Hostile Work Environment: A Dirty Billionaire Boss Romance

by Dark Angel

  Buyer’s Market

  All my life, women have tried to sell themselves to me.

  No surprise. I’m rich. Handsome. Successful. Master of the Universe.

  That is, until I meet Emmaline Travers.

  Her body is for sale. But there’s a look in her eyes.

  It tells me…Let the Buyer Beware.

  I know though that I’ll pay any price for her. And once I do, I’ll defile that tight body of hers as I do ungodly things to it.

  I’ll push her up against the wall. Rip the clothes off her hot little body.

  Grab that luscious heart shaped @$$ and smack it as I ride her into paradise.

  But is the cost too high?

  Everything is for sale, but will buying her bankrupt me?

  If it comes to it, that’s how far I’m willing to go then to own her everlasting love.

  I’m willing to sell my eternal soul.

  Emmaline

  “You can’t trust an academic website to tell you what you need to know about your professor!” Delia says, swinging the hand off her hip to grab my laptop. She snatches it and sits next to me on my bed.

  “What?” I raise my hands and cock my head to the side, getting sassy about her just grabbing my laptop.

  Delia raises her eyebrows until her forehead crinkles. She’s bringing as much sass as I am today. “You have to Google that shit, Facebook stalk, etc.,” Delia lifts a hand up from her frantic typing and waves her hand. “Otherwise you’re not going to find the real deal — and I hear there are some real treasures at our school, if ya know what I mean,” Delia says, waggling her eyebrows.

  “That’s … well,” I don’t really know what to say back to that. I knew that Delia had plenty of boyfriends since I’d known her, but I wasn’t so sure that I would ever consider the teachers part of the dating pool. I started thinking about how weird it would be. I mean, staying up to date on reading is hard enough, how would you date someone who knew you stayed up too late in the library getting more sources for your latest paper? Weird. Not that I knew what to do with a normal boyfriend. That’s why I’m boyfriend-less and pretty much cool with it. Delia does not make me jealous with the fools she messes around with anyway.

  Delia’s eyes go wide. “Wow, he’s fine as hell. And I bet if he reads poetry and shit, well that’s bound to give you a lady boner—“

  I can’t let her finish, and I grab my computer back. We were supposed to be going over our schedules to find out details about our classes, and see what teachers were like as far as grading went. “Oh my God!” Delia makes everything about sex sometimes, but then I look at the screen.

  Delia is right, though. Professor Ethan Wesley. I don’t think I’ve ever imagined anything more attractive than that man sitting at the edge of a desk and reading poetry. I think I'm actually getting a little wet at the idea. If I tell Delia she’ll never let me live it down, but I mean, she’s my friend so I have to give her something. “Well, actually, he’s …” I have no idea what to say.

  “He’s fucking fine as hell, and girl your face is bright red. I guess old guys are your type. I don’t blame you, not with this man,” Delia says laughing.

  I realize where I recognize that name. My freshman year my mom told me about him, said she had an old friend who worked at the school and said maybe I’d take some of his classes. Oh God.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Delia says. She shuts my laptop and holds my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Too hot for you, babe?”

  I laugh nervously and squeeze her hand back. I think I’m actually sweating a little bit. “Umm, yeah, he’s hot. He was my mom’s friend though so that’s super weird. I mean, he’s already my teacher … and my mom’s friend … so it's weird that he’s hot but like—“

  “Damn, girl, you got it bad!” Delia stands up and grabs her sunglasses and heads for the door. “I’ll leave you alone for some Googling. Use your birthday present! I’ll lock the door,” she finishes with a whisper. “Coffee, tomorrow, and tell me how many times you came,” Delia says, waggling her eyebrows at me and shooting finger guns.

  “Delia, Jesus girl,” I say, exasperated. But the truth is … I'm going to dig around on the Internet and find out whatever I can about my professor. His face is like permanently burned into my brain right now and I can’t think of anything else. “I’ll give you the full dossier, cross my heart,” I say, drawing an x over my heart.

  Delia winks, and then slides her glasses down over her eyes and heads out the door. I hear the click of the lock, and I head for the nightstand drawer. I slide down my joggers and my panties. I tell myself, I won’t go overboard, because I did actually plan to go for a quick run around campus before classes start up again and I’m thinking about more readings and papers. But I can already tell by how my pussy is aching that I might wear myself out in a minute just looking at pictures of him on the Internet.

  This is by far the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever done in my life — leave it to Delia — but I mean, masturbating while thinking about your professor, that’s harmless. It's just a fantasy. I mean, when I see him and he’s my teacher, I’m sure I’ll feel totally different.

  Maybe he just photographs well. Because why would my mom just be friends with him, if he’s that good looking?

  Okay, that’s the sort of weird thought that could really kill the vibe before I even twist my vibe to turn it on.

  My curiosity leads me to read a professional biography, and he’s published about basically every author I have loved, ever. I gasp, kind of shocked, but that turns me on as much as looking at his face. He wrote about Mary Shelley, my favorite author, on several occasions. For a few seconds, I think I might read those papers with the online library access the university has, but my twitching clit urges me to look at more pictures.

  It isn’t long before I find him on a Forbes list.

  Whoa!

  So, Dr. Wesley doesn’t need to teach at all. He’s been in school more years than I’ve been alive, and he’s loaded. He ran a publishing firm for many years, and he owns a media conglomerate. He teaches, according to the article with the pictures, because that’s his true passion.

  The shots of him holding leather bounds, or the one where he’s got both of his palms flat on a desk—God, I can’t turn that vibrator on fast enough.

  I’m even going to tell Delia the answer at coffee tomorrow.

  Four.

  That’s how many times I cum just looking at these pictures of him. I stop when I realize that my whole dorm room smells like sex and I probably want it to air out before my roommate gets back tomorrow. I read more about him, and my heart is racing. He’s what I might build if I actually wanted a boyfriend … but not now. I’d need 10 or 20 years to be even worth his attention.

  I sigh.

  But that’s what a fantasy is for, right? I mean, there’s no way that he can be anything more than a fantasy. A teacher crush that I get over when I’m done with my course load. Though, majoring in English, I'm actually going to be taking a lot of classes that I know now that only he teaches. I gulp. I never should've done this. I could have just enjoyed the class but I let Delia put naughty thoughts in my head!

  I think about texting her, but I don’t want her to pump me for details. As hard as the first day of classes are, we’ll have something fun to talk about over coffee tomorrow morning.

  Maybe it'll give me enough time to accept that I was just doomed from the instant I got on his schedule, because he’s everything I didn’t know I wanted in a man.

  Ethan

  I fuck a lot. I fuck so many hot women that I should never, ever have time to look at students. I'm a college professor and that means I see lots of hot young girls staring intently at the body they just know I’m hiding behind my clothes. But none of them have a shot.

  None until Emmaline. Emmaline is the kind of pure soul that I should never want. In fact, I know the instant I see those chocolate curls and big hazel eyes, this is the younger, hotter ver
sion of a woman that I grew up with and never loved. My best friend through elementary to high school, Emmaline’s mother Joelle was never interested in me.

  Kids nowadays and their dumb 'friendzone' bullshit have no fucking clue.

  Sure, I was fucking obsessed with Joelle and thought I loved her. She was clever, beautiful, and always there. As a friend. It took me years to realize that we simply weren’t a good pairing.

  We didn’t share any of the same values, Joelle didn’t share or understand my passions. And she was swept up in our mutual friend Daniel. Daniel was not like me. He was the good boy, and I was the bad. Joelle was a good girl, and she belonged with him. I’m not even sore about it. It's been a little while, but I even still hang out with Joelle and Daniel.

  Am I still that bad boy? Well, my act hasn’t entirely straightened up now, but I’ve always been good about not fucking students, or even wanting to fuck them.

  And we’re talking some hard work and dedication on my part because there have been literally a classroom’s worth of blondes and a few kinky redheads that left thongs (the redheads all left me filthy notes with them) but I’ve never even considered fucking them. I fuck women my age, or maybe a tad younger, but not the girls who are basically half my age. I don’t fuck students. I don’t want to fuck students.

  And I’ve come to understand that even though Joelle loves me, she loves me as a friend. So when I see Emmaline, I can’t just be hung up on her mother. There’s something more.

  So how come the second I see her daughter, I can’t fucking stand the idea of not touching those brown curls? It was just a sexual attraction at first and I told myself I could overcome that, in that instant. But my old, obsessive ways do spring into motion. I know that I can’t get this girl out of my head. Not right now.

  This is how she breaks my concentration—I’m out here scaring the class like I normally do, sorting wheat and chaff and letting people know that this is not the class they’re going to fuck around in. You don’t have to love my subject the way I do, but you do have to work the course hard enough to earn your grade. I don’t believe in the curve, or in rewarding mediocrity.

  I’m lecturing about all these expectations when Emmaline tries to slip in late, unnoticed.

  “Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know …” I pause for her name.

  “Emmaline,” she says quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” Her voice cuts through the silence I demand in my classes when we’re not actively discussing something.

  My eyes flicker from half the class looking like they want to drop the class now, and the other half giving me the I’d-fuck-this-teacher eyes. I’m used to both, and almost don’t see her. I'm doing my general thing where I let the fear and the admiration wash over me for just a second, but then I have to be professional.

  That soft little voice shouldn’t have stirred me. But that name, and then … how can I not notice her? I try not to be visibly shaken by the sight of her. That’s Daniel’s last name, and Joelle’s too, for a lot of years. And I know those eyes. I can’t be professional when I see her. I hold my breath, clench my fists, and feel my cock already getting hard. Wildly fucking inappropriate, and something I can’t let get noticed. I’m going to have to sit behind my desk like some old fucker if I get hard right in the middle of class. Her fear rouses the part of me that I keep under wraps during class, only calculating the right amount of that part of me for when I need to scare the new students.

  I’ve been so very good. Never have I been inappropriate with a student, even though I've left many students disappointed because of that. I enjoy my job. That’s why this career is my chosen path, despite other things that have paid more, taken less of my time. I’ve been very good so that I won’t jeopardize that. Nothing has ever tempted me.

  But now I know I’m in too deep.

  On the outside, I’m professional. I finish the lecture, talk over the syllabus, give out my first paper — to be done in class — and another to be brought to the next class. I like to see where my students are. Pressure and preparation can show you two sides of someone, and I like to gauge both with those writing assignments.

  I try to catch another glimpse of Emmaline, but where she’s seated, I can’t see her. I keep my cool, figuring I’ll find her after class.

  But I did a number on her. She’s gone before most of the rest of the class is. Damn.

  I head back to my office, and I find a grainy picture of her in the student directory. It doesn’t do her justice.

  I plug her name into Facebook, something I haven’t visited in a while. Too much annoying political drama…but sure enough, we have a mutual friend.

  Joelle Travers is Emmaline’s mother.

  Fuck.

  I should be thinking about how I need to stay away.

  Instead, I’m thinking about when I’ll see her again.

  Emmaline

  I’m never late for class!

  And late on the first day of class?

  The class that I’m looking forward to way too much?

  I got a little too excited last night, and then I overslept. I desperately needed that coffee with Delia, but I didn’t make it because I just kept falling back asleep. I woke up several times, checked my phone, no big deal. Then I miss my alarm entirely because I still don't have a roommate to make me wake up, and if it wasn’t for Delia attempting to beat down my door, I’d possibly still be asleep.

  Dr. Ethan. His name is written on the board, and that’s when I realize, Dr. Ethan Wesley likes to be called by his first name. I’ve had other teachers like that, and it was nice then. With all the stress of college, it isn’t so bad when a teacher wants to be a little informal.

  But with him?

  “Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know…” He pauses for my name. God, I see all kinds of people in the room, fawning over him, and here I am, thinking about how sensual his voice is.

  Oh, shit. I should actually answer.

  “Emmaline,” I say my name quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” I say my first and last name for him in this too quiet classroom. No one is moving a muscle, either transfixed or paralyzed by him.

  I sit down behind someone, trying to keep my eyes off of him.

  But that’s not enough.

  I’m taking notes through class, getting to know what his course is going to be like. How am I supposed to focus on this class when the sound of his voice stops my pen and puts my heart in overdrive?

  I keep trying to take notes, leaving ten of the graph squares on my note paper blank for marking up and calling out things later. I’ve never sat in any lecture and started to lose track of what the teacher was saying. Yet, here I am, hanging onto Dr. Ethan’s every word and forgetting to even write things down.

  I’m relieved when he says that we’re going to now write our first paper.

  After the intimidating lecture, which I only caught the tail end of and even find myself a little freaked out about, no one dares groan when he says that he expects everyone to keep writing until the end of class. The second handout contains the paper that we are to turn in next class.

  He is demanding. But for some reason the idea of Dr. Ethan as being so domineering and demanding just makes me squirm in my seat. When I do, I catch a quick glimpse of him. Thank God he’s looking in the other direction because if his eyes lock on mine, I might faint in class.

  Wouldn’t you figure? I’ll make sure and tell Delia when we have coffee tomorrow (I promised to make it this time) that apparently being attracted to a guy gives me, like, narcolepsy.

  My brain has the good sense to not let me freak out when I take my copies of the assignments and then pass them on.

  I’m a freaking English major. This is a writing assignment. Even though I’m a planner in so many ways, I have no problem writing something off the cuff for class. The size of the booklets he gave us, well, he’s expecting a lot.

&nb
sp; Why do I feel a flutter in my stomach when I think about him reading my paper, maybe being pleased by it?

  Okay, that’s the kind of pressure that I don’t need. I take a deep breath, shove the second assignment into my bag, and get my pencil case out to start on this one.

  I read the assignment prompt.

  ‘Discuss an experience that changed your opinion. Use this to explain your story, but not to persuade. The reader should be able to picture your experience.’

  For about three seconds, I think about writing about Delia convincing me that trying a vibrator would make my life easier. I decide against buying a ticket on the train to inappropriate land and try not to imagine Dr. Ethan reading about me masturbating.

  Girls throw themselves at him all the time, I’m sure. The guy in front of me looks like he’d rather skip lunch and have the professor instead. Can’t blame him, but that’s not me. This whole foolish fantasy needs to stop. I need to write about something.

  I think for a second, indulging my bad habit in holding the capped end of my pen in my mouth.

  I’m 19. Opinions are supposed to be changed like underwear. Deeply held, then discarded, right? For a maddening few seconds, I don’t know what to write, but then I put my pen to paper.

  My topic is a little strange. I write about the death penalty, and how my nextdoor neighbor getting murdered ended up changing my mind about the death penalty. I never saw much of the girl my age who lived there, Carrie I think her name was, and what I saw of her parents, they weren’t great … but it wasn’t like their death was a good thing to me. Then, after someone went down for that murder, the whole neighborhood seemed to be out for blood. I thought the death penalty was just part of justice, and I didn’t feel that way when some stranger ancillary to my life might be on the execution block.

  My brain flits to the idea that my narrative might not be that insightful, or well written, but I can’t let myself think about that and I just write instead.