Bought by the Boss

by Valentine, Layla

  Somehow, as the night unfolds, we move closer and closer to one another. Salsa music plays over the speakers. Though we stay seated, I feel like our conversation is one beautiful salsa dance. He’s leading, and I’m following his expert dance steps. We stare into each other’s eyes, and like any good dancing couple, plenty of sexual tension flows between us.

  As I feel myself surrendering to the music, the beautiful surroundings, the soft pulse of the ocean below us and the rhythm of our conversation, I feel like I’m in a trance.

  He’s holding my hand, now. I’m leaning against the table, smiling at him. His fingers brush against my palm. We’ve had two drinks—or was it three? I’ve lost count. All I can think about is the feel of his fingers moving softly over my palm.

  “This has been fun,” I say, dreamily. He’s just finished telling me a story about surfing in Hawaii. “You’re quite a storyteller,” I add.

  “It’s the best way to get to know someone,” he says suavely, still holding my hand. We’ve found little ways to keep touching each other ever since the moment he helped me up from the bench on the pier.

  “To share stories. That’s who we are. We’re stories.”

  “You sound like a philosopher,” I say.

  He laughs. “How did you know? That was my major, in college.”

  I smile. Of course. I shake my head. I feel my dangling earrings swish against my neck. “Well, I enjoyed them…your stories. Maybe we’ll have to do this again sometime.” I reach for my purse.

  I don’t want to go, but I know that I should. The star-studded sky above us is velvety black. An hour or two must have passed already. I pull my phone out and gasp when I see the actual time. It’s nearly one in the morning! We’ve spent six hours together, and it felt like so much less. How is this possible?

  “I have to catch the bus,” I say, pushing my phone back into my purse and standing.

  Though we’ve been drinking, I don’t feel drunk. Buzzed, yes, but not inebriated. I guess that makes sense since hours passed with each drink.

  Hunter stands, too. “I’ll walk with you,” he says.

  He flags down our server, and I wait as he pays the tab. When we step out from under the heat lamp, the chill in the air hits us once again. I pull his jacket around me, doubling it up around my waist.

  As we walk down the stairs, I’m already thinking about how to say goodbye to him. I want to kiss him; I want him to kiss me.

  But I made a rule with myself a long time ago: no getting physical on the first date.

  It’s a rule I’ve stuck by for the past few years, and it’s served me well. I plan on keeping it intact tonight.

  We’ll say goodbye, and if it’s meant to be, I’ll see him again.

  I have nothing against a kiss on the second date. In fact, I expect it. But not the first date. That makes me too vulnerable to getting hurt. I don’t want to feel heartbroken if this guy doesn’t ever call me again. Besides, it’s good to leave a guy wanting more.

  There’s a bus stop at the end of the block. I’ve taken the line many times. I know that it arrives at twenty after the hour, and we only have a few minutes to make it. I pick up my pace, and Hunter keeps time with me.

  While we’re still halfway down the block, I hear the sound of a bus approaching. Years of taking the bus has given me a sixth sense when it comes to them, and just because of the sound of the engine I turn. I see the blue and white city bus hurtling toward the stop.

  “That’s me!” I say to Hunter. I start running, half expecting him to shout his goodbye instead of keeping up with me. But he surprises me by breaking into a jog at my side.

  He runs next to me for a moment and then reaches for my hand. Though it’s an odd gesture, it feels almost natural because of how close we’ve grown in such a short period of time.

  I love the feel of his hand in mine, so when he pulls me a little bit to the side, guiding me off the sidewalk and off course for the bus, I let him. I follow his lead into a small photo booth.

  We’re both breathless.

  He slips quarters into a waiting slot.

  “I’m going to miss the bus,” I say breathlessly, giggling. I haven’t been in a photo booth since I was a teenager!

  “There will be another one,” he says. “I can’t let you get away just like that. Tonight’s been too good.”

  He’s right. The last thing I want to do right now is step onto a bus that will carry me away from him.

  My heart is pounding, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m still trying to catch my breath after running in heels, or if it’s the fact that I’m in this booth with a guy sexier than any man from my wildest dreams.

  “Plus, I didn’t get your number yet,” he says.

  The photo booth screen lights up, and Hunter reaches out and taps a button. “And I really, really want your number. If you want to give it to me, that is.”

  “Yes,” I say with a smile, just as a flash fills the booth.

  Hunter slings his arm around me and presses his cheek next to mine.

  I giggle some more. I feel downright giddy. This is the silliest thing I’ve done in years. A second flash goes off.

  “Make a funny face,” Hunter instructs.

  I stick out my tongue, and he laughs as the third flash goes off.

  “How many more are there?” I ask.

  “One,” Hunter says.

  Then, two things happen at once. He turns to me, and his lips land on mine. He’s kissing me, taking my breath away, just as the fourth and final flash goes off.

  The booth becomes bright white with light. My vision bursts with the brightness, just as my body responds to Hunter’s kiss.

  His lips are powerful, warm, full.

  He wraps his hand through my hair, pulling me into him. The kiss is so sudden, so passionate…and so welcome.

  Suddenly, I don’t know how I could have ever wanted to end this night without kissing him. Was I crazy? Certifiably insane? Because this kiss is the best thing I’ve ever experienced.

  His mouth moves hungrily against mine. I part my lips and feel his tongue enter my mouth. My chest is rising and falling fast—I still haven’t caught my breath. This is all so unexpected.

  So wonderful.

  Just…divine.

  “Mmmm,” I hear myself murmur as we part. Did I really just say that? It’s the kind of sound I might make after biting into a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie.

  Well, I suppose it makes sense.

  This kiss did taste good. He tastes good.

  He grins. “Come home with me,” he says.

  It’s more of an order than a question. Every part of me feels ready and willing to comply.

  I know that I said I had rules about first dates, but now that we’ve kissed, those rules seem archaic.

  What girl wrote that rule book? Certainly not me. Not the me of right now, who is gazing into Hunter’s eyes and nodding yes.

  Yes, I’ll kiss you again.

  And yes, I’ll go home with you. Gladly.

  Chapter 4

  Maria

  The photo booth machine whirs, and out pops two narrow rectangular photographs, each the size of a bookmark. I reach for them, hand one to Hunter and slip one into my purse.

  I’ll look at them later. Right now, my heart is fluttering too quickly to focus on something as mundane as photographs. His kiss has turned me on. Parts of me that have been closed down, shut off and on lockdown, are suddenly lit up like downtown San Bravado on Christmas Eve.

  This man does something to me.

  He reaches for my hand and pulls me up. I feel weak in the knees with anticipation, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Out on the sidewalk, he hails a cab.

  Twenty minutes later he unlocks his front door. We’re in the Greeling Tower, one of San Bravado’s most prominent downtown buildings. Honestly, I didn’t even know that people lived here. When he said “apartment,” I imagined a bachelor pad or perhaps a studio apartment. At the very most, if he was lucky
given the city’s steep rent prices, a one bedroom. But Hunter’s downtown “apartment” is the size of a mansion.

  The main room is two stories high. One wall is entirely floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the bay including the piers we just walked on. The window frames are modern and white. In fact, much of the interior is white, which would give the place a beach-house vibe if it wasn’t for the signs of opulence: tall white columns that stretch to the ceiling; abstract art the size of pool tables displayed on the wall; polished, gleaming glass surfaces in every direction, and more and more rooms as far as the eye can see.

  “This place is massive,” I whisper. I’ve stopped moving. My feet are planted on the ground. I’m in shock. “Just a few hours ago, we were eating hot dogs for dinner. And here you are…living like a millionaire?”

  I’m not sure if my off-handed comment is rude, but I can’t help myself.

  Hunter doesn’t seem to mind. “Billionaire, actually,” he says. His voice is soft, too. His tone carries a slight hint of amusement.

  I’m gawking. I try to gather myself. Drawn toward the view of the ocean, I begin crossing the room. It’s like walking the length of a gymnasium. I pass by gray leather couches, loveseats, and chairs, all arranged in clusters big enough to seat twenty people.

  “Hunter, this view is amazing,” I breathe.

  He’s been trailing behind me. We both stop in front of the windows.

  “I’m glad you think so,” he says. “I see it every day. It starts to become familiar. I start to take it for granted. That’s how things go, isn’t it? You start to experience the same thing, over and over again…and it becomes sort of vanilla.”

  There’s a slight edge in his voice, but before I read too much into it, he speaks again. “I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like?”

  “A gin and tonic would be wonderful,” I say.

  Since I’m facing the window, I can watch his reflection in the gleaming glass as he walks away. The boy is fine.

  He disappears down a hallway, and I take the opportunity to turn and examine the room out from under his watchful gaze. I walk the perimeter of the wall of windows until I reach the adjacent wall. A massive, twenty-foot tall painting is displayed prominently.

  The painting is done in the style of Jackson Pollock, and I’m curious about the artist. Whoever they are, they've copied the famous artist’s style perfectly. I lean in to read the plaque on the wall and gasp. Of course. It was painted by Pollock himself. This painting must be worth millions.

  My stomach does a flip. Standing so close to such wealth makes me feel queasy. I can’t help but think of Camila. I back away from the painting as if being in its presence is bad for my health. I pull out my phone and check to see if I have any messages from my older sister.

  Nothing.

  That means that for tonight at least, the loan sharks are leaving her alone.

  Poor Camila. She’s made some mistakes, but who hasn’t? Dan was a bad choice for a husband. But she didn’t know, when they married, that he’d rack up so much on credit cards and then leave her footing the bill.

  How on earth is she going to pay down the debt? Camila’s like me. She’s a hard worker, but even hours of hard work never get us ahead of our bills. We each live month to month, and she even supports her two children. I can’t imagine how she’s going to come up with thousands of dollars in extra cash. It would take years.

  I’m pacing across the room now. Anger over my sister’s situation has flooded my veins. The bastards won’t give her that much time! If she doesn’t get that money soon, she is going to be in trouble.

  And what about my nephews? Will the loan sharks stoop so low as to hurt them?

  I can’t let that happen.

  My pacing stops as I near a glass display case. It’s like something you might see in a department store, only I notice that it isn’t locked. Inside, there are three tiers, each filled with an assortment of watches. I’m sure each is worth thousands. Jemma told me once that the watch her father wears is worth twelve thousand dollars.

  Again, I feel a wave of nausea. What is wrong with wealthy people? This is such a waste of money. I get along fine without a watch at all. What use could Hunter possibly have for dozens of them?

  Take one, a little voice inside of me urges.

  I know I have to act fast. Hunter will be back with our drinks any minute now. I don’t have time to think clearly. Instead, I reach out, open the case, and take one of the shiny silver timepieces. I slip it into my purse.

  The next time I talk to Camila, I’m going to have good news to share. I’ll sell the watch and give her the chunk of cash. At least she’ll have something to give to the bullies who have been harassing her for a week now.

  It will buy her some time.

  I close the case and move away from it, toward one of the leather sofas. It’s softer than it looks, and the moment I sit down, I sign with appreciation. Now this is a couch. Nothing like the worn futon I have propped against a wall in my own apartment.

  I cross my legs and then smooth my hair over my shoulder. I want to look pretty when Hunter returns. A moment later, he emerges from the hallway that he disappeared down. He has two drinks in his hands.

  I think my preparation worked. I do look pretty. I can see it in his eyes.

  He looks me over appreciatively as he crosses the room.

  Even from a distance, I see his emerald eyes sparkling with anticipation. Lust. Hunger.

  He wants me.

  And I’m going to let him have me.

  Chapter 5

  Hunter

  God, she’s beautiful.

  Picture perfect.

  I walk toward her, feeling like I’m in some kind of virtual reality. It’s every man’s fantasy. Red lips. Sort dress. Long, silky-smooth legs. I want those legs wrapped around my back. I want to take her. Right here and now.

  Her dark hair falls in a pool of glossy waves over one of her tantalizingly bare shoulders. Her eyes look up at me, through a fringe of dark lashes.

  What is she thinking?

  I extend a drink out to her, and she takes it. I set my own drink down on a side table. I’m not interested in it, right now.

  I like standing here in front of her, looking down at her. I wait as she sips the drink. I’m mesmerized by her mouth as it touches the glass’s edge. She’s turning me on.

  Standing here like this, in front of her, I can almost imagine that those lips are wrapped around my cock. They’re so red, so full. I feel my dick stir in my pants as I watch her.

  Hold on, I tell myself.

  She looks up at me again. And oh, God, she licks her lips. Her tongue is pink, a softer tone than the brazen, bold red of her lipstick. It glistens, wet against the matte makeup.

  I’m getting hard, and I think she knows it.

  Then, she stands up.

  The ice clinks in her glass as she moves. She’s next to me now.

  “Delicious,” she says. The word pours over her tongue and lips with smooth richness. Her tone is soft and seductive. She’s inching forward. I enjoy letting her come to me.

  My senses are so alive now. This is it. This is what I live for. The game is beginning.

  Her perfume is subtle, sexy with undertones of wood and floral.

  “Is it just you in this apartment, Hunter?” she asks.

  “Just me,” I answer. My voice comes out deep and raspy. I find it hard to speak, I’m so turned on.

  “What do you do, with all this space?”

  “Whatever I want,” I answer truthfully.

  “You must be used to that,” she says. “Getting what you want.”

  “I am.”

  “Do you entertain?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  She’s just six inches from me. I want to reach out and touch her. I feel my blood rushing—that familiar thrill of the chase. I hold back, enjoying the wait.

  “Women?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  She looks do
wn at her drink but doesn’t sip it.

  “Does that offend you?” I ask. I can see that it has. She doesn’t want to imagine me here, with another woman. Maybe she’s the jealous type.

  I can see that she’s waiting for me to say something kind. Something like, “none of them were as beautiful as you, though.”

  She’s uncomfortable.

  It’s true. She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever brought home. But now that I feel the tables turn—she’s no longer seducing me, I have the upper hand—I hold my tongue. I don’t console her like she’s expecting.

  Instead, I let the silence linger.

  I soak up the sense of power that I now feel.

  “Well,” she says at last. “That’s expected. Of course, I know that I’m not the first woman you’ve brought home from the bar. You do this often?”

  “When I want to,” I say.

  Again, I watch her simmer with discomfort. “What about you, Maria?” I ask. “Do you often go home with men you’ve just met?”

  She blushes. “No,” she says.

  Ah. She’s not only conservative when it comes to her food choices. She’s also reserved about sex.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  This question seems to take her aback. She looks at me, a small crease forming near her right brow. I add this to my list of tells. I’m learning to read this woman.

  “I usually like to get to know someone, first,” she says.

  “What about me, Maria?” I ask. I step forward, closing the six-inch gap between us by half. I reach my hand up and let it rest on the curve of her jaw, just below her ear. My thumb is on her cheek. I’m holding her gaze in mine. “Do you know me?”

  “I—I thought—” She’s flustered now. It’s sexy. I stroke my hand over her cheek, lightly.

  “Hmm?” I say, forcing her to continue.

  “I feel like I do—or I did before we came here. Now I see that you’re… Well, maybe you’re different than I thought.”