The Wicked Virgin: An Office Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  Ah, the grind. Lately, Sterling Pharmaceuticals hasn’t been enough for me. Sure, it’s worked its magic and my brothers and I are wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. But there was something about the old days that was missing, something that had changed. Maybe we’d gotten more corporate? We’d gone from an office of ten to a thousand employees in five years flat.

  And it’d been a transition. Before I was a simple country boy tasked with marketing, pushing Sterling products on anyone and everyone who would listen. I talked my head off, maybe selling snake oil in some cases, but hey, that’s what sales guys do right? I loved every second of it, the fact that we were boots on the ground, charting new territory, exploring the great unknown with new drugs, new customers, new market segments.

  Now I’m fucking Senior VP of Marketing, head of multiple divisions. I wear a fucking suit to work every day, and have an office as big as a cavern. I have three computers, a private bathroom, and all the pussy I need just by flashing my business card.

  But something deeper has shifted within me and the company, too. Sterling’s culture has morphed and I miss the days when our outfit was nothing more than a bunch of twenty-something workaholic boys, reeking of testosterone and BO.

  “Matt,” a high-pitched voice interrupted my reverie. I turned to see a glamorous raven-haired girl walk towards me. Or maybe sashay with a predatory look is a better description. The girl was stunning, her hair done up in some elaborate design, her red dress long and floor-length, displaying every inch of her stunning figure.

  “You remember me, right?” she asked teasingly. “Vanessa, from the MOMA gala?”

  My mind ran furiously as I tried to remember that night. I’d worked late, pulling on my tux in my office while a car waited downstairs. Hey, just call me James Bond okay? It was part of my job as a marketing guru to meet the right people and see and be seen.

  I vaguely remembered a couple of women at the event, but I couldn’t place the girl before me.

  “Oh right,” I said vaguely. “Hi, how are you?”

  “Jake, surely you remember our conversation?” she said with an eyebrow arched. “And what happened afterwards?”

  Oh fuck, had some shit gone down? I seriously had no memory of that night, but when you work like a mofo life passes in a blur. Maybe we went to a bar afterwards and I fingered her under her dress? Boned her even? I had no fucking clue.

  “Silly, you promised we’d hit up L’Osseria’s wine-tasting event later this month,” she trilled, lightly placing a manicured hand on my arm. “I’m the wine coordinator at Slanted Plate, I can introduce you to the finest flavors,” she said suggestively. Ugh, these women were so over the top, I could feel bile rising in my throat.

  I was about to politely decline when Delinda swooped in, having overheard our conversation.

  “Oh that’s perfect,” cawed our hostess. Again, a model of discretion. “Matt would love to take you, I know he’s got tickets, that company of his buys the best of everything,” Delinda announced. And it was true. I was in the client service industry so Sterling purchased VIP passes for a myriad of high-end events, but with potential customers in mind, not dates for executives.

  But again, I was caught in this fucking web of feminine wiles. I didn’t want to go, fuck I didn’t even want to be here, but I found myself nodding in agreement just because it was easier.

  “Sure,” I rumbled. “Give my office a call,” I said, proffering my business card.

  “Matty, you can do better than that,” Delinda said slyly. “Give her your cell.”

  It took all of my strength not to wring this fucking bird’s neck at her own party. If her husband weren’t Bill Dowd, I swear I’d be a murderer already. But graciously, I scrawled my cell number onto the card and handed it with a fake smile to Vanessa.

  “Looking forward,” I rumbled.

  “Me too,” she panted breathlessly, her scarlet lips twisted in a smile revealing sharp, tiny teeth. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Teresa

  Oh shit, I was late again. Class had gotten off five minutes later than expected and I’d missed my bus to Pacific Heights, where the client lived. I’d have to walk and that promised to be a demoralizing experience. San Francisco is a city of steep hills and trekking to Pac Heights from Civic Center was going to test my lung capacity and overall fitness.

  Sighing, I hoisted my bag up and slung it over my shoulder.

  “Heya pardner, need help with that?” asked a male voice behind me. It was Orlando, one of my fellow classmates at City College who fancied himself a big man on campus. Ugh, he was so greasy and slimy, he reminded me of the goons back home – just boys with guns loosely tucked into their waistbands, thinking that made them men.

  But Orlando’s weapon wasn’t a firearm. His was his connection to the mayor. A nephew of Mercedes Diaz, Orlando constantly bragged about his famous relative, peppering each conversation with “Aunt Mercedes this, Aunt Mercedes that.” I admit, I was glad it was an election year. Even if Mercedes Diaz had done a decent job as mayor, I just wanted to shut Orlando’s trap once and for all.

  “Um, no thanks,” I demurred, trying to make my way past him. “I gotta roll, okay? I’m late,” I said impatiently as he purposefully blocked my way.

  “Hey chica, what’s the rush? Headed to the library? Surely you got a few minutes to spare for old bro here,” he drawled, his hands in the pockets of oversize jeans. I swear, why do men dress like clowns sometimes? I found the homie look unattractive and unappealing. Flat brim cap, big oversized sports jersey coupled with jeans that were three sizes too big, falling down his ass. Orlando looked ridiculous, his boxers showing as he tried to hoist the waistband up.

  “No Orlando, I have a J-O-B,” I spelled out for him. “We don’t all have the luxury of having rich relatives.” It was widely known that Mayor Diaz owned an apartment building where she allegedly let Orlando live for free when he was in school. He was supposedly learning the ropes of property management as well, to take over for his aunt as she ascended further up the political ladder.

  “Listen chica,” he drawled, not at all put off by my behavior and insinuations. “Where ya going? I gotta ride, I can take you,” he said thumbing to a rice rocket parked at the curb. I sighed. I really didn’t want to, but I was running late and it was unprofessional to show up to a job sweaty and disheveled, not to mention unprepared and apologetic. So I gave in and sighed, “Fine, fine. Let’s go.”

  Orlando chuckled knowingly and held the door open. The car was slung so low to the ground that I practically had to crouch to get in, my bag throwing me off-balance.

  “I gotcha,” he leered lasciviously, his hands on my shoulders and then trailing down my back as he “helped” me into the car. Shudders of distaste ran down my spine, but I swallowed hard and made myself get in. What was the worst that could happen? It would be a short ride, maybe ten minutes at most.

  The homie got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door and turning up the funk. Oh great. We were going to be cruising in Pacific Heights, a tony neighborhood, as he blasted bachata and the latest reggaeton. Okay, this was already embarrassing me enough already and I thought seriously about throwing myself from the car.

  But it was too late. He’d pulled away from the curb and I gave him directions towards my employer’s home. Fortunately, the music was pounding so loudly that conversation was impossible. I thanked my lucky stars and stared straight out the window as Orlando bobbed his head in time to the music, like a chicken darting its head back and forth.

  Finally, we pulled up to a stately townhouse, perfectly decorated, the doors imposing.

  “This where your job at?” asked Orlando, finally turning down the tunes.

  “Yeah,” I said shortly, grasping the door handle and swinging one leg out. “Thanks so much for the ride, I’ll see you at school.”

  But Orlando wanted to be thanked more than just verbally. He grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly to him, his face oily and pimp
ly as I was forced closer.

  “Heya chica, a beso for my efforts?” he said silkily before planting those rubbery lips on mine. And I screamed, my spine stiffening involuntarily, my body going into full panic mode. Sweat broke out and my vision started to blacken, I was in the midst of a nightmare, thrashing and struggling like a wounded animal until I felt heavy arms pull me out of the car, thrusting me out of danger.

  Matt Sterling, my employer, stood there, a look of rage and fury directed towards the much smaller man before him.

  “What the fuck?” asked Orlando plaintively. I swear, even Mr. Sterling’s shadow was scary to see.

  But the big man didn’t say anything. He just … growled, if that was possible and Orlando got the message. The passenger door slammed and Orlando pulled away from the curb in a hurry, the rice rocket’s engine a cacophonous wail as he got the hell out of Dodge.

  “So Teresa,” said the big man, turning to me. “Care to explain what that was about?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt

  Teresa was delicious to behold, even trembling and fearful. The brunette’s hair had pulled loose from her ponytail, tendrils framing her face, her denim shirt molding the contours of her breasts. I could sense her generous cleavage, ripe and luscious, straining against the buttons, envisioning each nipple to be a pretty pink, perfect for suckling.

  Okay, so this girl wasn’t exactly supermodel type or even the kind that you see at parties I frequent. First, she was far too short. For some reason, the women at society soirees are always so fucking tall, six feet or over. I don’t know how but those bitches must be wearing stilts at all hours, comfort be damned. By contrast, Teresa would never be more than shoulder-high on me … five five at most.

  Plus, she was curvy in the most delicious ways. Her hips, ass, breasts … fuck, my cock was stiffening just looking at her. But first things first. The girl was sobbing furiously, her head twisted away from me so all I could see was the cascade of hair.

  “Hey he didn’t do anything right?” I growled. “I got to you in just the nick of time.”

  There was no answer. She was crying so hard that her shoulders heaved painfully, the breath catching in her throat with every gasp, almost choking in desperate anguish.

  I tried again. “Hey honey,” I said, gently touching her shoulder. “It’s going to be alright.”

  But Teresa ignored me. By now, she’d curled up into a ball on the sidewalk, almost in fetal position as she keened mournfully, her face hidden by arms thrown over her face. Seeing no other options, I picked her up in my arms and carried her through the front door of my townhouse, kicking it shut behind me. Neighbors be damned, I had a real-life damsel in distress in my charge.

  I gently placed her on a couch in the living room, the blue fabric instantly soaked by her tears. Teresa was still weeping wildly, her hair askew, glossy as it spread across the cushions. I was at a loss. Most of the time women who cry want something and are trying to wheedle it out of me. The smallest promise, or a token of affection like jewelry, seems to shut them up pretty quick.

  But this was a completely different situation. For some reason, the other man’s come-ons, ridiculous as they’d been, had triggered something in Teresa and she was experiencing a rush, a welling of emotion from deep inside which I didn’t understand. I sat next to her, helplessly, wishing I could do something for this beautiful brunette as she cried out her heart and soul.

  Finally, the sobs subsided a bit and Teresa managed to sit up, her face tear-streaked, lashes wet, and yet utterly captivating.

  “Mis- Mister Sterling, I’m so sorry,” she said, with the faintest hint of an accent. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

  “Jerks are everywhere,” I drawled. “You gotta be careful in this beautiful city by the bay. You okay? You seemed really disturbed by that asshole.” I thought about it for a second. “Or did he do more to you than I saw?” I asked ominously, my rage rising again. I’d just happened to glance outside from my home office to see the struggle in the car. How long had that been going on before I noticed? How much had she endured? “Tell me if hurt you,” I growled, my expression fearsome.

  Teresa looked embarrassed for a moment but held her chin up high. I studied her clothes and noted with relief that they were in one piece, nothing torn, nothing bloody or ripped.

  “I’m much better now, thanks,” the girl said. “Just give me a minute to get ready and I’ll get started cleaning your home straight away.”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that there was no need. She’d been coming twice a week for the last few years, which was highly unnecessary given that I barely touch anything but the microwave. The place doesn’t get messed up, Teresa’s just eye candy to ogle as she putters around. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “No worries,” I drawled. “Why don’t you take it easy today? You need a day off.”

  “Oh no I couldn’t,” she rushed. “I couldn’t take advantage of you like that,” she said, as she walked to the guest bathroom, bag in hand. Little girl, you can take advantage of me any way you like, in any way, shape or form, I wanted to smirk. I’m ready, bring it.

  But again, this didn’t seem like the best time to come on strong, given that Teresa’d just been manhandled and had some kind of serious emotional reaction. Instead, when she came out I asked casually, “So who was that dude? Someone you know?”

  “Um, sort of,” she demurred, biting her lip. “I’m taking classes at City College, it’s just a guy who offered me a ride,” she said stiffly. “Orlando thinks he’s such hot stuff, but,” she said, shaking her head, “he’s so … ugh, I don’t even know how to describe it. No one’s brave enough to tell him though because his aunt’s a high roller in the city.”

  “Oh?” I asked, my eyebrow raised. I’d probably know her because it’s my business to know everyone with influence in the City. “Who’s his aunt?”

  “Mercedes Diaz,” Teresa sighed. “The mayor of our lovely town. Evidently Mayor Diaz has her eye set on another term, but god, I hope she doesn’t win just to put the kibosh on Orlando. With him, everything is my Aunt Mercedes this, my Aunt Mercedes that,” she added ruefully.

  Well, this was certainly an interesting spin. Mercedes Diaz is an up and coming politician, someone I’d certainly gotten to know in a professional capacity. A middle-aged, charming Latina woman, she was currently spearheading a drive to reduce homelessness in San Francisco. She was the darling of alphabet groups, especially the Latino vote which always turned out in masses to hear her stump.

  And I was interested because I’ve been considering a political run recently. Like I mentioned, Sterling Pharmaceuticals has kinda hit the skids for me. I’d hate to desert my brothers at the helm, but let’s be honest, Sterling is on a stellar track, the darling of Silicon Valley. My brothers would be able to hire five replacements to do my job if needed. Heck, I’d even pay for those replacements myself.

  So why not a shot at the mayor’s seat? I certainly knew all the right people, knew the issues inside out, and had the requisite “Sterling” name recognition. I seized on this snippet of political information, stowing it away to synthesize and use to my best advantage at a later date.

  But for now, I wanted to know more about this charming girl.

  “So Teresa,” I said, deceptively calm. “You feeling better? Wanna tell me about it?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Sterling, I’ll get started on your house,” she rushed, going over to the closet and pulling out some cleaning supplies.

  But I demurred. “For now, why don’t we just relax a bit. Here, I’ve got some whiskey … you do drink, don’t you?” I asked.

  She gulped, looking at the amber liquid in front of her.

  “I- I don’t drink on the job,” she stammered, her face flushing. I could see a sweet, hot tide rising on her cleavage, and man, was I tempted to rip of her shirt right then and there and fondle and squeeze those boobs.

  But I was a model of decorum. “How about water then?
” I drawled. “Surely that’s not off limits.”

  She took the glass gratefully, her slim throat lovely as she swallowed.

  “Now tell me more,” I rumbled, settling back onto a couch and gesturing for her to do the same. “Tell me how you got that accent … and please don’t call me Mr. Sterling anymore, it reminds me of my dad.”

  She looked ill at ease but did as I asked, perching on the edge of the loveseat and demurely crossing her legs.

  “Well,” she said hesitantly. “I work for Krystal Kleaners, my aunt’s business, and take classes part-time at City College,” she said slowly. “My mom and I, we came from the Honduras ten years ago when I was thirteen. We didn’t have many options because neither of us spoke English. My mom still doesn’t,” she said in a rush. “I mean, my mom can understand better now, but we speak Spanish exclusively at home.”

  Hmm, very interesting. A real Cinderella.

  “And why did you leave the Honduras?” I asked gently.

  Her face grew clouded. “It’s dangerous there,” she said slowly. “The bandas, the gangs controlled our city and it wasn’t safe anymore. We had to go,” she said, looking away.

  “But you were just a little girl,” I asked. “Wasn’t the move traumatic?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t want to come, but we had to,” she said uncomfortably. “There was danger everywhere,” she murmured, her eyes still on the ground.

  Hmm, there were obviously things she wasn’t telling me but I didn’t want to push it during our first real conversation.

  “And what about your father? Where is he now?” I asked gently.

  Now her face grew clouded. “My father and brothers Herberto and Gonzalo are still in the Honduras,” she said, “as well as other relatives. They’ll come when they can,” she said quietly, looking at her folded hands.

  Okay, again something rang untrue. Usually a family sends its male members first to eke out a living, remitting money to their female relatives back home until they can afford to bring everyone to the U.S. So something about Teresa’s story was a off, but again, there was no point in pushing.