Can't Buy My Love: Billionaire and Virgin Romance Collection

by Jamie Knight

  I imagined her face and posture confronting my father. All of his cruelty. His treatment of me. I imagine Melissa saying all the things I could never say to my dad. I imagined her throwing my dad out to the curb or getting him wrapped up in charges of physical and emotional abuse for what he did to me, and to this, I pump my shaft more and faster.

  I squeeze it, imagining how she would come to me after getting my dad away from me for good. Getting him out of this house and out of my life for good. I imagine her being naked, coming to the bed I’m sitting on right now, and sitting on my lap. She’s straddling it and letting me fuck her on my lap.

  I drag my hand down my shaft, squeezing and releasing as I do, simulating what I imagine her pussy would be like. How it would tighten and release at intervals, due to my motion and hers. I imagine what it would be like to hold her against me and rub my chest against her gorgeous breasts as I fuck her until she comes. Until she squirts all over me and lays trembling in my arms.

  I whimper thinking about this, how cute she would look. How I would pretty much devour her and kiss her all over. Then I would call myself her “boss” and I would ask her to call me that or sir. Especially when I take her again.

  But this time over my bed, with her hands and feet tied to the posts. Maybe even a ball gag in her mouth, in case she’s a screamer.

  I gasp, stiffening.

  “Oh, God,” I growl, imagining taking her a second time.

  How wet and warm she would be from the first time.

  How I’d fill her so full, she’d scream for me.

  How much she’d enjoy every inch of my big, thick cock. How she’d say it’s getting her in all the right places. In places she’s never been “gotten” before, and then she’d beg for more.

  And I’d give her more. I would order her to get on all fours for me, lean over, spread her cheeks, and let me have her tight pink asshole. I shudder and enjoying the thought that I’m her boss, and she’d beg me to ride her. Pound her. Make her my pet for a while, before sucking my cock dry in her tight little mouth.

  Just as I imagine what it would be like to fill Melissa’s mouth with my cock, I cum. My head explodes. It comes in fast, heavy squirts. With each one, I experience violent, pleasant spasms. It’s enough to have me groaning and grunting like the beast I am.

  As I milk myself for one last bit of pleasure and one last drop of cum, I imagine Melissa looking up at me. Her eyes and face calm as a little bit of my cum dribbles down her chin.

  “You went wild with it. Naughty with it, sir,” I imagine her saying. “I want you to take me like this every time. I want you to tie me up and use me for your pleasure. Make me your good pet.”

  I blush, embarrassed by the content of my imagination, and the vividness of it. If anyone else saw these imaginings, they’d think me mentally unstable. And kinky. Though I’m not sure which is worse, more embarrassing and exciting to me at the moment.

  What the fuck? Why do you keep thinking of Melissa that way? Why do you keep conjuring kinky things when it comes to her?

  I blush deeply, more so than before, and realize it’s another little secret I’ve always kept. I like this kind of thing. A bit of enjoyment I couldn’t ever explain or admit to, but I have to admit to it now.

  Especially when it comes to Melissa, and that dominating energy she represents. That desire she represents, even though I’m still nervous around her. Uncomfortable with the power she seems to exert over and around me and my surroundings.

  “And when that’s the worst idea ever with a woman like that,” I say, moving to get myself cleaned up. “I can’t imagine someone as proper as Melissa being into kinky stuff like that.”

  I can hear someone stomping around upstairs. I can hear the screen door clacking closed, and that only means one thing. Dad. He’s home and itching to start something with me.

  I go to the bathroom and wash up.

  As I do, I make the same prayer I’ve made many times since I moved my bedroom down here: please let him show more attention to his six-pack of beer then to me. I don’t want to be bothered with him now or for the next few days.

  I sigh.

  He couldn’t even be happy for me when I told him I got the job yesterday. All he could say was, “Great. So what are they paying you in? Candy bars?”

  The less I have to deal with him, the better. It means more mental and emotional space to focus on my job. Focus on doing a good job for Ms. Vanacore, who actually pays me in money, not insults.

  Chapter Twenty-One - Melissa

  Surprise, no surprise!

  At the end of the week, on Friday morning, Dennis doesn’t bother to call. I’m online for two hours before work, and he doesn’t show. And when I text him right as I’m stepping out the door, demanding to know why and how he could forget our date at the end of the week, after promising to make it up to me, I get no reply. No acknowledgment of any kind.

  On the way to work, I try to tell myself to be gentler with him. To be more understanding, that he’s probably inundated with some project or other, but I can’t do that. I can’t just write off this behavior like I did before. After that voicemail he accidentally left on my phone, I can’t just brush it off.

  I keep thinking about that other voice. That other woman I heard talking to him.

  And yes, I know it’s a woman. There’s no question in my mind that it is. A man wouldn’t use that tone of voice with him. Another man, no matter how high-pitched or soft his voice, doesn’t sound like that. He wouldn’t flirt like that with Dennis either. Most men can immediately tell who bats for the other team, and so keep their conversations professional.

  That wasn’t professional in the least. Not unless that woman is a professional escort. She’s a flirt, a bit of flash. Which is all I’m pretty sure she is.

  With this thought, I’m inundated with angry, fearful tears. They get going enough that I have a bit of trouble seeing where I’m going. They get to the point where I actually have to wipe them away to turn into the correct lane to avoid hitting anyone like pedestrians or other drivers.

  But my tears quickly evaporate under righteous, indignant self-talk.

  “So, that’s it? That’s all I’m worth, after committing to you for a year of long-distance? That’s what you repay me with? Ditching our date, messing around with some other girl, and not caring to be honest about it?”

  As I yell at him in traffic, I know those words are coming back to me. They spear me a little as well, as I haven’t been exactly innocent myself. But at least I’m not actually messing around with anyone. I’m not cheating on him, which he seems more than happy to do. Along with completely blowing me off, after feeding me the sweetest, most disgusting lie on a voicemail.

  I turn violently into the parking lot, not caring when I run over a bit of the curb. I jump a bit of the parking space guard as well, also not caring. I pull the car keys out of the ignition and sit there for a moment.

  My heart is pounding so rapidly and loudly, it’s in my head like hot, living cotton. Like spiderwebs made out of blood veins.

  I take a breath out, one calm, one before I’m inundated with tears again. These ones are sad and sorry, not as angry. Just scared and hurt. I put my hands over my eyes, letting out a pained, quiet breath.

  “How could he treat me this way? How could he care so little about our relationship that he just up and forgets that we’re even supposed to talk today? And last time too? How could he care so little that he’s late and then acts so disinterested?”

  After this, I don’t bother to talk anymore. I just cry, thinking back on all the kind and loving things he used to do for me. How much he used to act like he cared for me and my dreams.

  “I’m going to make him answer me. Answer to all this. Including who that other woman is and what his relationship is with her.”

  With this vow, I get out of my car. I wipe the tears from my face and throw them off me. Like mud. Like garbage.

 
I then straighten myself up, walk into the office with my head held high. Dennis isn’t worth crying over. Not when this woman right here is the one responsible for getting a bunch of mean people from the legal aid floor fired and moved out of this awesome, deserves-to-be-growing company, so they can’t spoil it with their backward, foul beliefs.

  As I sit down at my desk and I make a plan to call Dennis at lunch and give him a piece of my mind, Isabella looks at me. She raises her eyebrows.

  “So…” She pauses. “I just went down to the legal aids’ floor, and it’s really empty down there. I mean, like, really empty, Melissa.”

  She bugs her eyes out a little as I smile. I can tell by the bend in my lips, it’s a cruel, empty look on me. But I don’t care. I’m feeling cruel and empty this morning.

  “I heard rumors that you might’ve been involved in some part of it.”

  I smile, giving her all the confirmation she needs and all the confirmation she’s going to get. I power on my computer, arrange my headset properly on my head.

  I hear her say something under her breath. Some prayer or swear to the good Lord above. Something I’m sure her parents wouldn’t approve of if they were here.

  Then again, they don’t much approve of this job, so anything else she does on top of it all, is just icing on their little cake called “things Isabella didn’t turn out to be.” My parents have a cake like that too, but Dennis was the first person who told me that just because they baked it, didn’t mean I had to eat it.

  “I merely gave those garbage-pale monsters the push they needed to get out onto the curb,” I answer cryptically as the first call of the morning comes in.

  Isabella holds up her hands defensively.

  “Remind me never, and I mean never, to get on your bad side, Melissa. To anyone who thinks you’re a poodle, you’ve got a bite on you. I’ll remember that,” she says, and puts her own headset on for the morning.

  I don’t say anything to this. I focus on answering the call. It’s for Maria. A change of pace, since usually it’s Kane or Ashton who gets more of the calls around this place. It’s either them or Ms. Vanacore, amazingly. I forward the call to the proper office and sit back.

  It’s just in time to see Tommy hurry across the floor from the elevator. He’s got some newly-toasted breakfast item in his hand, haphazardly wrapped in a bit of paper towel.

  “Is that really all you’re having for breakfast?” I call after him. “That’s not going to be nearly enough to get you through the morning, Tommy.”

  Tommy looks back at me, blushes, but puts the toasted breakfast goodie in his mouth (looks like a pop tart), and hustles to the back offices. The days barely started, and already he looks like he’s sweating bullets and having to hustle way too much for being on the executive floor.

  Isabella looks at me. Now she’s got a smile on. A smile that hungry for gossip. For news. It’s just as I have scooted back the picture of Dennis. Back even further from its original place of honor on my desk. He doesn’t deserve such prominence. Especially when he won’t bother to call me.

  “Whoa.” She pauses, sitting back in her chair a bit. It’s one of those therapeutic varieties. Once a specially designed for those with a bit of back trouble. “What’s all that about, Melissa?”

  She pauses.

  “I know y’all always say things about us Americans being dramatic, but you? You are definitely the drama queen of this office, Melissa.”

  I don’t answer her. I just continue getting set up for the day — pulling up my spreadsheets and various calendars and appointment trackers and whatnot. The essential tools of a talented, indispensable secretary.

  “So, that Tommy kid, was he the one that recently got promoted to an assistant lawyer for Ms. Vanacore?” Isabella asks.

  I nod.

  She makes a worried sound.

  A sucking, moaning noise.

  One I’m not sure how to translate.

  “Heard some interesting things about him. Not sure if they’re true, but I’ve heard he can get around, around, you know. I heard that’s one of the reasons he was so keen on moving up north. The south was starting to go sour on him, I heard.”

  I’m not about to ask her where she heard such a thing. We receptionists, like maids or hired help in rich-people mansions, hear things.

  But that’s not the real reason I don’t press further. I’d gotten very suddenly, a very bad feeling. It’s like I’ve been stabbed or slashed through the abdomen, and I’m bleeding clear, invisible blood.

  Anxiety twists into the mix, and suddenly the little bit of Ms. Vanacore that I saw at the Cajun restaurant earlier in the week takes on a different flavor. It’s a different taste in my mouth. A sour one. And where I had seen some kind of mentorship between her and Tommy, I now see something that feels like control or domination.

  Is Tommy afraid of her? I wonder. He looks like he’s being worked fairly hard for being only on the job a few days.

  My stomach curdles again, imagining a scenario in which Ms. Vanacore is working him over. Hard. Mercilessly. As in working her over a desk. Over her chair or another piece of furniture, or forcing him down on his knees. I close my eyes to it, somewhat grateful for a phone call to distract me.

  God, I think. I hope it’s not true. Though I doubt he would tell me the truth, even if I asked. Tommy’s been waiting too long for a job like this. He’s not about to put it in jeopardy, even for his own safety and well-being.

  I put that thought out of my mind for now and make a promise to go find him during lunch, if he takes a lunch, and ask him how things are going, how his new job, and his new boss, are treating him.

  I sigh and transfer that phone call. Then another. Then another.

  Lunchtime can’t come fast enough.

  Isabella’s questions do, though. She asks me the moment I don’t have a call buzzing in my ear, “What’s up with you and Tommy? Are you…?”

  “We’re friends,” I answer quickly, “I happened to help him spruce up before his interview, and happened to be in the right place at the right time to help him with something a little less…simple.”

  I look at Isabella, not caring to talk much to her today, and usually, I love talking to her.

  “That’s all.”

  Isabella wisely doesn’t press the matter further. She just nods and gets to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Tommy

  Over the last few days, I’ve gotten into a rhythm with my job. With Ms. Vanacore, and the way she likes things done. I’ve been such a quick learner, that she doesn’t even have to double-check any of my work. Any placement of files, notes, or reports are elaborated on, and audio files are organized once they’ve been transcribed or not.

  I’ve also been working some insane hours. At least nine, maybe ten hours over the last few days as well. I don’t really mind, though. It helps take my mind off of any and all of my ex-coworkers who might be out for blood, out for some kind of retribution after Melissa had her way with them. I haven’t heard much in terms of a result of whatever she brought to HR, but I’m assuming something happened.

  Vanacore’s been called to various long and short meetings over the last few days. Not with any of her clients, but with some of the other people who work on our floor, or the floors near ours. Whenever they’ve coming gotten her, it’s been with hushed tones, and curious glances in my direction, as if I won’t notice these things even more, and then they leave.

  This morning’s been one of those mornings. She’s been ushered out for some other conversation or meeting, and I’m left to cover the office. Not only my little cubicle of it but her desk as well. Which includes managing any incoming phone calls for her. Which I don’t mind terribly. It’s not my strong suit, but what’s helped is imagining how Melissa might answer. How she might talk to the caller, direct them, and take whatever notes.

  Just as I’m finishing up a small bit of dictation from Vanacore’s most recent visits to court ove
r a couple of cases she’s representing — one’s for a rich lady suing her husband for custody of her little teacup poodle, Curmudgeon; another case deals with an older man who’s run into trouble with her old employer — my phone rings.

  By the lights flashing on the surface of it, I can tell it’s been redirected from Vanacore’s phone to mine. I take a deep breath and pick up. As I do, I try to do my best “Melissa” impression — not in terms of an accent — but in terms of poise and bearing.

  “Joan Vanacore’s office, this is Tommy, how may I help you?”

  I’m a little bit nervous around the edges of these words, but not as bad as the first time I had to fill in for answering her phone this week.

  The voice on the other end surprises me. It surprises the caller as well. “Tommy?” It’s Melissa.

  “Melissa?”

  Melissa sputters for a moment, not sure what to say. Then she says, “Yes, I was just calling to let Ms. Vanacore know that I’m patching through a call for her. It’s from some guy from Mississippi — he got Kane’s number by accident — the man says he needs to talk with her about an urgent matter.”

  “Forward it to me, if you like. I’ll take notes on it. Ms. Vanacore’s out of the office right now.”

  “All right.” She pauses. “Just don’t be surprised if he clams up around you. He was already irritated that he had to talk to me, and not Ms. Vanacore, right off the bat.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I say.

  In these words, I also channel a silent, and thank you for helping me out earlier in the week. Thank you for defending me and protecting me, whatever you did. Melissa seems to pick up on this extra bit of warmth I sent her, because she giggles.

  “Any time, Tommy,” she says. “I’ll patch her through for you.” A small pause. “When you’re done with her, got any plans to show your face in the cafeteria today?”