Submission {UNFIN}

Chapter Four.

2:27 p.m., New York City, Vogue National Offices, Top floor.

I sighed and placed my things to the side atop my desk in exasperation. In that moment, the last thing I'd wanted to do was read another article or look at another photograph or verify another ad. My brain had been maxed out like a shopaholic's credit card, and I hadn't any patience to tolerate the overload anymore, no, I could not. It was roughly two o'clock and the Sun peered nobly through the immensely large number of clouds, providing New York with just enough light to continue functioning, though it could've been brighter.

A knock on the door sounded, shattering my mirror of thoughts with it's harsh knife. With my mood in the shape that it was, whoever interrupted my cerebral break was coerced for a surly lecture on why they should've left me alone for the rest of the day. I adjusted my glasses, and let out another rough breath of air, tipping back in my chair.

"Come in," I yelled, and instantaneously, there was another headache right in front of my face. Had it simply been Rita, she would've received a thorough scolding, but him? Oh, he would be repaid for his entry with a repugnant, unsavory tirade that would make those big lips of his curl back in loathing. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I spat, prepared to pounce on him with my words like a cat on a mouse in the fierce winter.

"Aye ma, chill. My boss said I have to get the interview. It'll only take a few minutes, alright?" He welcomed himself into the plush couch that sat across from my desk, causing me to furrow my brow in deeper aggravation.

"First, don't call me ma. I'm not one of your 'homegirls' from down the block, got it? Second, I told you once that I wasn't doing that interview. I shouldn't have to tell your ass again." With hungry, journeying eyes, I surveyed the way his tongue wet lips and I then smoothed my skirt in my lap anxiously, feeling my body wake in arousal. The erotic fantasies that my mind managed to fabricate in a matter of milliseconds, simply off of the image of him licking his lips, was astounding. Yet and still, he wouldn't be able to use his physical appearance to trick me into some sort of word trap that would force me to agree to an interview. I was stronger than that, more dominant than that.

"Well excuse me then," he replied, placing a hand to his chest in false offense. "But this order isn't coming from me, it's coming from the head of the Article 2 & 3 Department, and if you have an issue, you have to take it up with her. Besides, the way your eyes were scanning over me like a piece of meat doesn't particularly make me think that you want me to leave," he speculated with a raised brow. At his remark, I straightened up in my seat, trying to grasp an ounce of composure. Our eyes caught each other's peculiar gaze, and I took note of the way his palm grazed over his crotch, making me smirk in contentment.

"Shawn," I paused, waiting for him to register that I'd called him by his first name, "what am I getting from letting you interview me? I mean, everyone is benefiting but me. What are you going to give me?" My intentions were clear in that moment, whether or not he chose to acknowledge them. I studied the way his forehead creased in thought, and then how the creases smoothed out in realization.

"Beyoncé, if I may, I don't believe that it would be quite appropriate of us to act on that," he stated, the glint of hope in his eyes implying otherwise. We were on another, more threatening level now; First name basis. The further we advanced in comfortability, the further I slipped into fear of the unknown, and that unknown was an abyss of possible submission that I looked down upon with trembling features.

I stood and sauntered to where he sat in the couch. With a captivating aura, I eased myself onto his lap, resting snugly on his thighs. Bending my neck down, I drew our lips closer, waiting expectantly for him to initiate a kiss or for him to loose his equanimity. When we stayed in that consecrated position for a fixed moment, I then learned that the man was to be much harder to crack than a man on the street from the money-driven communities of New York.