by Ella Brooke
“I wonder if . . .” he pauses, cocking his head a bit. “I thought perhaps you’d care to join me instead?”
He’s still smiling. Is he making a joke? What is he saying? “Join you?” I repeat, sounding like someone who didn’t understand English. “Where?”
His smile widens, but I’ve observed his business behavior all week, and that particular grin means he’s deadly serious. “At the opera, of course. Do you like opera? I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’d be grateful for the company,” he says.
Oh my God. He’s asking me to be a stand-in. A bench warmer for some fickle lady friend. This isn’t in the job description. But fuck . . . La Traviata! “I love opera.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Really? Well then, I’m in luck. It’ll be such a pleasure to attend with someone who enjoys it as much as I do.”
Wait a second. I didn’t say yes. I’m not even sure it’s appropriate for him to ask his subordinate out on a—date? “But I couldn’t,” I say quickly. “Honestly, it’s been quite a week, and I am a little tired. Besides, I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of my company.” I move toward my desk. Maybe if I grab my jacket and handbag, I can still get out of the room with my wits intact. The man’s charisma is overwhelming. Like standing in a hurricane. “He’s pretty difficult to say no to,” Ryan’s words echo. I suppose I was warned.
“Exactly the point,” he says, folding his arms across his muscled chest. I got a glimpse of what’s underneath that starched shirt up at the lake, and it’s a fine landscape. “Consider it a bonus for all your hard work this week,” he continues. “I know I’ve put a hell of a lot on you, and you’ve handled everything brilliantly. Let this be a thank-you.”
“No thanks necessary, all part of the job,” I say, my mind desperately casting about for another way to refuse, before I’m completely incapable of forming words. “It’s kind of you to ask, but I really should be going home now.”
“Curtain’s not until eight,” he says, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I’ll have a company car take you home and wait for you while you get ready. Please, save a pathetic old man from looking like a loner, won’t you?”
Crap. I want to see this opera more than anything; but even as I say them to myself, I know the words are only half true. I want to see this man close up . . . pretend I’m more than just his employee, for even just an hour or two. What’s the harm? His persuasive words, added to the puppy-dog look he’s now managed to put on, do me in. I surrender.
“Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?” I say. “I’d love to go, thank you.”
Don’t Stop the Music
Brent
I’m not surprised that my tactic worked on Cassidy. Playing the ‘lonely old man’ card was the ace, though I know I shouldn’t even be at the table for this game. Once again my cock is dealing the hand, and my mouth can’t resist upping the ante. Bluffing is a calculated risk. It’s paid off for me on many occasions, and this is no different.
I could argue that bluffing and lying are two separate things, but as long as they return the result I want, I don’t really give a shit which one I apply. I lied when I said my date cancelled. There was no date to begin with. I ordered two tickets with the complete intention of persuading Cassidy to accompany me. For appearances sake, as her boss I couldn’t directly ask her out, so a different approach was needed.
Working in such close quarters with her these past two weeks has been more difficult than I anticipated. With each movement and gesture, with every word from her lush lips and flick of her hair over her shoulder, I’m more and more attracted to her. She’s like a new and untried drug, the temptation to take a hit irresistible; the desire to get high on it growing more desperate with each passing hour.
I send her out of the office as often as possible in an attempt to quash that craving, but in the end that’s all it is. An attempt. A surface effort. But I’ve seen—or rather, felt—the way she looks at me when she thinks my back is turned. I felt it that day at the lake, and I’m feeling it now. I’m not wrong. She’s testing, exploring. Stretching her own limits. Wondering what it would be like to step over those boundaries. And I’d be all too happy to take her hand and help her across.
Unfortunately, we’re both limited by boundaries, not the least of which is the office environment. She’s shown exceptional professionalism for one so young, and she does deserve to be recognized, rewarded. Tonight offers an opportunity to both reward her, and remove that roadblock. Then we’ll see what course will be taken, what other lines might be crossed.
I see the car I’ve sent for her pull up at the entrance to the Met, and I walk outside to meet her at the bottom of the steps. I suck in a breath as she folds those fantastic legs out of the rear seat and touches her heeled feet to the concrete. I reach out and offer her my hand. She looks up from the shadows of the car’s interior with those gorgeous blues. Her soft hand slips into mine, and as my fingers close around hers, I know. With the certainty of a sunrise, I know I won’t be able to remain completely professional, or gentlemanly, tonight.
She exits the car, rising to her full height that still barely reaches my shoulder. The classic, not-quite-knee-length black cocktail dress perfectly outlines her supple, womanly curves and I’m almost salivating at the sight of her rounded breasts rising from the not-so-modest neckline. I tuck her arm into mine and lead her slowly into the building, unable to take my eyes off her. “Thank you for coming,” I say. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” she says behind a shy smile, placing each high heeled foot carefully one in front of the other as we ascend the steps. “And sending the car.”
“My pleasure. And my privilege,” I say, matching her smile. “The least I can do for you bailing me out on such short notice.”
“I’m your assistant,” she says, turning her eyes straight ahead. “It’s what I do. Assist you in whatever way I can.”
I’m uncertain if that’s a come-on or a rebuff. I hadn’t considered she might feel resentful; that I thought of her as some kind of last resort. Not my intention at all, and I realize I’ve been an idiot to overlook that. “You’re much more than that,” I say, leaving an equally open-ended comment. Let her interpret it as she will.
She casts me a quick sideways glance but says nothing, content to let me lead the way to our seats in silence. As we reach our private loge, she lets out a small gasp, releasing my arm to stand at the rail and gaze out over the grand auditorium below. “This is amazing,” she says, a radiant smile spreading across her face. The low theater lighting illuminates her golden hair and casts a magic glow over her youthful features. I wouldn’t have imagined she could look more beautiful than she already did, but this evening has proved me wrong.
“I’m glad you approve.” I say, moving to stand beside her, resting my hand on the polished wooden rail and taking in the view of the rows of seating below us and the shadowed figures of the orchestra moving about in the pit.
“Approve?” she says, turning to face me. “It’s only one of the most famous opera houses in the world,” she gushes. “I can’t believe I’m standing here.” She places her tiny hand over my much larger one. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.”
I’m loving the feel of her soft skin against mine, but I wince inside at her continued formality. “You’re welcome,” I say, holding her gaze. “Please tell me when you’re going to call me by my first name.”
Her blue eyes dart back and forth between mine for a moment, the warmth of our interlocked hands increasing in temperature. “Thank you, Brent.”
I close my eyes and let out a breath. “You don’t know how much I’ve been wanting to hear you say that.”
“Then I’ll make sure to say it from now on.” I open my eyes to her brilliant smile. I could live without seeing another sunrise if I could wake up to that smile every morning.
“Shall we?” I ask, gesturing to the two plush seats in the loge. It’s extremely private, wi
th curtains shielding it from the back and the short half-wall facing the stage in front. She settles gracefully into the nearest chair and I take the other. The house lights begin to dim, and the orchestra strikes the first notes of the overture. The excitement on her face is worth every bit of conniving it took to get here.
As the performance begins, Cassie pays rapt attention to the action on stage. The sets and costuming are fantastic. The opening scene is inside Violetta’s apartment. Her provocative dress, clinging tenuously to the singer’s ample bosom, is a miracle of garment engineering. Of course, Violetta is a courtesan, a lovely, euphemistic eighteenth-century term for hooker.
Cassie’s upper body is tilted forward, her eyes and ears capturing every word and note from the stage, her lips occasionally moving to the libretto. I’m impressed. Clearly, she’s familiar with the work and enjoys the operatic medium; but then, she’s an artist herself. I’d almost forgotten that in the whirlwind of office work she’s done over the past week. I recall she’s having a gallery showing somewhere soon. I’ll be sure to ask her the date and time, perhaps invite a few clients with an interest in the arts.
But at the moment I think there’s no greater work of art than the girl herself, sitting next to me. Close enough to touch, to smell, to appreciate the perfect curving lines of her neck, shoulders, bust, hips and flawless legs. I realize I’m staring and turn my focus back to the stage. We’re nearing the end of the first act, and Violetta’s performance of “Sempra Libera,” possibly the most riveting aria of the entire production. I’m sure Cassie’s anticipating it, and I glance her way again.
To my surprise her watery blues are fixed on me, but dart away as soon as I turn my head. A smile teases her lips as she gazes down toward the stage again, and I can’t help but do the same. Even after centuries of evolution, male pride just doesn’t go away. She’s reacting to me in a way that words can’t convey. I keep watching her as the sustained, soaring high notes of the soprano fill the auditorium. I see goosebumps rise on her bare arms as she listens, and it’s sending a different kind of sensation up my spine. I want to stroke that skin, hold her, wrap her in warmth. But I shouldn’t. Not yet.
As the story moves on, I sense her leaning in close to me. We exchange more lingering glances, and soon her hand is tucked inside the crook of my arm and her head is resting on my shoulder. Heat builds along every point of contact, and though I’m loving it, I try to appear unaffected by her nearness. It’s almost fucking impossible. Her perfume, mixed with a whisper of her female scent, is seducing my nostrils just as the music is seducing my ears. I imagine the sweet, hot moistness of her pussy in my palm, then shut the image down just as quickly. I force my thoughts back to the performance on stage, feeling like a pervert.
As we enter the last half of Act Three, I’ve seen every emotion cross Cassie’s lovely face, from awe to anger to tear-filled eyes, and it’s sexy as fuck. Star-crossed lovers Alfredo and Violetta will never be together. When the singer begins the heartbreaking “Teneste la promessa,” I go for it. I’m no pervert. I’m a flesh and blood man, and I’m alone in private with a beautiful woman who’s giving me plenty of willing signals.
My hand slips from the arm rest to brush the creamy skin just above Cassie’s knee in the barest of touches, stroking a few inches back and forth. She doesn’t object. The material of her skirt has inched up to mid-thigh, and my fingers move a little higher, stroking in small circles and dipping to the inward side of her leg. Her skin feels flushed with warmth.
The soprano’s voice seems to vibrate the very structure of the auditorium, in thrilling highs and sorrowful lows. From the corner of my eye I see the tantalizing rise and fall of Cassie’s exquisite chest, and her face is a portrait of rapture as the breathtaking song continues. Her knees part slightly, and I take the invitation. My hand slides the hem of her skirt higher, my palm gliding against her inner thigh until I touch the lacy edge of her panties.
Her breath hitches, and I turn to see her eyes closed and lush red lips slightly open. She nudges her legs farther apart, as much as the tight-fitting skirt will allow. My pulse thunders in my ears, merging with the powerful sounds of voice and orchestra. I stroke my finger against the silky material covering her mound, pleased to find it nearly soaked through with moisture.
My cock reacts, stiffening quickly into a blazing hard-on. The scent of her arousal teases my nose as I deftly push aside the wet fabric and slide two fingers into the hot heaven of her pussy. Smooth, shaved skin, slick with her juices meets my touch. She’s wetter than I could have imagined and it shoots my erection into overdrive.
“Teneste la promessa” continues to electrify the air, silencing all else besides the orchestra and my hammering heartbeat. I spread Cassie’s wet lips and find the red-hot nub of her clit. Her moan is stolen, sucked into the swirl of sound from the stage as I tease her button of excited flesh at first gently, then more roughly. Her lower body twists and squirms but my hand is firmly lodged between her legs, one finger poised at her sopping wet entrance. I push it inside, reveling in the pulsing, wet heat that closes around it.
I slide my finger in and out, pausing to tease the soft flesh just below her clitoris with each pass. I’m well acquainted with that spot, and happy to give the girl the benefit of my experience. She’s panting wildly, and as Violetta hits the climactic high note of the aria, I feel Cassie shuddering around my hand, her own climax exploding along with the soul-quivering pitch. The audience breaks into applause as the final note rings upward and dissipates into the heights of the hall. A perfect performance.
The Fallen One
Cassidy
I’m shaking in my seat after Brent removes his hand from between my legs to rest on the top of my right thigh, his fingers still wet from my soaked pussy. I don’t know what just happened . . . it’s so surreal and so far out of the realm of normal for me my brain can’t process it. My private muscles are still quaking in little aftershocks of orgasm, and all I know is that I’ve never come so hard and so swiftly in all my life until the practiced touch of Brent freaking Baxter.
Maybe it’s the music, of climaxing just as Violetta hit that amazing note, or the brashness of getting fingered in a public place, or perhaps just the delicious taste of the forbidden, but I’m shocked at how turned on I am. It’s shameful, it’s indecent; it’s so far beyond wrong there aren’t words to describe how wrong it is. He’s so much older than me, he’s my boss, and most sinful of all—he’s my ex-boyfriend’s father. Gah! If I told any of my friends what just happened, they’d die of shock.
But I can’t deny how fucking fantastic it felt—Jesus the man has a magic touch—and how it echoed the fantasies I’ve been having about him, like visions of sitting on his lap in his oversized leather executive chair, skirt up and panties down, coming to the rhythm of those sculpted fingers pumping me to ecstasy.
God. The closeness of him, his handsome, chiseled profile, the smell of his cologne, the elegance of his manner and clothing . . . all of it makes me weaker by the minute and draws me to him like a moth to a flame. I didn’t know for sure if he was attracted to me; maybe he still isn’t. Maybe he does this to his opera dates all the time. An irrational wave of jealousy rises up as I think of the other woman who was supposed to have been in this seat getting the same treatment. But she didn’t. I smile inside, a guilty, satisfied, Cheshire-cat smile. I did.
I want to look at him but force myself not to; I’m not sure how to act. I’m excited, nervous, and yes, a little embarrassed at what we’ve just done. What’s going to happen when the show is over? What will he say? What do I say? Do I pretend it’s perfectly normal, no big deal? Or tell him it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced? Because it’s true.
I realize I’ve blanked out in the last few minutes, almost forgotten about La Traviata, and I focus my eyes on the final scenes playing out on stage below us. My mind is racing a thousand miles a second. With a renewed twinge of guilt, I recall what La Traviata means in English. The
Fallen One, or more accurately, The One Led Astray. How appropriato. That’s exactly how I feel.
The final number, the trio of the main characters, is nearing the end. The moment I’m dreading is at hand. He’s still stroking my leg gently. I give in to my anxiety and steal a glance at Brent, only to discover those gorgeous hazel eyes staring back at me, a sexy, dangerous twinkle glittering within. Watching. Waiting. Inviting.
I drop my gaze, straighten my skirt and cross my legs as if to deny what just occurred. Perhaps that’s the way to go; pretend it never happened and say nothing about it. I don’t trust what words may come out of my mouth. They could jeopardize my job. Cheers thunder through the hall. I look up to see the performers taking their bows, and I join in the applause. All the performers were magnificent in their roles, and I’m thrilled to have witnessed the lavish production from such a privileged vantage point. I won’t forget this evening for a long time, and not just because of the actors.
I feel Brent’s intense gaze on me, and his body leaning toward me. “That deserves a standing ovation,” he says in that low, sexy voice that sends shivers through to my core. He takes my hand and lifts us from our seats. The entire auditorium is on their feet, clapping and calling out accolades to the cast assembled on stage, but the innuendo in Brent’s voice suggests the praise is meant for me and my own outrageous performance under his perfect hand. I’m burning inside with anxiety and embarrassment, underscored by the feel of my wet panties clinging to my skin. All I can do is keep smashing my palms together enthusiastically, thinking of ways to make my escape from the awkward situation I’m about to face.
The usher slides the curtain behind us aside, and Brent leads me out of the loge and into the slow river of other patrons exiting the hall. “I knew that was going to be fantastic,” Brent says, leaning in to murmur in my ear. More double entendre? God, he’s doing my head in, this man. Get a hold of yourself, Cass. “Did you enjoy it?” he asks.