Текст книги "The Good Assistant"
Автор книги: Cynthia Sax
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The Good Assistant
Cynthia Sax
Billionaire John Powers doesn’t mix business with pleasure. Until now.
* * *
My boss, John Powers, represents everything I want in a man. He’s the CEO and founder of a powerful company, that position having made him a billionaire, striking in an I-survived-a-bar-brawl sort of way, and too clever for my sanity.
I’m his assistant and desperately in love with him. I’d willingly serve him both in the boardroom and in the bedroom.
There’s one problem.
He doesn’t mix business with pleasure.
Ever.
The Good Assistant
Copyright 2015 Cynthia Sax
Ebook design by Mark's Ebook Formatting
Email [email protected] for more info
Discover more books by Cynthia Sax at her website
www.CynthiaSax.com
All Rights Are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First box set edition: May 2014
First ebook edition: October 2015
For more information contact Cynthia Sax at
www.CynthiaSax.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
About The Author
Chapter One
As I push through the revolving doors and enter Powers Corporation’s glass and marble lobby, my phone hums against my hip. It can’t be my too-sexy-for-any-woman’s-sanity boss. He called me two minutes ago.
I drape the dry cleaning bag over my shoulder, unclip my phone from my skirt’s waistband and groan. It is my boss. John Powers, billionaire, CEO, and unabashed control freak, is calling me yet again. I sigh. He goes a little crazy whenever I leave the building.
“You have a conference call at five thirty with Rexton Bass, Mr. Powers,” I answer, skipping the formalities. My boss has no patience with small talk. I quicken my pace, my heels tapping against the fine basket weave tile.
“I know where I’m supposed to be.” John’s growl sends a shiver of excitement rolling down my spine, tightening my nipples and heating my skin. He’s the only man who can turn me on with his voice alone. “Where the hell are you, Grant? And where the hell is my shirt?”
John calls everyone by his or her last name. I wouldn’t mind this quirk if my last name was at all feminine or sexy. “I have your shirt, sir, and I’ll be in your office in five minutes.” I avoid the receptionist’s pleading gaze as I pass her desk, turning toward the bank of elevators. Men and women in dark suits crowd around her. All of these visitors want a meeting with my insanely busy boss.
“Get that perky ass moving. I don’t have all day,” John barks. “I’ll be waiting for you in my briefs.” The phone clicks and there’s silence.
My hot-as-hell boss is waiting for me in his briefs. I stare at the small screen, visions of tanned skin, hard muscle, and dark brown hair flooding my overworked, sexually deprived brain.
John doesn’t mean anything provocative by his statement. He doesn’t see me as a woman. I attach the phone to my waistband and press the button for the elevator. He doesn’t see me at all. I’m a resource, an extension of his office like his desk or laptop.
The elevator doors open and I step inside.
“Miss Grant, wait up!”
I hold the doors open and Stacie Moore, the company’s newest, most aggressive marketing coordinator, flounces across the threshold, her large breasts jiggling. She’s blonde, beautiful, and generously endowed. If she wasn’t an employee, she’d be a perfect candidate for John’s next one night stand. I select the button for the top floor.
“Is that Mr. Powers’ shirt?” Stacie plucks at the dry cleaning bag. “My, he has wide shoulders, doesn’t he?” Her blue eyes glow.
I know all about my boss’ potent affect on women. I fell in love with him during my job interview. That was three years ago and my obsession with him hasn’t dimmed, not one bit. “Mr. Powers doesn’t mix personal and business matters, Miss Moore.” I jab the button for the marketing floor.
Stacie lifts her eyebrows. “You get straight to the point, don’t you?”
I don’t say anything as I do get straight to the point. Working for John has trained me to cut through the bullshit.
“I like that.” She grins. “So you and Mr. Powers aren’t together?” She dances in place, her short skirt hiking up with each wiggle. “You aren’t a couple?”
A couple? John and I? I glance at my reflection in the mirrored walls. I remain a plain, flat-chested brunette. I haven’t magically become a curvy blonde, a woman worthy of these outrageous assumptions. “He’s my boss and that’s the extent of our relationship.”
Lines appear between Stacie’s finely arched eyebrows. “Mr. Powers doesn’t look at you like a boss looks at his employee.”
I stare at her. “How does he look at me?”
“Like he wants to lock you in his man cave. He’s super protective of you.” She tilts her head. “But maybe that’s because you’re his assistant. He relies upon you.”
John Powers doesn’t rely upon anyone. He built his real estate empire on his own, having no industry contacts, overcoming poverty and a lack of a college education.
“I always speak before I think.” Stacie laughs. “Forget I said anything.”
She talks about switching jobs and her new roommate and the movie she saw last night, her conversation not requiring any contribution from me.
This is a good thing as all I can think about is her observation about my boss. She has to be wrong. John doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even lust after the gorgeous supermodels and actresses he dates, his attitude toward the women apathetic.
The elevator doors open at the marketing floor. “This is me.” Stacie laughs again. “It was good talking to you, Miss Grant.” She exits, her skirt flipping upward, revealing more of her tanned legs.
I gaze at my reflection. The hem of my black skirt suit reaches my knees. I impulsively reach under my jacket and pull my skirt three inches higher.
My cheeks heat. I’m a fool. John won’t notice the length of my skirt. I’m his assistant, a woman who picks up his dry cleaning, manages his schedule and arranges his dates.
The doors open, revealing the slick, stylish executive floor. I smile at Nancy, the receptionist, as I pass her antique desk. She wears a headset, her lips moving, her words hushed. Although it is five thirty-five in the afternoon, four men in dark suits wait in the brown leather chairs.
They aren’t waiting for John. My boss is attending a charity dinner tonight. His meetings for the day are done.
I hustle along the hallway, my heels falling soundlessly on the padded brown carpet. Gold-framed pictures depicting Powers-owned real estate hang on the beige walls. The desks are spaced widely apart, the corner offices claimed by board members. Every meeting room is filled with corporate decision-makers.
The ultimate decision-maker has his door open, uncaring about his state of undress. I rush into John’s personal domain and skid to a stop, my heart squeezing, my body humming with awareness.
My boss stands facing his floor to ceiling windows, gloriously naked from the waist upward, his shoulders broad and his back straight. Silver scars, remnants of his rough childhood, slash his golden skin. His tan is natural, his forearms darker than his shoulders, and his dark brown hair is cropped close to his head. Tuxedo pants hug his narrow hips, his feet are braced apart and a phone is pressed to his ear.
A massive mahogany desk paired with a brown leather captain’s chair dominates one end of the office. The shelves lining the interior walls are filled with textbooks, every weighty volume read by my self-educated boss. John’s suit, shirt, and tie are discarded over the two guest chairs positioned in front of the desk.
I stride to the brass coat rack and hang his shirt beside his tuxedo jacket. John turns, and his gaze meets mine, his brown eyes dark and smoldering, resembling the richest, most decadent hot chocolate. My stomach flutters.
His profile is sharp, his thin blade-like nose and defined chin striking rather than classically handsome. More scars circle his neck. According to internet reports, a druggie slashed my boss’ throat when he was a teenager. Not even that brush with death could slow him down.
My gaze drops and my pulse increases. John’s tuxedo pants are undone, the v exposing stark white cotton briefs. A trail of fine brown hair travels downward from the indent at his navel, disappearing under the waistband. I lick my lips, wishing to follow this path with my tongue.
“What?” John barks into his phone. “Hell no, Bass.” He returns his gaze to the blue sky, his focus on the call. I remove the shirt from the wire hanger. “There has to be profitability in this project. I’m running a business, not a charity.”
This isn’t the complete truth. Powers Corporation does give money to charity. I tap his fingers. John lifts his arm, his frown deepening, and I slip the shirtsleeve over his hand, his musky male scent engulfing me.
John leans into me, lowering his big body, allowing me to dress him. The soft cotton pulls tight across his wide shoulders, his back muscles ripple and his biceps bulge. He’s a man in his prime, strong and beautiful, and I long to drag my lips over his tanned skin, to taste every inch of him.
Good assistants don’t taste their bosses. With my slight form positioned in front of my executive’s much larger physique, I feel tiny and feminine and needy, so very needy. My fingers tremble as I fasten his black enamel buttons, quickly covering his magnificent chest, his chiseled abs, his heart-wrenching scars, removing the temptation to touch him. My normally keen-eyed boss thankfully doesn’t notice my reaction to his near-nudity.
“I know Grant told you that,” John rumbles, his voice deep. “What I don’t know is why you didn’t address my concerns immediately.” He spreads his arms.
I reach around his trim waist. His body is seductively warm. I tuck his shirttails into his pants, smoothing the material over his clenched ass cheeks. Dressing John is a test of my professionalism, a test I know I will some day fail.
“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for bullshit.”
I wince, having warned Mr. Bass not to waste my boss’ valuable time. The young CEO clearly didn’t listen to me. I slide my hands around John’s hips, over his groin, trying not to touch him, unsuccessful in my quest. My boss is too big, all over.
His cock hardens. In the past, I told myself this was a natural reaction, a man’s response to any woman’s touch. Now, after the discussion with Stacie, I’m not certain. Is he reacting specifically to me, to my hands on his body?
“That’s what I need to know,” John continues his phone conversation.
I fasten the button of his pants. The impressively large ridge in his white briefs prevents me from doing more. I nibble on my bottom lip and glance upward at his face, undecided as to what to do next. John doesn’t look at me, showing no indication that he knows I’m standing before him.
Stacie must be wrong. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even realize I’m here. I glide my fingertips over his briefs, flatten my palm along his cloth-covered shaft, and nudge him to the side. A shudder rolls down John’s torso, shaking his shoulders.
He knows I’m here now. I smugly tug the metal teeth of his zipper closer together and slowly pull the tab upward, stretching the black fabric of his pants over his hardness. His knuckles whiten around the frame of his phone.
I reach into the right front pocket of his pants, pressing my fingers into his hip as I remove the cufflinks I’ve stored there, the devil in me teasing him more, seeking to ensure he’s aware of me. John’s gaze flicks downward, his eyes excitingly dark, tempestuous, holding a warning I won’t, can’t heed.
I grasp his left wrist, fold the cotton neatly and insert the cufflink, my head bent over my task. John’s knuckles are scarred, silver slashes marring his tanned skin, a testament to his rough childhood and his warrior soul. He acts the sophisticated man now but he has fought for every thing he’s earned, building his business from nothing.
John transfers his phone from his right hand to his left and I fasten his right cuff, resisting the urge to kiss his scars, to lave the raised skin with the flat of my tongue, to care for him the way I yearn to care for him.
“Breakeven should never be your goal.” John bends over, lowering his face to my eyelevel. I retrieve his bowtie and loop the strip of black fabric around his scarred neck. “Grant must have told you that also.” My normally direct boss avoids my gaze as he straightens.
Could Stacie be right? I fasten the black cummerbund around his waist. Could John be interested in me?
“She’ll set it up.”
I hold out his jacket and he shrugs into it. My heart squeezes. Clad in his normal suits, John’s appeal damages my control. In a tuxedo, he’s downright lethal. I brush my hands over his shoulders and place a folded cloth handkerchief in his pocket, completing his sophisticated ensemble.
“We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.” John ends the call, lowering his phone. “Bass wants to meet tomorrow, eleven thirty, half an hour, my office.”
John already has a meeting tomorrow at eleven thirty. I maintain my blank expression, not showing my dismay. His schedule will have to be rearranged yet again. “Yes, sir.” I extract his keys and wallet from the pocket of his suit pants and I hold them out to him. His fingers brush over mine as he retrieves his essentials.
“Bass is an idealistic kid,” my boss declares.
“Yes, sir,” I dutifully reply. Rexton Bass is two years younger than John and three years older than I am. “His proposal has legs though.”
“So you say,” John drawls. “Walk with me, Grant.”
He waits for me to exit first and then stalks soundlessly behind me, his tread light for such a large man. My boss prefers that I walk in front of him. I suspect this is to buffer him from overzealous employees.
“Is she meeting me at the venue?” he asks.
Is she meeting him? I smother my grin. He doesn’t remember his date’s name. “Yes, a car has been dispatched for Marcia. You sent her the usual dozen red roses.”
“What did you put on the card?” John presses the button for the elevator. “I hope the message wasn’t emotional. The last one was a clinger, wanted my direct number.” The doors open. He allows me to enter first.
“You wrote the standard ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.’” I wave my passcard over the sensor and choose executive parking, ensuring the elevator makes no other stops. “Marcia is an actress.” I prep him. “She plays a vampire in a TV series.”
“I don’t plan to talk to her.” John frowns, crowding me into the right rear corner. “Have your phone on. We have work to do.”
We always have work to do. “My phone will be on all night, sir.” I stare at his back, my view obstructed by one massive male.
“Don’t sound so grumpy, Grant. I told you, when I hired you, this was a full time job.” John glares over his shoulder, his expression stormy as though I’ve insulted him by wanting a social life. “I deserve to be grumpy. I did what you said and tested that damn chair for three days. It’s a piece of shit. I don’t need the massage mode. I need something I can sit on.”
I sigh. Other top executives raved about the chair, claiming it relaxed them. “I’ll return it tomorrow, sir.”
“And why am I attending this event?” He bumps against me, the contact sending a surge of sweet sensation over my body. “Couldn’t we have written the charity a check and be done with it?” He slides a finger between his neck and collar and pulls, loosening his bowtie. “You know I hate these things.”
I do know he hates these events, his mood always darkening before he has to make an appearance. “A wise man once told me we all have to do things we don’t want to do,” I quote him.
He turns his head and narrows his brown eyes at me. “That wise man should be working.”
“That wise man should take advantage of this event and hobnob with the Mayor.” I give my goal-oriented boss a task to accomplish. “The zoning issues won’t fix themselves.”
“Are you handling me, Grant?”
“I wouldn’t presume to do that, sir.” The doors open and I walk in front of him to the waiting limousine. Dave, John’s smartly dressed driver, stands by the vehicle. “The Mayor made a comment to the press recently about the absurdity of non-fraternization policies so you might not want to mention that topic.”
“I don’t want to mention any topic. Small talk is a waste of time.” John pauses, looming over me, big and tall and very, very male. “It would be more efficient if assistants could attend these events.”
He wants me by his side. A fierce joy fills me. “This is personal, not business.”
“For me, it is always business.” John’s gaze lowers, lingering on my legs. “Your skirt seems to be shrinking.” His eyes glow. “You might want to look into that.”
He noticed the length of my skirt. “I’ll add that to my long list of things to do.”
“You do that.” John chuckles softly, the sound unexpected, arousing, real. “Don’t leave the building without letting me know first. I’ll call you.” He climbs into the limousine.
I wait, watching as the man I love, the boss I adore is driven away. He’ll spend the night being wined and dined by the city’s elite, touched and held by one of the most beautiful women on the planet. I’ll be alone. Again.
As I trudge toward the bank of elevators, my phone buzzes. The number displayed on the screen belongs to John. I’m not completely alone. I smile, my spirits lifting.
Chapter Two
“The Mayor wants me to attend his wife’s cocktail party tomorrow,” John informs me hours later. He was truthful when he said he wouldn’t talk to his date. He has been talking to me all night. “You’re right about avoiding all talk of non-fraternization policies. The ass was caught last Tuesday sticking his cock into another big-breasted assistant. It cost him a bundle to keep those photos off the internet.”
I hear the disgust in my boss’ voice. He doesn’t believe in mixing business and pleasure, his views well known within Toronto’s social circles.
“His poor wife.” I sigh. And poor me. John will never see me as more than his assistant. I wiggle my ass into his about-to-be-returned chair.
“The man is a fool.” In the background, glasses clink and voices murmur. “What are you doing? Your voice sounds strange.”
My boss’ skills of observation are frightening. “I’m trying your chair’s massage function, sir.” Leather hands grope my back. “It’s an unusual experience.”
“It’s creepy as hell.” John laughs. “Thank the lord. This dinner is finally wrapping up.”
I move the lever in the armrest to vibrate. “Oh my God,” I moan, the chair rubbing against all of the right spots.
“Are you okay, Grant?”
“I’m fine, sir,” I lie. I’m not fine at all. I’m shamelessly aroused by my boss’ kinky chair. The leather smells of his musky cologne. I’ve heated the seat to match his body temperature. The friction against my cloth-covered pussy is divine.
“Don’t leave the office,” John instructs. “I’ll send the car for you.”
“Okay.” I’m too distracted by the good vibrations to argue. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir.” I certainly plan to.
Before he can ask me for anything else, I end the call and set my phone on his desk. He’ll be cross with me tomorrow, but this, I need now. I lean back in the chair, swiveling my hips. I need it so badly.
There’s too much fabric between my body and the chair. I hike my skirt to my waist, baring my ass. My mons is covered by a skimpy G-string, the bright pink silk already soaked with my readiness.
Once or twice, after a heated encounter with my oblivious boss, I’ve retreated to the bathroom and touched myself, bringing myself to quiet fulfillment. I’ve never masturbated in public, in my boss’ office, where anyone can catch me, where he can catch me.
John isn’t here. He’s in the lavish hotel room I reserved for him, cavorting on the luxuriously soft sheets, reaching his own satisfaction, balls deep inside a gorgeous actress.
I’m alone and unneeded. My phone is silent. The rest of the floor is dark. No one else is around. Even the cleaning lady has left for the night.
I can release my inhibitions and not worry about being caught. No one will know. I grind into the vibrating seat, branding the leather with my scent, my wetness. My boss won’t realize it’s my pussy he smells tomorrow.
I tug on the waistband of my panties, pulling the silk tight against my folds, against my clit. My neatly trimmed brown curls escape their confines. I play with myself, moving the fabric over my sensitive skin, escalating my desire.
I imagine John is behind me, holding me, manipulating my panties, my passion. He’ll be as ruthless and demanding with my body as he is with business. The flimsy ribbons crossing my hips snap and the silk falls to the floor.
I’m nude from the waist down. If a coworker, a board member or my boss enters the office, they’ll see my pussy. I prop my heels on his desk and spread my legs wide, giving my imaginary audience a better show. Cool air sweeps across my bare skin, driving my arousal upward.
I close my eyes and touch myself, skimming my fingers over my feminine folds, spreading my wetness, my heat. In my fantasies, John is the person touching me, his fingers thick and rough, calloused and scarred. I circle my clit, winding my need, my want tighter and tighter. He’d be hard for me, focused on my body.
I dip one finger into my entrance, the grip snug from sexual neglect. For three years, I’ve lusted after my boss exclusively, having no interest in any other male. I stroke in and out, in and out of my pussy, working my body, my tempo slow and steady.
The chair hums against my ass, supplementing my intimate caresses. I add a second finger, stretching myself open. The darkness intensifies John’s scent and, in my fantasy, I hear him breathing, feel him watching me. He’s here with me. I’m not alone, never alone.
John is large, a massive man. Emulating his size requires all four of my fingers. I pump my pussy, the sucking sound of wet flesh against firm skin obscenely loud. My breathing grows ragged, a tight band of emotion strapping around my chest, squeezing my lungs.
“John.” I arch my back and lift my hips, rising into each thrust of my hands. I call his name again and again as I plunge my fingers into my pussy, rub my thumbs against my clit. My juices splatter against my upper thighs, against the leather seat. I work my body faster, trembling, satisfaction fast approaching.
I grit my teeth, pushing myself farther, demanding extra, more stringent with my body than my boss would ever be. My passion builds until I can’t take one more thrust, one more second of delicious torment, my need stretched agonizingly tight.
I smack my clit with the heel of my hand. This pain breaks me, and I scream, bucking upward, my pussy clenching around my fingers, moisture flowing over my hands. The darkness bursts with light and color. Sound rushes in my ears. Ecstasy shakes my form.
The tremors gradually ease and I still, sagging against the chair, the tension drained from my shoulders, from my soul. “I needed that.” I roll my shoulders.
“We’re keeping the chair,” a familiar voice rumbles.
“Oh my God.” I open my eyes, my body temperature dropping.
“You called me John previously.” My boss gazes at me, at all of me, my body spread open to him. I straighten, lowering my feet to the carpet, removing my fingers from my pussy. “Don’t move,” he commands and I freeze, confused, mortified. He saw me.
John rounds the desk, grabs my wrists and raises my fingers. “I have to taste you.” He closes his grim lips around my index finger and sucks. The sight of my fingertip in my boss’s mouth is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. The pressure on my skin is exactly right, his mouth hot and wet. My nipples tighten to painful points, my arousal reviving.
His eyelids lower as he leisurely, thoroughly licks every finger clean, the expression on his face blissful. My boss is tasting me, my pussy juices, my skin, everything. I tremble and he tightens his grip on my hands, flicking his tongue over me.
Silence stretches. I can’t move, can’t escape, can’t retrieve my panties, the bright pink silk pooled on the carpet inches away from John’s black leather shoes. The cursed chair continues to hum, brushing against my back and ass.
John lifts my hands to his face and he breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring, his eyes as dark as the night sky. He enjoys my taste and my scent. While this thrills me, I don’t fool myself into thinking his enjoyment will change my future or ease my punishment.
“You’ve been a bad assistant, Grant.” He pulls me to my feet.
I sway, my legs unsteady. “I know I’ve been a bad assistant, Mr. Powers.” I lower my gaze to his chin, unable to see the disapproval, the disappointment reflecting in his eyes.
“You do not hang up on me. Ever,” he bluntly states, holding onto me. “I end our calls. You do not.”
“Yes, sir.” I squirm inwardly with embarrassment as I wait for him to mention my activities in his chair.
“Now, go. Get me that young pup Bass’ file.” John releases my wrists. “We have work to complete.” He sits down in his chair, the chair branded with my scent, with my wetness.
I gape at him, not moving, not speaking. Isn’t he planning on firing me, punishing me, doing something? He saw me masturbate, heard me call his name, tasted me.
“The file now, Grant,” John barks.
I jerk, his voice cutting through all of my concerns, and I rush out of the office, looking for the file.
* * *
We work until the early hours of the morning. I sit in one of the guest chairs across from John, our laptops and the desk separating us. He assigns me task after task after task, driving me as he drives himself, ruthlessly, without stopping.
Around two a.m., I hit the exhaustion wall. One moment, I’m blinking at a spreadsheet, trying to keep my eyes in focus. The next moment, John pushes against my right shoulder, shaking me.
“What? Where? Yes, sir.” I raise my head, confused. My curls frame my face and cascade down my back, sticking to my cheeks. I always wear my hair up at work. I can’t remember loosening the tight chignon.
“Where is your overnight bag?” John’s eyes soften, his expression warm and caring.
I must be dreaming. My boss isn’t warm and caring. I rub my hands over my face and his countenance becomes businesslike once more.
“It’s under my desk, sir,” I reply. He has asked me to always have an overnight bag packed, in case there’s an emergency in another city. “Are we going somewhere?” I stagger to my feet and wander into the hallway.
“My house is closer to the office.” John follows me, locking his door behind him. “We’ll stay there tonight.”
We’ll stay there tonight. I’m sleeping over at my boss’ house. I tug on the bag, my brain remaining fuzzy.
“You’re a mess without your coffee, Grant.” John takes the bag from me and clasps my hand, pulling me along the hallway.
I stumble forward, holding onto John’s arm. His muscles ripple under my fingertips. I barely notice. My eyes feel gritty, my mouth is dry, and I’m tired, my exhaustion bone-deep. “My name is Trella.”
“I know what your name is,” he drawls, slowing his pace. I’m still dreaming. John doesn’t slow down for anyone. “Trella Patrice Grant.” He hooks his right arm around my waist, supporting some of my weight. “Who puts their middle name on their resume?”
“You asked me that during my first interview.” I tuck my body deeper into his, savoring his heat, his musky scent, his unbending strength. “And again during my second interview and once more during my third interview. You were relentless.”
“You never did give me a satisfying answer.” He presses the button for the elevator. The doors open as though they’ve been waiting for us. We enter and he chooses executive parking. “You made no sense even then with your fancy degree and your hopeless amount of debt.”
“That debt is all paid off now.” I hold up one of my index fingers.
“I know it’s all paid off.” He rests his chin on the top of my head and rubs his fingertips into my hip. “Thanks to this job. What would you have done without me?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, too sleepy to lie. I can’t imagine my life without him. “I love working with you.” I love him.
“For me,” he corrects. “You work for me. Tonight doesn’t change that.” He nuzzles into my hair, his tender actions belying his stern words.
We stand, staring at the red digital numbers, John’s muscles flattening my curves, his arm around my waist, his fingers splayed over my hip. A companionable silence stretches, broken only by our breathing.
“Are you going to fire me?” I finally ask the question I’ve been worrying about.
“No, I’m not firing you.” He sighs, his chest rising and falling against me. “But next time, lock my door. Anyone could have seen you.”
The doors open and we walk to the waiting limousine. I’m steadier, more awake, but I don’t pull away from him, relishing this rare chance to touch him, to belong, if only for a moment.
We reach the vehicle before Dave, the driver, wakes. He rushes around the hood, his flat black cap askew. He’s too slow. John opens the door for me and I climb inside, inhaling the scent of leather and man. My boss slides along the seat until his thigh presses against mine. Dave takes my bag from him and shuts the door, enclosing the space, creating a private oasis for the two of us.
The limousine moves, the outside noise muted, the tinted windows darkening our already dark surroundings. John stretches his legs out, drapes his arms over the back of the seat, and says nothing. I sit with my knees pressed together, my hands clasped in my lap, very much aware of the big man beside me.
His eyes close, his breathing levels and his body relaxes. He has put tonight’s activities out of his mind and I should be glad, ecstatic, relieved. I’m not. I’m irked that I showed him everything, my sexual self, my hidden dreams, a slice of my very soul, and he can forget all of this so easily, purging it from his memory as though nothing has happened, nothing has changed.
