The Billionaire's Assistant

by Mackenzie Gray

  You want me to get myself off while my boss is in the room with me?

  Get creative. Be discreet.

  My wide eyes lock onto Byron. He’s stopped typing and stares at the screen, one elbow resting on his chair arm, a hand cupping his chin. Tendons stand out on his neck. Again, his focus shifts to me. Almost as if he knows what I’m doing on my phone. Can he smell how turned on I am right now?

  If I’m going to do this, Byron has to return his attention to his project. Yet he keeps staring at me. His gaze is like a touch as it brushes down my straight nose, following the shape of my cheekbones. Down to my chin, then lower, to the curve of my neck. I’m so still so as to be a part of the chair I sit in. The tension pulling between us is, dare I say, delicious.

  That’s when my stomach growls loudly.

  Byron frowns, his eyes lifting back to mine. “You’re hungry.”

  I glance at the clock. “It’s pretty late.” A few seconds pass. “If you don’t need anything else from me—”

  “I’ll order something to eat.” And he picks up the phone to make a call.

  When I turn back to my phone, I see Pizza Guy hasn’t texted me back. I wait a few minutes while Byron returns to his report. Two minutes after that, I finally get a reply.

  Are you touching yourself?

  My legs begin to tremble. Discreetly, I inch up my skirt to give myself better access. I spread the folders across my lap to hide the fact that my hand is now diving between my legs. If Byron catches a whiff of what I’m doing, he will fire me. From where he sits at his desk, his computer blocks me, for the most part.

  At the first touch, I bite my lip to hold in the moan that hits the back of my clenched teeth. If only it were his fingers instead.

  With my other hand, I type out, after a bit of fumbling, Yes.

  Mr. Billionaire curses under his breath, but he doesn’t look over. I let a few moments of silence pass before texting, Now what?

  Imagine it’s my hand touching you. Imagine my fingers are pumping in and out of your channel, scraping against your front wall. I thought of you like this the other night. Then I thought about pinning you against the wall, fucking you like an animal.

  With every confession, my body tightens. Heat pools between my legs, drenching the seat cushion. Fire licks at my skin. This man is too good with words. He plants fantasies in my mind like they belong there.

  I could tell from how you reacted to my voice that you’ve never been with a dominant man. Have you?

  My scum-bag ex is planted firmly in the lukewarm lover category. Sometimes he’d stop in the middle of things to heat up some Velveeta. Said all the exertion—as if one could claim two pumps into my body and an orgasm could be called exertion—made him hungry. I wish I was joking.

  No, I say.

  Good. I’m looking forward to having you in my bed. Because I will have you, Rose.

  My fingers stroke my folds in soft touches, a hint of what’s to come. It takes my body a while to warm up—sort of like my grandmother’s Buick—but where Pizza Guy is concerned, I’m revved up in seconds.

  Meanwhile, Byron taps away like his life depends on it. A sheen appears on his brow, the normally perfect strands of his black hair disheveled from where he runs his fingers through it. Admittedly, I like this look on him. Slightly undone.

  Now isn’t the time to start thinking of my boss. Not when my hand is up my skirt.

  The texts keep coming. My touches increase the pressure, the speed, the delicious friction that sends shivers through me, heat curling in my pelvis.

  When? I ask.

  Soon. Touch that hot little nub faster.

  I do as he says. Tension coils inside me. It’s everywhere—arms, legs, chest, neck. I’d love nothing more than to spread my legs to the point of indecency to give myself better access. That, or dry-hump one of those pillows on Byron’s couch in the corner.

  Byron looks livid. Everything about him is taut. He lifts one of his hands, then changes his mind and curls it over the arm of his chair, knuckles pushing against his tanned skin.

  Come for me, pretty girl.

  Oh, God. I’m about to come. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut when that happens.

  Leaping up from my chair and spilling the file folders, I blabber, “Gotta go! Uh, bathroom. Stomach issues, you know—” And I bolt out the door before I can finish that thought, making a beeline for the staff bathroom down the hall. After locking the door, I kneel on the floor and shove my skirt up to my waist, needing release too badly to do anything sensible like wait until I get home to get myself off.

  As soon as my fingers connect with my hot, throbbing flesh, I let out a groan that lasts until all the air has expelled from my lungs. I’m so damn close. A few more strokes—

  “Leila.” A fist bangs on the bathroom door. “Open up.”

  “Fuck!” The back of my head slams into the wall. My fingers move faster, flicking against my clit and imagining it’s Pizza Guy’s fingers instead, or his mouth. Then another image pops into my head and it’s Mr. Billionaire touching me with his capable hands, those deep blue eyes resting on my face with assured calm, total control. The heat in my body spikes at that possibility. What is wrong with me?

  More banging. “Are you sick? Let me in.” His voice is strained, breathless. Desperate? The sound bolts straight to my core and I almost come on the spot. I’m imagining things.

  “No. No, no, no, that’s not the best idea.” If he thinks I’m sick, let’s go with that. Better than explaining I’m seconds away from climaxing.

  Just a little longer, I think, urging my hand faster and faster. The pleasure unravels me. It’s spiraling higher and higher, winding tighter and tighter. I grind the heel of my palm against my clit for more friction. Stars begin bursting behind my eyes.

  “I’m getting the master key. Be right back.”

  “What?” My eyes pop open. “No!” That’s when I lunge forward, only half-aware of where I am, and fall face-first into a puddle of water on the floor.

  It’s—Oh, my God. The fucking toilet overflowed. Again.

  “Why the hell,” I screech, “can’t a building that cost millions of dollars to build have something so simple as decent plumbing?” Disgusting. I can’t even finish myself off, covered in overflowed toilet water and piss, too.

  “What?” It sounds like Byron’s mouth is pressed to the crack in the door.

  With a furious huff, I push to my feet and tug my damp skirt back down. It looks like I’ve peed myself. My blouse has pulled away from my waist and hangs shapeless. The blood throbs acutely between my legs. Taunting me.

  Mr. Billionaire does not pay me nearly enough to put up with this bullshit.

  Unlocking the door, I slam it open, nearly hitting Byron in the face. I catch sight of his startled expression, his red cheeks, before I shove past him, snatching my purse from my office as I flee. Or rather, waddle out the door. Heels suck, I decide. I stop briefly to slip them off, stuffing them into my bag, then continue on my way.

  “Leila.”

  “Whatever you need, do it yourself.”

  I’m going home so I can continue the sexting conversation with Pizza Guy. I’m going to have the most satisfying orgasm I’ve had in my life. And I’m not going to think about Mr. Billionaire once.

  Chapter 24

  Byron

  The door swings shut from Leila’s abrupt exit. Her skirt, from what I briefly saw, was soaked through. Her damp blouse sticking to her skin, giving me an illicit peak at those lovely curves. Fury looks beautiful on her. Fury... and passion.

  I’m about to blow my load, so I return to my office, shove my pants around my ankles, and jerk myself while imagining it’s Leila’s pretty hand wrapped around me instead. The flush to her cheeks, the glazed desire in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips. I tug myself roughly, th
ree, four pulls, and shoot into the rag I grabbed from my desk drawer.

  Slumping back in my desk chair, I wipe my sweaty forehead with my forearm. My laptop remains open to the chat Leila and I shared. Leila driving herself to climax… fuck. Those soft pants she couldn’t quite hide as she gave herself over to pleasure. I’m curious to explore more of Leila’s submissive side.

  With a sigh, I zip myself back up and toss the rag into the trashcan. The woman is driving me clinically insane and it’s only been a few weeks. If she’s not fucking up something important, she’s spilling coffee all over my desk, or jamming the copy machine, or switching my client identities up. If I weren’t halfway in love with her, I’d have fired her by now.

  Except I do feel for her. I’m probably already in love with her. No one can deny she marches to the beat of her own drum, and I’m still trying to determine what beat, exactly, that is. She’s smart, she tries hard. Fails a lot, but at least she tries. She perseveres when others would quit. I admire tenacity. Fire in a person.

  Speaking of fire.

  I scroll back through the chat and pause when I spot what I’m looking for.

  Mr. Billionaire.

  The name brings a smug smile to my mouth. That slip-up will inspire many future fantasies. Leila splayed over my desk, my bed. Her legs wrapped around my head as I go down on her.

  I’m dying a little more inside with each passing day. I’m normally so in control. A woman is a woman is a woman. Coax them, taste them, and move on. But I haven’t even kissed Leila yet, and I’m a total goner. This isn’t normal.

  To take my mind off my seductive assistant, I head to the staff bathroom she’d locked herself into earlier—privacy for an orgasm she never had, if I read the tension in her body correctly. The toilet has indeed overflowed again. No one informed me of this. I pull out my cell phone to dial maintenance, then pause.

  It’s the middle of the night. Normally, I’d have no qualms calling someone to fix this mess, middle of the night be damned. But what was it Leila told me last week? I treat people as if their purpose in life is to serve me. It stung at the time. Now I wonder if there’s some truth to it.

  I go and unlock the utility closet, searching for a mop. I clean the floor and post an out of order sign on the door, then leave a message for maintenance to fix the bathroom Monday morning. Then I head home. After the gala tomorrow night, I plan on bringing Leila back to my place, and a lot of things need tweaking before then.

  Chapter 25

  Leila

  As I stare at myself in the mirror, I’m almost certain this is a dream.

  I look like a million bucks on steroids.

  The pink hue of the fabric is soft against my skin. It’s more of a pastel color, the blush of dawn woven into the threads of the dress. It clings to my upper body and waist, flowing outward. My hips and waist allow the fabric to drape beautifully. Two skinny straps hold up the dress, with minimal beading on the bust. The dress is long enough that it covers my nude heels. Earlier, Charlie came over to help me with my hair and makeup. Minimal on the eyeshadow, but a lot on the mascara. No lipstick. When I asked Charlie to straighten my hair, she looked scandalized.

  “If I had hair like yours,” she said, “I’d wear it down every damn day.”

  So that’s what I’ve done. My curls are tamer than usual from the product, but still voluminous, covering my neck and shoulders and upper back.

  In my entire life, I’ve never looked so amazing. I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror for the past five minutes. Henry, meanwhile, studies me haughtily from the bed, a gleam in his eye.

  “Nice try,” I tell him, whirling around and clutching my train close. “Rip this one up and I’ll toss you out onto the streets.”

  He meows at that and hops from the bed, exiting the bedroom with his fluffy tail held high in the air.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  I’m sweating. A lot. I sniff one of my damp armpits, relieved that I remembered to put on deodorant. “Coming!”

  After snatching my clutch, I hurry to the front door, take a breath. A moment to brace myself for tonight. As I stick near Byron, hopefully I won’t embarrass him too much.

  Grasping the doorknob, I pull.

  Byron Schaffer stands on the other side in a tux, hands in pockets, strands of silky black hair falling over his forehead, and a devilish gleam in his frost blue eyes. The way he fills out his suit takes my breath away. Black fabric encases long, muscular legs. The span of his chest and shoulders pushes against the suit jacket, the white silk shirt. His black bowtie is slightly crooked.

  “Leila,” he says warmly, reaching out to clasp my hand. I’m trembling. “You look absolutely stunning.” He turns over my palm and presses a kiss to its center.

  I think to crack a joke, to downplay my appearance because of how strange I feel, but I don’t. The truth is in his eyes. I’m lovely, beautiful, a dream. I smile shyly. “Thank you. You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

  His chuckle brushes across my skin like a physical touch. My blush deepens.

  “Your bowtie is crooked. May I?”

  He nods, and I adjust it so it sits straight. The backs of my fingers skim the smooth skin of his neck. I pull back, breathless, overwhelmed.

  “Ready?” he says, offering me his arm.

  I nod, slipping my hand onto his forearm, trying not to grip his sleeve too tightly. We descend the stairs to where Tony waits outside. Byron lets me slide into the back of the car first before sliding into the other side. The interior is dark. It smells of leather and whatever cologne Byron is wearing. Light from the streetlights catches in his eyes, setting them aglow. He won’t stop staring at me.

  “What?” I self-consciously brush at my hair. “I told Charlie I wanted to straighten it, but she insisted I keep it curly. Is it too much? Should I straighten it? There’s still time before the gala starts, right?”

  “Leila.” He grips both of my hands in his, giving me no choice but to look at him. “I can’t stop staring at you because you’re beautiful. That’s all. And I love your hair. It’s not often I see it down.” He tugs one of the curls playfully. Right now, he is not my boss and I am not his assistant. He is a man and I am a woman, and this feels like a real, honest-to-God date.

  He winds the curl around his index finger, tugs my face closer to his.

  My chest hollows out. The spice of his breath wafts over my tongue.

  Byron’s attention lowers to my mouth. I think for sure he’s going to kiss me, and I know for sure I’d let him. Whatever is happening between us, it’s been building for quite some time. Maybe since our first meeting.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” I blurt as Tony pulls away from the curb.

  Shit. It just slipped out. Mortified, I cover my mouth, eyes widening over my hand. “Oh, my God,” I mumble. “Um. Forget I ever said that. Please.” Should I throw myself out of a moving vehicle?

  As I contemplate doing exactly that, Byron’s seductive laugh sends shimmering light through me. It’s a promise, that sound. I clench my thighs together.

  “Leila.”

  The way he says my name… I bite back a moan.

  Byron brushes his lips against the shell of my ear. My gasp rings in the car. Tony pretends not to hear as he moves with the flow of traffic. Then Byron kisses the side of my neck, once, twice, and my stomach turns to goo.

  “Ask me again in a few hours,” he whispers.

  I gulp. “Sure. Great. I’ll do that.”

  With my hand clasped in his larger, warmer one, we pass the remainder of the drive in silence. With every passing mile, my anxiety winds tighter. What happens if I trip in front of everyone? What if I spill wine on this expensive dress? Or worse. What if I call someone the wrong name? The last thing I want is for Byron to regret bringing me as his date. I want to make him proud.

  “What’s
going on it that head of yours?” he asks.

  I squirm in my seat. “Are you sure you’d rather not ask Peg to take my place instead?”

  He turns away from staring out the window. His eyes rest heavily on me. “What’s this about?” Calm. Worried. And there—the need to understand. There’s no judgment from him. He cares about my wellbeing. It relieves some of the pressure inside me.

  “I’m not used to events like this,” I say. “I don’t want to make Solonay look bad. You work hard to showcase a certain level of togetherness, and I’m afraid I’m not a good representation of that.”

  A muscle flutters in his jaw. Seconds later, anger coils in the air. Byron’s voice is almost inaudible when he speaks. “I’ll say this once, and then I don’t want to hear you speak down about yourself ever again, all right? The only way you could ever make my company look bad is if you ripped off your dress and ran naked through the event, and even then, I’d probably forgive you for it.” The edges of his mouth quirk upward, softening his demeanor. “As my personal assistant, you are my employee. And as my employee, you are a part of Solonay. I’m not embarrassed by you, and you shouldn’t be either. You work hard, you’re respectful, you’re polite. So please.” He squeezes my hand. “Don’t think less of yourself simply because you don’t know how to kiss ass. I can assure you, it’s a dull and irritating affair.”

  With that, he returns to staring out the window. My nerves have settled with his reassurances.

  Thirty minutes later, the city is fully dark, and we pull up to the Lincoln Center. A huge line of cars waits for the valet. Tony drops us off where a crowd of reporters gathers with their cameras and microphones, pushing forward all at once to reach Byron.

  “Mr. Schaffer, can you tell us what direction Solonay hopes to take in terms of business this year?”

  “Mr. Schaffer, is it true you’re engaged to a French politician?”

  “Mr. Schaffer, are you really releasing an app that will revolutionize the way small businesses handle money?”