, and it’s so damn wet my panties are completely drenched---

  And I know there can only be one way – one person – to make this torture stop.

  “You’re going to punish me,” I choke out.

  The glitter in his eyes blazes, and my knees literally knock against each other.

  “Good girl,” Mr. Rochester whispers.

  The words make me want to whimper. Good girl. Two simple words that I should hate but instead make my body melt in wanton heat.

  “Now come here.”

  And I find myself following him even as I question my sanity.

  Why? Why am I following him? Why?

  When I step between Mr. Rochester’s thighs, the feel of being this close to him is too much and I tremble harder.

  “Now take off your blouse, please.”

  I jerk, my eyes flying to him in shock, but Mr. Rochester’s languid expression doesn’t change.

  “You heard me.” His pleasant tone makes it like he had simply asked me to hand him the remote control, but oh, those eyes. Those devilish blue eyes that swear to do all these wonderfully wicked things---

  Aaaaah.

  I shakily reach for the hem of my blouse, but my fingers refuse to move further. I’ve never undressed myself in front of a man and that I’d be doing it now for Mr. Rochester---

  “Do it now, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester croons, “because I won’t ask again.”

  Ah. God.

  It’s that threat again.

  Instead of blackmailing me over things that mattered---

  He’s making everything my choice.

  And it works.

  Cool air caresses my skin as the blouse finally falls to the carpeted floor, and I fix my gaze doggedly on his chest, unable to meet his gaze, knowing that there can only be more---

  “Now, the bra.”

  Aaaah. The mere knowledge that he’ll soon see my bare breasts makes my fingers shake harder, and all the while I can feel myself heating up---

  “You’re blushing all over, Ms. Reed.”

  Ah God. My fingers become clumsier and I struggle with the back clasp of my bra.

  “Say, ‘Please help me, Mr. Rochester.’”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Dare I? Dare I say it? Dare I?

  “Say it.”

  His voice is still commanding, but it’s the raw desire underlining the words that do the trick.

  And so I hear myself whisper, “Please help me, Mr. Rochester.”

  A hiss of lust escapes Mr. Rochester’s lips, and I almost whimper, realizing that he wants this as much as I do.

  Mr. Rochester moves toward me. “Stand straight.”

  I hasten to follow me and fight against a wave of self-consciousness as the new position makes my breasts protrude. When he moves closer I can’t help stiffening---

  “Does this excite you, Ms. Reed?”

  I bite my lip harder, refusing to answer because I know whatever I say is just going to incriminate me.

  His uninjured arm goes around my body, and I draw my breath as the new position causes him to move forward, closer and closer---

  His fingers find the clasp at the same time his mouth nuzzles the valley of my breasts.

  Oh God. God oh God.

  My bra falls to the floor, and I whimper.

  A second later and Mr. Rochester’s hand is alternately cupping and palming my right breast---

  I cry out.

  “I love the way your breast feels, Ms. Reed.”

  Aaaaaaaaaaah.

  Looking down, I see Mr. Rochester’s head slowly descend, and I can’t help sucking my breath.

  Oh God.

  His breath starts to fan my nipple.

  Oh Gooooooood---

  “Such succulent-looking tips,” Mr. Rochester rasps.

  My hands clench once more against my sides. It’s the only thing I can do so I don’t grip his hair and just shove my nipple into his mouth.

  “Do you want me to suck on them?”

  I bite back a cry at what he’s asking. Oh God. Oh God. Why can’t he just do it?

  “Do you, Ms. Reed?”

  I imagine how it would feel, having his mouth on my breast, his teeth grazing my nipple---

  “Yes,” I choke out.

  “Good.”

  My eyes close.

  But several moments have passed, and nothing happens.

  When I open my eyes I see Mr. Rochester has straightened.

  What the---

  “Your punishment, Ms. Reed,” he says pleasantly.

  Outrage explodes inside of me as I realize that he intends to leave me unfulfilled. “Bastard!” I raise my hand to slap him---

  “Do that,” he warns in the same pleasant voice, “and you’ll have to wait longer for my touch.”

  Oh!

  “So what’s it to be?”

  My fingers clench in the air.

  I want to slap him so bad---

  But I also know I want him to fuck me more.

  Mr. Rochester starts to smirk when he sees me pulling my hand back.

  “You’re such an asshole,” I snarl.

  “And I’ll keep being one,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “because it’s exactly how you want me to be.”

  The words make me want to scratch his eyes out, but I don’t. There’s this shameful cringing part of me that finds it impossible to deny the truth, and it’s the fact that I hate him for the same reasons I find him irresistible.

  And the bastard knows this, I think darkly. The damn bastard knows everything, it seems.

  When I start to pick my clothes up, he says, “No.”

  I gape at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to see you leave like that. And tomorrow when I wake you up, I still want to see you without anything covering your breasts.”

  “Are you insane? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  But Mr. Rochester only shrugs. “We both know you already know the answer to that.”

  “You---”

  “Last but not the least, Ms. Reed.” He pauses, his gaze narrowing on me. “You are not to touch yourself or make yourself come tonight. I want that pleasure for myself. Do you understand?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He slides to his feet gracefully and takes my hand. “Let me walk to your room.”

  “No, thanks.” I yank my hand out of his hold and stalk back to the connecting door of our suites, all the while feeling his gaze on me. Oh God. I can’t believe I’m doing exactly as he says, walking out of his room with nothing but my pants---

  The thought has me wrapping my arms around myself, and the feel of my bare breasts against my skin makes me shudder in a mixture of shame and desire.

  Oh God.

  Is this how my life is going to be from now on?

  I toss and turn the entire night, troubled by nightmares of both the past and the present. When I do fall asleep, it’s already too late, and it’s only as if I’ve been dozing for mere moments when I feel warm, hard fingers clasp my bare shoulder.

  “Rise and shine, Ms. Reed.”

  My eyes fly open, and it’s exactly as I wished and feared.

  Mr. Rochester looms over me, and when I sit up he moves away. He’s already bathed and dressed for work in a sexy pinstriped suit. He looks so very dashing the way only proper Englishmen seem capable of looking, and he could’ve been the epitome of elegance if not for the ugly cast that covered his right hand.

  “You’d make an exquisite sight to wake up to, my dear.”

  The term of endearment feels like something a grandfather would say, but with Mr. Rochester and his oh-so-British tone, the endearment feels thrillingly sensual---

  Until I realize what said exquisite sight he’s staring at.

  “Bastard!” Too late I reach for the covers and clutch them to my naked chest.

  Mr. R
ochester smiles. “It was good while it lasted.” He gives me a nod, murmuring, “I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast.” As he turns towards the door, he says, “You have thirty minutes.” He pauses. “Don’t make me wait again.”

  The door closes behind him.

  Asshole. Bastard. Jerk.

  But even as I call him all sorts of names, I’m already racing around the room, not wanting to make him wait. If I do, I just know he’s going to make me wait as well---

  The icy cold water blasting down my body is both a torment and comfort, relieving the dull, persistent ache of my unfulfilled needs. If last night has taught me anything, then it’s sleeping sexually unsatisfied is hell on earth, and I definitely want it to end.

  When I finally make it to the dining room, I’ve at least ten minutes to spare, and I grit my teeth as Mr. Rochester makes a show of checking the gold-plated watch on his wrist. “You’re remarkably early, Ms. Reed.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I snap defensively. “I’m not the one to linger in the shower, that’s all.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Rochester’s voice is soothing, but the smirking amusement in his sapphire gaze is unmistakable.

  Bastard.

  “Please have a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me, and I force myself to acquiesce. Returning to his seat, Mr. Rochester offers, “If there’s anything else you’d like Consuelo to prepare---”

  I shake my head. “This is like a feast already, thanks.” And I’m not exaggerating. All kinds of breakfast fare are laid out before us, more suitable to feed a party of ten rather than just the two of us.

  I take my time choosing my food all the while worrying that Mr. Rochester expects me to a model houseguest and expect me to make small talk. But when my boss continues to prioritize his Wall Street Journal over paying me attention, I find myself relaxing and letting my appetite take over.

  It’s only when I’m on my second mountain of bacon that I realize Mr. Rochester has been staring at me for quite some time.

  Shit. Feeling guilty and self-conscious, I offer him the last strip of bacon on my plate, which also happens to be the last strip on the table. “Do you want it?” I ask clumsily.

  He laughs. “It’s all yours, and I’ll make sure Consuelo prepares more next time.”

  I have coffee after while Mr. Rochester has tea, and then we’re off to the office, with Sam once again driving the limousine.

  I blink in surprise when Mr. Rochester takes a seat beside me. “Sorry,” I say right away. “I didn’t know you prefer this side.”

  But when I start to move to the opposite row of seat, Mr. Rochester shakes his head. “Stay here, Ms. Reed.”

  Oooookay. We’re still just a little too close to each other for comfort, so I try inching towards the other end of the seat---

  “Why are you trying to get away from me?”

  “I’m not.” But I can’t quite meet his gaze as I speak. No way am I going to tell him that it’s because I hate the way he turns me on so easily.

  “Look at me please.”

  I reluctantly do as he says---

  Ah.

  This close, I am once again reminded how extraordinarily good-looking my boss is, and I find myself swallowing hard. Is this really the same guy who had demanded last night that I take off my blouse and---

  I mentally shake my head.

  I am not going to think about that---

  “So, Ms. Reed.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is speculative. “Did you touch yourself last night?”

  ---and so here I am, about to speak of it instead.

  “What do you think?” I mutter furiously under my breath.

  Amusement flashes in his eyes. “That bad, is it?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m sure you know,” he murmurs, “I’ve fired people for far less offensive reasons than that.”

  The reminder makes my mouth tighten. “Yes. Unfortunately I do.”

  “You hate me for it.”

  I look him in the eye, saying levelly, “I do.”

  “And yet you can’t help wanting me.”

  I switch back to my all-around answer for safety, saying sweetly, “Fuck you.”

  He laughs.

  We don’t talk anymore after it, but when we reach the office building and Mr. Rochester insists on helping me out of the limousine, he waits for me to get my feet before bending his head down, whispering to my ear, “I want your panties out of the way when I call you to my office.”

  As I sputter in shock, Mr. Rochester doesn’t waste time as he spins me away from the limousine and escort me to the building, his uninjured hand pressed against the small of my back. The sight of us arriving together draws attention from everyone we walk past, and I just know that by the time we make it to the penthouse floor, the entire company would know we’ve arrived at work together.

  I should be furious over it, and normally I would be but right now all I can think about is Mr. Rochester’s last words.

  When we enter the elevator, our eyes clash---

  Are you serious? Are you mad? No fucking way!

  Those are the words I should say, but instead I hear myself choke out, “When?” I want to cringe in humiliated defeat as the word slips out. If Mr. Rochester had the slightest doubt of how much he has me wrapped around his finger---

  Mr. Rochester’s lips curve ever so slowly. “Today.”

  My teeth gnash. He’s deliberately making this hard, the bastard. He knows I want him so badly he can get away with practically anything.

  I wait impatiently for the other people to step out, and when we’re alone, I snarl under my breath, “You know what I mean. When today?”

  Mr. Rochester smirks. “Exactly.”

  Gaaaah. I’d have reached for his throat and strangle him with my bare hands in the next moment, but unfortunately the elevator doors have already parted, and so I’m forced to keep my hands to myself.

  Mr. Rochester steps out and inclines his head towards me. “Ms. Reed.” His voice is polite, but the gleam in his sapphire eyes is pure cruel amusement.

  Asshole. Bastard. Jerk.

  But I can’t take my gaze off him even as he walks away, and I find it near impossible to keep my body from shaking as lust and rage war inside of me. Mr. Rochester has me in the palm of his fucking hand, and the bastard knows it.

  It’s around half past ten when Mr. Rochester’s first round of meetings ends, and I unthinkingly straighten in my seat as I watch the last of his guests leave. Will it happen now? The answer eludes me, and even as I force myself to keep my gaze on my laptop and my fingers to keep moving, I’m excruciatingly aware of the way my breath catches every time I hear a door swing open…just as I’m painfully conscious of the way my stomach cramps with disappointment when I realize the sound isn’t coming from the CEO’s office.

  Minutes trickle by, and when I shift restlessly on my seat, I’m suddenly reminded by how bare I am under my skirt. I’ve taken my panties off soon as I’ve placed my stuff on the desk, and it’s been what---

  Over two hours of panty-less existence?

  The realization makes me swallow hard. It’s only been two days since Mr. Rochester’s literally walked into my life, and yet so much has changed it’s terrifying. How much more can I change? And is it right that I’m changing?

  Mr. Rochester comes out at lunch hour, but I manage to keep my head down.

  Is it going to happen now?

  And yet Mr. Rochester only ends up walking past my desk without a single word---

  What the hell?

  I hear people start to talk, and my heart clenches when I hear Virginia’s especially loud voice reach me all the way from reception.

  That will teach her.

  I hear the other women snigger as they agree.

  Bitch. I want to scratch all of their eyes out, but even I know my anger is superficial. The person I’m really furious with is him.

  It’s half past two when Mr. Rochester walks back into the office, and again he strides p
ast my desk without a word.

  I resist the urge to throw my laptop at him.

  Whatever.

  I’m just over it---

  Or so you say, the know-it-all voice inside my head snickers, but we know that’s a lie since you still don’t have your panties on.

  Shit.

  My inner voice has a point, and it’s all I can do not to throw a tantrum and start slamming my keyboard against the desk.

  Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

  Did he ask me to get rid of my panties purely to make fun of me? Is all of this just a game to Mr. Rochester?

  I stare murderously at my laptop’s screen. Instead of words and numbers I see my boss’ face, and God I want to slap it so---

  My intercom suddenly buzzes, making me jump in my seat.

  Shit.

  I clutch my chest unconsciously, hating the way my heart so easily changes its reason for beating madly, switching from anger to excitement in a blink of an eye.

  After taking a deep breath, I pick up the receiver. “Yes, Mr. Rochester?”

  “You took long enough to answer.”

  “I---”

  “Don’t bother. I’m not interested. Just get in here. Now.” The line goes dead, leaving me gaping at the receiver.

  Bastard.

  I jump to my feet---

  And regret it a second later when I feel my skirt inch up dangerously close to the crack of my ass.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Face flushing, I hastily push my skirt down and look around guiltily, but fortunately no one seems to be facing my way. I force my limbs to work, all the while conscious of how bare my lower half is. I don’t know what I’d do if someone actually ended up finding out I don’t have anything under my skirt.

  Kill Mr. Rochester first probably, I think grimly, then myself.

  Not bothering to knock on Mr. Rochester’s door, I barge inside my boss’ office and slam the door loudly behind me, uncaring of how it would look to others. Crossing my arms over my chest, I demand coldly, “Do you really think I’m in the mood right now?”

  It’s a grand entrance if I say so myself, but I might as well have slunk in like a timid little mouse with all the attention my boss gives me. Mr. Rochester hasn’t even glanced up the entire time I was speaking and instead takes his time putting his papers away. After, he places his pen on the desk before getting to his feet with leisurely grace.