It’s a beautiful day, the air beginning to crisp with the approaching fall. People stride with purpose every which way, many having donned scarves or coats. Byron keeps close to me, using his body like a shield so I’m not swept away by the crowd.
Ten minutes later, we cross into Central Park, heading for the Delacorte Theater. Byron passes over our tickets, which he managed to snag through the lottery system. Apparently they’re doing The Tempest, which I remember reading in high school English. Something about people getting shipwrecked on an island.
There’s already a sizeable crowd when we reach the stage. The weather is perfect for an outdoor play. Grabbing my hand, Byron helps me climb the stands to our seats. I try to slip my hand out of his once we’re seated, but he’ll have no part in that. He tightens his grip and smirks at me.
“I need my hand,” I mutter, unable to look him in the eye for long. His stare is too penetrating.
“I’m keeping it warm for you.”
Exasperation sweeps through me. “It’s not even cold!” Yet I shiver when he strokes his thumb against my palm.
“Then why did you shiver?”
“Because…” Is it wise to admit his touch makes me tremble, makes my knees weak? Most definitely not. “Never mind.” Huffing, I turn to watch the play, and am soon lost in the beautiful eloquence of William Shakespeare.
At one point in the performance, his arm comes around my back, offering warmth and support. It feels nice, so I let it be. And if I snuggle a little deeper into his embrace, well, I never said I was an angel. Especially when I’m dancing with the devil himself.
Chapter 22
Byron
It’s late afternoon when Leila and I return to the office. The workday is nearly over, but I’m not ready to leave Leila yet. I’m horny as hell. I spent the last two hours assaulted by the sweet scent of her shampoo, the softness of her hair and skin, the beauty of her smile, the lightness of laughing long and loud, the freedom. Every look, every touch, wound me tighter. At one point, I had to cover my lap to shield my growing boner. Leila had no idea.
Peg greets us with a wide smile. “How was it?” she asks Leila in excitement.
The younger woman returns the smile. She’s relaxed, at ease. I pass her the water bottle I bought during the intermission, as I didn’t want her getting dehydrated. She takes a long gulp before handing it back to me. “It was great. I really enjoyed the show.”
“It was certainly nice of Mr. Schaffer to do that. He knows how to treat his employees well.”
I glare at Peg over Leila’s head. My receptionist chuckles to herself. Nosy old woman.
Before Peg can embarrass me further, I say, “Leila, why don’t you catch up on some email for the remainder of the day? I have a few notices to send that I’d appreciate a second set of eyes on. When that’s done, I have another project for you.” I don’t, really, but I’ll certainly think of one.
Leila is all smiles as she goes into her office and I go into mine. I don’t get anything done. Instead, I think about how to keep Leila longer under the pretense of work, without her thinking I’m keeping her hostage. She once mentioned her marketing background, or maybe Peg told me that. I go through my mental list of tasks she can complete. Meanwhile, time ticks steadily onward. It’s already past six. I’ve gathered the necessary material just as she enters my office.
“Byron—”
“Leila.” I wave her inside. “Shut the door, will you?” I keep my voice easy, not wanting to scare her off.
She doesn’t move. “Mr. Schaffer—”
“Byron.”
“Sorry. Byron. It’s past six, and I need to feed Henry.”
Telling Leila her cat will survive another hour or two without food isn’t the way to her heart. Even I know that. What I need is a different approach: distraction.
“I understand, but something important has come up and my marketing team has gone home for the day. Your resume says you have a marketing degree. Would you like to see what the project is? You’ll be compensated for the time, of course.” The important thing is to make it seem as though Leila has a choice. She does, technically. If she really wanted to leave, I’d let her, but I think she’s still unsteady about this afternoon. Uncertain. A boss and his personal assistant spending time together. On a date.
She tilts her head, intrigued. “I have experience in marketing, yes.” Another few steps toward my desk. “What’s the project?”
Excellent.
I pass her a stack of folders. One look at the numerous documents, and her face falls. She looks beyond the window. The sun is close to setting. Tomorrow, I will have Leila in my bed. But tonight, I will have her in my office, whether she knows it or not.
“This is past promotional material we’ve used. With our international launch approaching, I’m wondering if there’s anything more we can do to grab people’s attention. I’d like you to make a list of unusual approaches we can use to promote Solonay to small businesses in the UK. I plan on sending out a blast email, eventually, with the promo you come up with.”
Her surprise is quickly overtaken by pleasure. She takes her seat, looking excited for the first time since being hired. “Thank you, Mr. Schaffer. Byron,” she corrects at my glower. “I’ll get right to it.”
As this is a game of strategy, I let almost an hour go by before making my move. Leila sits across from me, the desk separating us. How far can I push her? As her boss, I don’t want to risk getting sued for sexual harassment, even though I’m positive Leila feels the attraction between us. There is another way though. One of loose morals.
Technology, I think, is great. My phone is connected to my laptop. Thus, I can text through my laptop. Clicking on the app, I pull up the conversation between Leila and me. Or rather, Rose and me. The last message is of Leila basically stating that I stood her up at Glass. I never responded.
After sending off the message through my computer, Leila’s cell phone buzzes a second later. She pulls it out from under the folders, her mouth dropping open as she reads the text.
Let the games begin.
Chapter 23
Leila
Hello, Rose.
My eyes widen at the text. I haven’t heard from Pizza Guy in a week. I’d written him off after standing me up, but it seems my body still remembers having hot phone sex with him, because tingles start migrating south. I dart a look at Byron, who sits at his desk and is busy typing away on his laptop with a stern expression. After spending time with Byron, I’m torn. Weirdly enough, I feel equally for both men, though I’ve never met Pizza Guy in person. They both make my nerves go haywire.
I watch those three dots appear on my phone like they’re drops of water in a desert. “Come on,” I mutter, clutching the phone in rigid fingers.
“What was that?”
Byron’s deep voice startles me. My head snaps up, and I take in his intense eyes, the blue reminding me of Caribbean waters. Not that I’d know. I’ve never visited the Caribbean but I hear it’s lovely at this time of year.
“N-nothing.” I wave my hand in a jerky motion and nearly poke my eye out. “Sorry. Return to... whatever you were doing.”
Then I block out my boss’s presence to the best of my ability. It’s getting harder as time goes on. He’s a blazing light and I’m the poor, unsuspecting bug getting sucked into his force field. Why are you contacting me now? I type back. I thought you weren’t interested in me after you stood me up.
Unfortunately, something came up that night. I apologize for making you think I didn’t want you. Because I assure you, Rose, I do want you.
My face heats. Straight and to the point. No man has ever flat-out told me they want me, not so convincingly.
Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say, but I ask, Have you been thinking about me?
I have. I’ve been thinking about those sweet sounds you mad
e over the phone. I’ve imagined myself playing with you, your legs spread open on my lap. But I want to know what you’re thinking. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?
I bite back a smile. How do you know I’m pretty if you’ve never seen me before?
These are things I just know. Just like I know you’ll eventually find yourself in my bed.
Paranoid I’m sending radioactive signals of my mounting blood pressure, I check to make sure Byron remains occupied. A small smile of amusement softens his mouth. I stare for a moment, sure I’m seeing things. Weird. He must be extremely excited over his spread sheets.
A streak of guilt worms through me. The more time I spend with Byron, the more I like him. But surely I’m not doing anything wrong by speaking with another man. Byron and I aren’t dating. We’re not exclusive. He hasn’t even kissed me, though that’s not for lack of wishing. I have to accept it might never happen.
You didn’t answer the question, Rose.
That’s an easy one. You, I type.
Good answer. Where are you right now?
I’m at work. Mr. Billionaire is making me work late tonight. It’s Friday, for crying out loud.
A long pause. The billionaire himself coughs. Pizza guy texts, Mr. Billionaire?
Whoops. Didn’t mean to write that. That’s what I call my boss. Because he filthy rich.
Or maybe he’s just filthy.
My heart picks up speed. Why do those words sound so familiar?
Pizza Guy says, Are you with your boss right now?
Unfortunately. But I don’t say that. Yes. We’re in his office. I’m working on a project. Which I finished over an hour ago. Obviously he doesn’t care that he’s basically holding me hostage. My stomach growls, and I try to remember if I have a frozen pizza in my freezer or if I ate that last week.
This is what I want you to do, Pizza Guy texts. I want you to imagine I’m there with you instead of your boss. Can you do that?
For some reason, I’m imagining him telling me this out loud, in his deep voice. The one that ordered me to come as I got myself off in my apartment. I’m imagining his hands. Strong, masculine, capable.
Another look at Byron. His mouth has thinned, and he stares at the computer screen as if it contains the answers to life’s great questions. Like, Why can you never eat one piece of chocolate? Or, Why are New Yorkers such incompetent drivers?
Yes, I type, my fingers trembling. I can do that.
Good girl.
His praise fills me with internalized pleasure. I want to please him, just as I want to please Byron.
Byron types away on his laptop. He has no idea I’m about to sext with another man less than ten feet from him. I’m glad I sit on the other side of his desk so he can’t see how I squeeze my legs together in an attempt to dull the pulsing downstairs, but it only makes it worse.
Tell me what your boss looks like.
The question is unexpected, yet it intrigues me. Why does he care about Mr. Schaffer’s looks? He shouldn’t. Still, I don’t hold back. He’s an asshole.
The man in question coughs lightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, and a corner of his mouth twitches. Now that Pizza Guy has asked me what Byron looks like, I find myself staring far too long at him. I mean, it’s known by everyone with a pulse in a fifty-mile radius that Byron Schaffer is sex on legs, but like, the really potent kind, not the vanilla, lackluster disappointment you find with one-night stands.
Or maybe that only happens to me.
The dim office lights bring out the gold tones of his skin. He’s loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, revealing the strong cords of his neck and a few chest hairs peeking out of the v of his shirt. Having spent more time in his company this past week, I’m now attuned to his nearness. It’s impossible to control my hormones when he brushes past me.
I realize, however, that my description of Byron is no longer true. I used to think he was an asshole. I no longer think that. I revise my text with, Wait. Truth is, I used to think he was an asshole, but he’s actually a very nice man once you get to know him. There. Now I don’t feel guilty about bad-mouthing the man who pays me.
Byron’s smile deepens. I stare for a moment before returning my attention to my phone. It buzzes with an incoming text. That’s not his appearance.
Oh, right.
Peeking at Mr. Billionaire beneath my lowered lashes, I answer with, He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the blackest hair I’ve ever seen. Blue eyes that are almost unreal. His smile is a million dollars. And I mean that literally—it probably cost that much. He wears wire framed glasses to read and they make him look even more attractive. It’s really unfair.
So what you’re saying is you find your boss attractive.
Is that what I’m saying? I mean, obviously I find Byron Schaffer attractive. I have eyes in my head. But I’ve never said as much to Pizza Guy. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, especially when I had decided I was going to see where things went with Byron, yet now I’m talking to Pizza Guy, who stood me up, don’t forget.
Luckily, Pizza Guy says, Imagine I’m him right now.
Him? As in, him-him?
Yes. Imagine I’m your boss, sitting across the desk from you, working on my project.
How do you know he’s sitting across the desk from me?
Byron pauses, frowning at the screen. A new tension has entered his body. He’s rolled the sleeves up on his blue silk shirt, his jacket tossed over the back of his leather chair. Behind him, the city glows, the sky dark and, for once, clear enough to see the stars.
I assumed as much. Are you sitting somewhere else?
No.
Then don’t ask questions.
Breathe, Leila. Suck in the air through your lungs and fucking breathe.
Imagine you’re sitting on the desk in front of me. I’m sitting in the chair. Your legs are spread. You’re not wearing any underwear.
As I read Pizza Guy’s message, a trickle of warmth slides down my thigh. I’m wet and he hasn’t even started the real dirty talk. My body remembers what happened last time though. It’s enough.
Go on, I say, licking my lips.
You lean forward to whisper naughty things in my ear.
I perch on the edge of my seat, holding the folders on my lap so they don’t fall. What do I say?
You tell me.
My breath shallows out. Blood pulses through my fingertips and migrates to my chest, between my legs, intensifying the slow build in pleasure. After a moment of hesitation, I reply, I’d tell you how excited I am for you to touch me.
Touch you where?
Between my legs.
Where between your legs? Say what it is you mean. No embarrassment here, Rose. I want it all.
My mouth is so dry it takes three swallows before it’s sufficiently moisturized. I glance at Byron. He’s perched on the edge of his seat too, face closer to the computer screen. As if he feels my gaze on him, he lifts his eyes to mine.
Heat slams through me. I’m rooted, unable to move, breathe, think. His pupils are enlarged. They are deep wells, fathomless. The only explanation is because it’s quite dark in the office aside from his desk lamp tossing gold light onto the floor.
Except that doesn’t explain the intense feeling of him peeling back my pale pink blouse, my sensible gray skirt, the stockings I spent almost ten minutes squeezing into this morning. Like he’s revealing me with his keen eyes and enjoying himself.
“Something wrong?” he asks softly. I swear the low vibrations of his voice course through me.
“Nope!” I say, sending him a mega-watt smile. “Don’t mind me!”
Ducking my head, I return to my phone. I’d tell you how excited I am for you to touch me on my clit. How I want your mouth on that small nub, suckling softly while you stretch me open with your
big fingers. You’d lick me up like an ice cream cone, and you’d enjoy it.
Now it’s Byron who makes a noise, a gasp that’s cut off, as if he’s cramming it down his throat. I stare at him as he shifts in his chair, pauses, and shifts again. He must have received a startling email.
My phone buzzes. My attention snaps back to the screen. That’s exactly what I’d do to you. Eat you up until your sweet juices are running over my tongue. I’d tug your ass to the edge of the desk and bury my face deeper in your drenched pussy. I’d part your lips and shove my tongue into your hot core, your quivering muscles, and listen to your whimpers.
I’m sweating like a fat man standing in line for the all-you-can-eat chicken wing special. He doesn’t stop there though.
With my fingers digging into your ass, I’d let you fuck my mouth. You’d rub up and down on my face, smearing your juices. Meanwhile, I’d palm my erection with one hand and start pumping myself slowly.
This is basically the best romance novel I’ve ever read that hasn’t happened yet, except it’s real life. My life. Somewhere in the city, a man types these things to me. I wonder where he is, what he looks like, what he’s wearing, if he’s touching himself. Just as I start to inquire about those details, another message appears.
Touch yourself.
What the—!
Clearing my throat, I dab the sweat dampening my hairline and upper lip. This, I decide, must be what an out of body experience feels like. The fuzziness around the edges of reality. How you feel far away from everything.
That’s going to be a problem, I say. I’m in my boss’s office, remember?
And?
And?!?!?!?
Maybe I went overboard with the exclamation points. But Pizza Guy is asking me something I can’t do. Unless I want to get fired, of course.
He says, Don’t you want to know what an orgasm feels like when you’re living on the edge?
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