“I’m…?” I try not to blush.
“You’re a brilliant woman. My status, for want of a better way to say it, doesn’t intimidate you—nothing does. I admire that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Please, stop being so formal with me.”
“It’s difficult not to.”
The sound of our laughter loosens the seriousness, as I pull up to the ticketed lot adjacent to our building.
“Why are you parking here?”
“This is where I always park.”
“Well not tonight. Pull around to the reserve garage.”
“Won’t they tow me?”
He scans me with eyes that make me shiver, “It’s my building. They won’t tow you if I tell them not to. In fact, park in my spot.”
I pull up to the long yellow arm stretched across the garage entry marked RESTRICTED. Congressman Orange hands me a card key from his jacket pocket. I wave it in front of the tiny black box mounted outside of the guard shack.
“Access granted,” a woman’s robotic voice announces as the arm lifts.
“Fancy,” I say, eyeing him.
“Welcome to the other side.” He takes my hand. He kisses the back of it quickly, releasing it in just enough time to remind me to stay to the right. His spot is the first one we come to, closest to the glass doors leading directly to the elevator lobby.
A black granite sign with raised gold writing reads: RESERVED – David E. Orange. It’s the only one like it. The other spots are just numbered with red and white towing sign warnings posted for violators.
“My car looks weird here.” My 2010 Civic doesn’t belong in front of a sign as fancy as his.
“It’s fine.”
“Oh wow, look at that,” I say, pulling into his spot carefully. “Now that’s a reserved parking car.”
He half smiles, partially listening, as he waits for his iPhone to power up, and slips it into his pocket, “It’s mine.”
Chapter 8
“Congressman Orange. Miss,” a security guard greets us with a nod. It’s the first time I’ve walked into this building and been acknowledged by anyone other than the homeless man who stands at the street entry every day, holding the door open for people in exchange for spare change.
The thought makes me glance to the main doors at the other end of the lobby. To my surprise, he’s still out there, sitting in the corner reading a crumbly-looking old newspaper. It’s yellowing; it can’t be current.
“Hold on one second,” I say to the Congressman, making my way over to the main entrance. In my workbag, I always keep copies of the latest publications. I do try to stay in-the-know as it relates to his re-election campaign. While technically I’m not on his campaign staff, I enjoy staying up-to-date on what he’s doing in and around the community. It helps me do my job well. Stay a step ahead, so to speak. If I’m going to be a good office manager and assistant, it’s just smart to know what’s going on in his world. At work, he tells me what I need to know; but as an assistant, you try to learn your boss’s habits, personality, preferences—you do your dandiest to keep them happy.
“Excuse me, sir?” I say, pushing the front door to the street open. The homeless man sits up, is somewhat taken aback, maybe because someone is in the building at this hour.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, let me get out of your way. I was just leaving.”
“No, don’t leave. I just wanted you to have these.” He takes the small stack of publications I had in my tote.
“And this.” A large, familiar hand reaches out from behind me holding a folded hundred-dollar bill. I whip around.
“Sir?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.
“Is-isn’t this you?” The man’s eyes grow humongous. He holds up one of the publications I just handed him. An Orlando Sentinel featuring the Congressman on the front page.
“Indeed,” he acknowledges, pulling me back into the lobby by the elbow. “You have a good night, sir.”
“God bless you, man—and you too, lady!”
“Good night!” I wave as the door retracts shut. Orange grips the brass handlebar, jiggling it to make sure the door locked back.
“You have to be careful,” he says, spinning us around to the elevators.
“He’s out there every day. He’s harmless.”
“Still, you just never know.”
“Oh you’re the one to talk. Who walks around town handing out hundred dollar bills?”
“Billionaires.”
The word rattles me. Billionaire. Jesus Christ.
The elevator dings opens, “After you.”
Everything seems so sparkly and marble-y because I’m with him. I’ve never thought that money makes the world go round—still don’t—but it sure does make the world seem more shiny and glittery.
Chapter 9
I check my Facebook while he closes out the night. Lindsay, his volunteer coordinator, calls to let him know their tally of all the phone bank calls, how many volunteers showed up, and how many calls they got through. He paces the room on his iPhone, doesn’t even sit at his desk. It feels cool to see how he conducts himself in his office. How he paces back and forth along the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows during his calls, stops directly in the center with his feet apart, left arm crossed under the other when he’s listening intently. I’m usually on the other side of the wall refilling my coffee, staring at my computer screen, answering phone calls and conferencing him in. Observing him in his element right now is a bit of a treat. I’m most impressed with just how much he’s staying on top of. From my end, it’s easy to believe that all of his staff do the thinking. But for the short time I’ve been sitting here, he’s negotiated and finalized a revised contract for a last-minute city project, recalled win numbers and percentages from previous years for Bryn to help her narrow down a target area for canvassing tomorrow, reminded his attorney to take a second look at a certain clause or statute that may affect a hotel project he’s thinking about launching in Dubai, and called his driver to remind him to pick up his dry cleaning. I mean, I’m exhausted just watching him keep up with all of this.
This dude is busy. How on Earth does he survive without more staff?
Both of us are surprised to hear his office phone ring—especially at this hour. The pattern of the ringtone sounds like the call is being place from within the building.
“Hello? Yes… un-huh... Well I’m here working late and wanted my staff to park safely. Yes it’s fine. I do authorize it. Yes. Thank you.”
He hangs up, “Who was that?”
“Security. They wanted to warn me of a suspicious vehicle parked in my spot.”
“My car isn’t suspicious!”
“Yes, but it’s not mine.”
He loosens his tie, undoes the top button of his collar then powers down his cell, “Okay,” he says exhaling, “That’s enough phone calling for the day.”
“Congressman Orange?” I say closing my laptop.
“Yes, Chantelle Williams?
“I really liked, um,” I have no idea how to say what I’m about to say. Fortunately, I have an inability to edit my thoughts, “How did you, um…”
“Say what you feel. We’re not on the clock. This is just you and I.”
“I liked the way you, like, said stuff.”
Eloquent, Chantelle.
His eyes flick up to me from his hands. He seems…I don’t know… confused? Intrigued?
“What stuff?” He paces over to me, sits on the edge of his desk.
“Like how you talked. Said, um,” I clear my throat. “Dirty things.”
If I weren’t such a prominent tone of brown, he’d see me blushing from ear to ear.
He sets down his phone.
“Is that something you enjoyed?”
“Yes,” I say weakly, hoping he hears the hope in my undertone.
“Would you like for me to do that again? Say dirty stuff?”
He slips his tie from around his neck, balls it into his fist.
I nod, “Yes.”
“That’s why you came up here with me. You were hoping I’d do that to you again.” He knows he’s dead on, got me figured out. He gets up knowingly, glides over to the door and locks it. Now we’re completely alone, in our own world. I’m nervous and excited at the same time as he turns off the lights and moves back toward me.
“Up,” he requests in the form of a command. “Place your hands on my desk, please.”
His office looks different at night. I’ve always thought of it as the perfect setting for the kinds of affairs you read about in books. I wondered what it’d be like to engage in illicit office behavior, but never thought it’d be me, much less with my billionaire boss who happens to be an elected official. People like him fuck blondes with fake tits, chase young fresh-out-of-the-sorority-house tail.
“Like this?” I say flattening my palms to the black leather pad centered on his desk. I’m facing the wall of windows, intrigued that I see our reflection. I’m like a voyeur present at my own fucking.
He approaches me from behind, staring right at my ass, “Yes, just like that.”
I close my eyes feeling the back of my dress lift.
“I’ve wanted you bent over my desk for quite some time.”
Ah!
He cracks his hand on my ass.
My mind goes cloudy.
Is he spanking me?
Slap!
He hits me again.
“Still,” he says, pressing my chest to the desk. I’m not sure what I’m confused about more right now. The fact that I’m being spanked, or that I’m one hundred percent turned on by the idea of being objectified in this way, that I’m the source of sexual fulfillment for him.
I wriggle with delight.
Slap!
“Ooh!”
“I said still, Chantelle.”
Ugh, irritating. I want to see his face, how he looks at me…
I could see myself in the reflection, if my cheek weren’t planted on his desk. I mean, I’ve been instructed not to move, and it’s fun to play along, so...
“Sir,” I ask quietly.
He growls, “Yes?”
“May I look forward, please?”
“You like what I’m doing to you right now, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Slap!
“Yes who, Chantelle.”
“Yes sir.”
I say it quickly. Jesus, I wasn’t expecting that last one. Squeezing my eyes shut, I’m anticipating one more.
My ass stings on the right side. I don’t know how he lands with such accuracy! Like, literally the same spot every time. I can feel the imprint of his palm…
My exposed cunt suddenly feels very lonely. I’m swollen with desire there, needing to feel him again. I either need to squeeze my thighs together, or for him to… Smack!
“Aaaah, fuck!”
He pokes his head around to check on me. I catch a brief glimpse of the huge erection he has before he steps back. A beat later he makes small soothing circles with his hand right on the sting. I close my eyes again, finding this moment a nice change in pace.
“Are you okay? Was that too much?”
“I’ve never done that before.”
“You’ve never been spanked?”
I shake my head, “But I liked it.”
“Good. It excites me, too.”
Hearing him honest in this way is such a turn-on. Like, bad.
“Is it okay for me to get up, now?”
“You’re so obedient. Of course you can get up. I’m pleased that you even let me do that.”
“I think I like that kind of stuff.”
“Is that right?”
“Mmhm.”
I pull him in by the belt. It’s time for me to show him what I can do. I motion for him to sit. He settles into the chair uncomfortably. It’s not his. A foreign object his visitor sit in, no comparison to the fancy chair he sits in on the other side of his desk.
“Hard, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t realize it was so uncomfortable.”
“Your cock, silly.”
“Mm, go on.”
And I do. I tell him I want him to fuck my pussy again, but not before he makes me come with his filthy mouth. He tells me he should be punished for his thoughts, that this is only the tip the iceberg of the things he wants to do to me. He leans back into the chair, undoes his pants and starts on his cock. He says some day he wants to hear me beg for it, works himself right in front of me, waiting for a comeback.
“God, I want your pussy in my face.”
Whoa. He’s good.
He grows a crooked smile, “You liked that, didn’t you?”
I can’t hide my amusement.
“Easy when it’s the truth,” he says, standing up. My heart races as he moves toward me… over me… I get onto the desk, go to my elbows. For the second time tonight he undoes the snap between my legs, fingers my pussy and inserts himself. I drop back, feeling his thrusts completely, because now my sex is completely spread, legs open all the way with both knees up instead of one.
Chapter 10
“His checks don’t elect me. The people do.” The next day Bryn and Congressman Orange get into a heated discussion over the location of his victory night party. Since the Parramore event was such a success, he wants to reject the invite form the Ritz Carlton and hold his election night party there.
The conversation isn’t pretty. Bryn ends up leaving in a huff. It’s clear who wins.
“Chantelle, may I have a word with you?” He stands in his doorway with that look. I know what’s about to go down. I take a swig of water to hide my blushing. I shouldn’t be nervous but I am, or maybe it’s excitement. I don’t know. But considering the festivities from the night before, entering his office drums up all sorts of emotion.
“Sir,” I say. He shuts the door quietly behind me.
“You really like calling me sir, don’t you?”
“You know I do.” As he should, it was used quite a bit last night.
I sit over at his desk.
“How are you doing today?” I can feel him reading my body as he walks around his desk, takes a seat. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything that you need?”
“No, I’m good.” I answer safely, unsure of whether we’re talking about last night, or…
“How’s your ass?”
Whew! Hot.
“Good… better… good.”
Delight wells in me down below as moments from last night flash in my mind. It was in this very seat that he made me come twice with his mouth.
I cross my ankles. Squeezing my thighs a little should help settle the sudden excitement I feel down there.
“I wasn’t too rough, was I?”
“No,” I hesitate. “I think I like rough.”
Is that a twinkle in his eye?
A smile comes over him; a happy, kid-opening-his-presents-on-Christmas-Day countenance about him.
“Are you busy this evening?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you’ll be up for change of scenery.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“I can pick you up. You can ride with me. Whatever you want to do.” He seems very intent on me making my decisions, a trait I’ve recognized in him for a while when he is on his best behavior. Even though I am dutiful, fulfilling his requests, he’s really given me free reign all of this time, wanted me to be pleased when I am with him.
“Wait, aren’t you going to L.A. this weekend?” I remember that this is the weekend of his charity golf event.
“Yes, I am. So pack light if you’re going to spend the weekend with me. It’s warm there.”
He’s asking me something again in the form of a command.
“Are you mandatorily insinuating that I should go home and pack?”
“If we’re going to make our flight on time, yes.” He leans back in his chair, “So, will you be joining me?”
<
br /> “Yes,” I say as he leans across his desk.
“Fuck yeah,” he asserts pulling me in for a kiss.
THE END
Hot and Heavy with My Dad’s Best Friend
Hot and Heavy with My Dad’s Best Friend
Jenna Grant sighed and looked at her car. Her steaming car. It had to be something like the radiator, but as for what it could be precisely, she had no idea. She wasn’t much of a car person, and hers wasn’t the newest or best, or, apparently running. She couldn’t expect her car to do that, could she?
This was bad. Very bad. She’d been out with her friends tonight, celebrating Pat’s brand new job. While Jenna hadn’t had too much to drink, she was dressed just this side of naughty. It wasn’t often she got a chance to go out with the girls, much less for more than dinner after work. She would usually be dressed in her cartoon-animal scrubs, visiting with friends right from work. Tonight, she’d shed her pediatric nurse clothes and had let her hair down a bit. Both literally and figuratively.
And now, at 1 am, she was stranded on a country road—great idea, that shortcut—with a dead cell phone and a shorter than short miniskirt. This was the stuff every horror movie began with, and she had no intention of being that too stupid to live heroine, looking doe-eyed in her last moments.
Yeeeah. No, that wasn’t happening. She looked from side to side, scanning the fields that bordered her town’s high school. The school had been planned and built way out, in an area that wasn’t residential or commercial. She’d have to hike a few miles at best, in high heels that she wasn’t used to wearing.
Jenna held her breath as a car whipped by. It had moved so slowly that she hadn’t even thought to wave, though her hazards were blinking merrily. A couple hundred yards away, the driver stopped and she watched, hopeful, as he or hopefully she, would help.
The car—some black car—maybe a Mustang—stopped and the driver’s side door opened. Someone big and tall and very, very male stepped out. It was dim; he wasn’t washed in the lights of her hazards, and she had a brief fight or flight reaction, but she managed to squelch it. Barely.
PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Shapeshifter Romance: The Vampire's Stolen Bride (BBW Fantasy Alpha Male Romance Books) (New Adult Vampire Fun Mature Young Adult Billionaire Steamy Love and Romance Novella) Page 31