~*JUNE*~
I blink at Mr. Macaulay, like a confused owl that’s just been smacked in the face with a fish.
Are my ears playing tricks on me, or did he really just ask me that?
At this point, I am absolutely certain this insufferable excuse for a man has finally lost his damn mind.
Something in that overpriced British skull of his has snapped. Melted. Completely short-circuited.
No sane human being asks their secretary, before nine in the morning, whether she enjoyed watching him get… his c**k sucked.
"Didn't you?" he repeats, that infuriating smirk spreading slowly across his face.
God… I want to wipe it off his face. No—smack it clean off.
I really want nothing more than to grab the folder on the desk in front of him and bring it down on his head—again and again—until that smirk frac
