Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)

Emerson

My palm has been itching for days. Every chance I get, I stare down at the lines that stretch from my wrist to my fingers and back again, thinking hard about what Charlotte said.

I’m destined for some great love. I laughed at it for the first day or two. Then, the idea began to settle in my mind. After Marie, Beau’s mother, I wrote off the idea of love. Truthfully, long before that. What we had was fun, vibrant days of sex and youth when forever felt possible until we had an unexpected pregnancy and had to face the reality of parenting and adulthood.

It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years since I gave love a good effort. That was a long time ago, and the idea of a relationship started sounding like more of a hassle than it was worth.

So, something about Charlotte’s little palm reading changed the course of my thoughts. And I can’t stop thinking about how she looked, lips parted and eyes dilated. The hope, the fear, the arousal on her face. Maybe a hint of excitement too, if I’m being honest.

Charlotte has had an effect on me since she started working here. And not in a good way. At least not if I want to get my son back and stay out of her pants. Although this plan is falling apart more and more each day. How can she be of any use to me if she doesn’t speak to him anymore?

While she’s out for lunch, I pull out my phone and dial his number again. Unsurprisingly, it goes to voicemail after only one and a half rings, which means he declined my call, again.

And this time, I do something I haven’t done yet.

“Hi, son. I was just talking to Charlotte…er, Charlie, I mean. I’m sure you know by now she’s working for me. She makes a great secretary, and she talks about you so much. It makes me miss you. I hope you’re well. Please call me.”

When I hit the red button, I sit in my silence. I sound so fucking desperate. Is this what he wants? For me to beg? To make a fool of myself for him, or does it make him lose respect for me?

A moment later, the front door opens and Charlotte carries in a bag from the deli down the street.

“It was so beautiful out, I decided to walk. I hope I’m not late.”

“You’re fine,” I mutter without looking up. When I finally do trail my eyes upward, I notice her cheeks are bright red, flushed from the cool wind.

Wait. She walked to the deli? It’s almost a mile and a half away. And it’s not nice out. It’s February and only forty-five degrees.

“Charlotte,” I bark out coldly as I stand. “Why didn’t you drive?”

Rushing toward her, I take the bags and touch her icy hands. My molars grind. Then I run my thumbs over her cold cheeks, and she shivers.

“I’m fine!” She pulls away, but as I peer out the window, I catch a glimpse of her car parked next to mine, and I let out a heavy sigh.

“Is everything with your car all right?”

She swallows, trying to get around me and walk to the kitchen, but I block her path. Gripping her chin, I tilt her head up to look at me.

When her shoulders sag, she gives in. “I think it’s the battery. I can have a mechanic come out to jump it, so it’s not stuck in your driveway, I promise. I’m sorry.”

Everything in me tenses as I think about her buried in her coat against the wind as she walked for over forty-five minutes in the cold, because she didn’t want to tell me that her car wouldn’t start.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“It’s fine,” she replies with a forced smile.

“Charlotte.” I take her by the arm, reminding myself to be more gentle than my instincts insist I be. My inner Dom wants to punish her for lying. I’d like to shake her, squeeze her until it hurts, perhaps even put her over my knee—

No. She’s only twenty-one, and she has an asshole for a father who never taught her how to jump-start her own car.

I loosen my grip on her arm, but keep her close. “Don’t do that again. If your car won’t start, I want you to tell me and then you can take my car, understand?”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, and the disappointment in her expression pains me.

I don’t bother telling her she didn’t do anything worthy of apologizing. Instead, I warm her tiny, cold hands in my large, warm ones. She shivers again as I bring them to my mouth, blowing hot air against her skin.

She avoids my eyes, and I realize I’m getting too intimate again. After her reaction to one kiss last week, I have to be more careful. That kiss was a mistake, but I found myself getting carried away with her. It’s too easy to be around her and to feel so comfortable, but if I let myself go there, I’ll regret it. She’s beautiful, and if she was anyone else, I wouldn’t have hesitated to take her to my bedroom to make her feel sublime. But she’s not just anyone. She’s literally been with my son, and I’ll do more damage than good if I cross that line. It’s just wrong.

“Let’s eat,” I say, dropping her hands and guiding her to the dining room.

Normally, I eat at my desk while I work, and she eats alone in here, but today, I feel the need to keep her company.

“After work today I can help you jump your car.”

“You really don’t have to,” she argues, setting her sandwich down.

“It’s easy, Charlotte. Really, it’s not necessary to call a mechanic.”

She still looks uneasy as she picks at her sandwich, chewing more on her bottom lip than her food. And it occurs to me that she’s not comfortable having someone else do things for her.

“Your feet must be hurting.”

After taking a bite of her pastrami sandwich, she glances down at her heels.

“Believe it or not, I’m getting used to them. They’re actually pretty comfortable.”

I look down at her feet again, and they look red and swollen in her black stilettos. Pushing the rest of my sandwich aside, I turn toward her.

“Give me your feet.”

“What?” she stammers around a mouthful of food, wiping the napkin across her lips.

“You walked three miles in those to get me lunch. It’s the least I can do.” Pushing my chair out, I tap my lap. Is this too sexual? I’m not even sure. It’s just a foot rub, and I need to do something. I’m still so torn between wanting to punish her for lying and nurturing her for going through that for me. Considering I want to do a lot more than massage her feet, I think this is pretty tame.

“Seriously?” she asks before wrapping her sandwich in the deli paper.

“Seriously.”

With a nervous swallow, she watches my face as she lifts her right foot up to me. I delicately remove each of her black heels and wince at the painful-looking state of her pinched toes. She has sheer black stockings on her feet, so I pat her foot and say, “Take these off.”

Her breath hitches. Pulling her skirt up a couple inches, she unclasps the top of her thigh-highs from the garter, and I say a silent fuck me in my head. I don’t know what I was expecting but that was not it. I wish I could look away as she unclasps the other side, but those little straps hidden under her clothes are sexy as sin, and I’m only a man, after all.

My cock is growing hard in my pants, and what started as an innocent foot rub to help ease her pain and my conscience, has turned into a sensual peep show and what will be a rough case of blue balls for me later.

I help her roll the pantyhose down her legs and drape them over the back of her chair. She’s quiet, biting her lip and watching my face as I begin rubbing her poor battered feet.

She lets out a hum as I massage, and I have to shift my growing cock away from her ankle resting on my lap.

“Does that feel good?” I ask, wincing as I hear those words escape my lips. Do I even know how to be non-sexual? Apparently not.

“Yes,” she replies softly.

I watch as she melts into her chair, looking relaxed. When I dig my thumbs gently into her arches, her head hangs back, and I know I’ve won. This was the pleasure I wanted to see, and with nothing in return for myself.

“From now on, take off your shoes when you come into work. Don’t wear these all day. Understand?”

“Okay,” she replies with a sigh.

Moving to the opposite foot, I do the same, and everything is fine…until her right foot inches too far and brushes against the hard length in my pants. She tenses, her eyes finding mine, and in that moment, I feel like the world’s biggest creep. I wasn’t doing this to get off or turned on. I was doing this because I wanted her to feel good, but even now that sounds predatory in my head. I’m an HR nightmare waiting to happen.

The moment stretches on between us while I hold her foot in my hand, waiting for her to erupt from her chair and call me out or leave or slap me…because if anyone else touched her the way I’m touching her now, I’d have their fucking head on a stick.

But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, with her gaze locked on mine, she brushes her foot against my cock again. Or was I imagining that? Nope, she definitely does it again, this time with a little more force, and it feels so fucking good. I resume massaging her foot while the other rests against my aching erection, and this is definitely not so innocent anymore.

“Charlotte,” I whisper, but even I don’t know what I’m about to say. I should tell her to stop and put her foot down.

“Yes?” Her voice is breathy and inviting. The moment is charged and sexual and very, very fucking dangerous.

Before I can say another word, her phone rings on the table next to her. I almost look away, but my eyes dance back to the screen when I recognize the name.

Beau.

She tears her feet away from me and freezes with her hand over the phone. Then she looks at me.

“Answer it,” I command her a bit too enthusiastically.

As she snatches it up and hits the green button, I freeze in my seat. This is because of the message I left him. I knew he’d reach out to her when he found out she’s working for me. So, now what?

“Hey,” she murmurs into the phone, walking across the room but not too far. I can’t hear what he’s saying on the other end, but I watch her body language. Her shoulders tighten closer to her ears and her other hand wraps around her middle as she speaks. “What?”

She peeks back at me at the exact moment I’m sure she realizes I told him.

“Yeah, I am. Why?” She bites her lip and curls in on herself even more. “Because I needed a job and it pays better than the rink.”

A tense pause as I hear his muffled voice rattle on.

“It’s not about you,” she says a bit louder now. “No! I’m not— Beau!”

I stiffen in my seat. She looks noticeably affected and growing more agitated with each second.

“No, I won’t quit. I need this job, and what does it even matter to you?”

Then she gasps before turning toward me. “You’re wrong,” she mumbles quietly, her eyes still on my face. I can’t take another moment as I burst out of my seat. I don’t even know what I’m doing when I snatch the phone away from her and hold it against my ear.

“Beau?”

He stops talking the second he hears my voice. Then, he responds with just two words. “Fuck you.”

And the line goes dead.