by Lydia Rowan
Beneath the Boss (Omnibus)
Lydia Rowan
Published by Lydia Rowan, 2014.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BENEATH THE BOSS (OMNIBUS)
First edition. June 8, 2014.
Copyright © 2014 Lydia Rowan.
Written by Lydia Rowan.
Also by Lydia Rowan
Beneath the Boss
Beneath the Boss (Book One)
Beneath the Boss (Book Two)
Beneath the Boss (Book Three)
Beneath the Boss (Omnibus)
Guardian's Heart
Heart of Danger
Victor for Valentine's
Heart of Healing
Standalone
Feel & Obey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Lydia Rowan
Book One
Book Two
Book Three
Also By Lydia Rowan
Book One
Chapter One
The insistent beep of her phone pulled her out of her reverie. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. 1:46 a.m. She knew who it’d be.
“I could have been sleeping,” Layla Grayson said by way of greeting.
“But you weren’t, were you?” her employer Leighton Means responded.
“Good morning, Leighton. Have you been arrested? Do you need me to rush you to the hospital? I can’t imagine why else you’d be calling at this hour.” Layla knew her gentle barbs were of no consequence. Leighton called whenever he pleased and had never, ever, given her subtle, or not so subtle, hints about boundaries and propriety even a passing concern.
Leighton’s voice dropped an octave from its already deep timbre. “Pity your imagination is so limited. We have a ten o’clock with Smythe. I need your report by eight.”
He hung up without saying good-bye.
Layla lay flat on her back staring at the slow-rotating ceiling fan. It was late spring, and she appreciated the cool breeze during the balmy Dallas night. She’d been wired up, too amped to sleep, but still hoping for a few moments’ rest. Now that he’d called, she knew those hopes were futile.
Layla sighed and climbed out of bed. Another all-nighter wouldn’t hurt.
After she pulled on a pair of cotton lounge pants, she headed downstairs to her home office. As her computer booted up, she thought about Leighton.
Leighton Means. Billionaire corporate-finance maven. He’d taken over his father’s fledging financial-services company fresh out business school, and in twelve years, using a combination of grit, intelligence, and sheer ruthlessness, had managed to turn it into one of the most profitable firms in the country. Leighton was notorious for his business prowess, and his reputation with ladies wasn’t far behind. When he wasn’t crushing the competition, Leighton cavorted with supermodels and socialites from Dallas’s finest families.
Layla was one of the few who got to see the man behind the headlines, and the reality of Leighton every bit of his reputation and more. His business acumen was unparalleled, but combined with his charm and looks, he was unstoppable. A fact that she, officially senior financial analyst for Means Financial, and unofficially Leighton’s girl Friday, was too keenly aware of. She couldn’t really trace it, but somehow, over the past five or so years, Leighton had pulled her closer and deeper, and before she’d known what was happening, she’d found herself at his beck and call, almost fully subsumed in his universe. What else could explain why she was sitting at her computer at two in the morning?
True, there were perks. Leighton compensated her generously, her salary affording her, for the first time in her life, a degree of financial independence that wouldn’t likely have been attainable otherwise. Sure, she still drove a Civic—she loved that car—but she had a beautiful home in a safe neighborhood, didn’t want for anything, really.
But lately, she’d felt restless, dissatisfied. Lonely. She had a good group of friends that she didn’t see nearly enough, and she didn’t even want to think about the sorry state of her love life. She tried to chalk it up to any number of things. She was a big girl, much larger than acceptable to most, and she had a weakness for sarcasm that, especially coming from an African American woman of her physical stature, some people found off-putting. She was no nagging shrew, but she certainly didn’t hold her tongue. She’d mostly accepted her size and personality, telling herself that if a man couldn’t handle her outside of bed, he’d probably disappoint in, so why waste the time.
These were all excuses.
Her current solitary state was solely attributable to one thing. Leighton. As he’d sucker her deeper and deeper into his world, she’d started to neglect her own, and only recently had she realized that while Leighton went out and did whatever—and whoever—billionaire’s did in their spare time, she was alone. And while she occasionally hoped it was worth it, that he, on some level, valued her, that little voice inside her head always reinforced what she already knew: She was totally dispensable to Leighton, only as useful as the work she did. And yet, she stayed, ever faithful.
Pathetic really. There was no denying that, but in truth, despite the stress and agitation, how insignificant she was to him, Layla knew she owed Leighton everything. And if she had to sacrifice sleep, friends, hell, even love and sex to repay him, well, that was what she’d do.
Chapter Two
Layla stepped into his office at seven fifty the next morning, there even before Leighton’s secretary Dawn arrived. At some point over the years, they’d dispensed with the formality of knocking. Most formalities, actually.
“You here, Leighton?”
“Damn it, Layla, come help me with this thing!” he yelled through the intercom.
Layla laughed. He was losing the war with his tie again, no doubt. She always found herself helping Leighton with these little details, but there was no need to seem eager, so she took her time walking across his spacious office. A solid wall of floor-to-ceiling windows provided an expansive view of Dallas, the cars on the street below looking tiny from this height, and the opposite wall featured a flat-screen television and video-conferencing setup. The space also featured two matching black-and-chrome love seats set on the garish white carpet that covered the entire office. She hadn’t been shy about expressing her dislike of both the impracticality and hideousness of the floor covering, but as Leighton had helpfully reminded her, she was a financial analyst, not a decorator or custodian. Still, she smiled whenever she saw it. It was so at odds with Leighton’s taste.
The one item in the office that was not was the massive oak desk in front of the windows. It had belonged to Leighton’s father, and his grandfather before that, but to Layla’s mind, it had been made for him, the perfect physical representation of Leighton’s commanding presence. That desk was his throne, and from behind it, he ruled his kingdom, issuing proclamations with full expectation that they be obeyed.
Even though she knew Leighton better than most, she was not immune his power, and in particular, his power as magnified by that desk. She was loath to admit it, but more times that she could count, and with distressingly increasing frequency, she’d imagined her and Leighton on that desk. Her draped across it, naked ass in the air, cheeks red and stinging from Leighton’s smacks and her pussy throbbing with need as she begged him to fuck her, something he would always deny. Her underneath sucking his cock as he stroked her hair and calmly conducted a meeting. Layla shivered, knowing it was best not to give in to that train of thought. So she ignored the tightening of her nipples and t
he moisture gathering in her folds and headed to Leighton’s private quarters.
He kept a condo in the city and a larger estate about an hour outside of it, but as far as Layla could tell, he spent most of his time in his office’s upstairs living space. It was a full private floor that boasted all of the comforts of home, including a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and gym. It was tasteful, and expensive, but there was an ease, a comfort to the space that suggested a side of Leighton most others didn’t get to see. Layla tried to avoid coming up here. She was indebted to the man, respected him immensely, and on those rare occasions that he wasn’t being a domineering asshole, kind of liked him.
And she wanted to fuck him. That would never—could never—happen, but she wanted it all the same, and seeing him here made him almost real, not attainable exactly, she had a better chance of one day fitting into a single-digit dress size, which was so not happening, but just close enough that she could hope. And hope would inevitably lead to her being crushed. So she tried to keep her distance, not that Leighton seemed to care.
Layla walked through the living area and into his bedroom and to his en suite bathroom, where she found him fiddling with his tie.
“I’ve told you not to curse at me. Move, let me do it. What would the paparazzi say if they knew the great Leighton Means couldn’t tie a tie?” She chuckled.
“Not now, Layla. Do you have the report?”
“I e-mailed it, and a hard copy is on your desk. Why are you involved anyway? Smythe has a small operation, something a junior executive could handle easily.”
He leveled his gray-eyed gaze at her, the ice in his look intense enough to burn. She’d never admit it out loud, but even after all these years, those intense looks of Leighton’s still occasionally made her suppress a shiver. She couldn’t resist the impulse to look away.
“I’m the owner of this company, and the projects I chose to take a personal interest in are my concern.”
Her gaze snapped back to his. “Of course, Mr. Means,” she said in chilly tone. She was no billionaire, but Layla would only take so much.
After a moment, the ice thawed a bit, and she said, “How does this look?”
He studded his reflection. “Excellent as always.”
She took a moment to stare and was again struck by the power that rolled off him. Leighton wasn’t handsome. His features were too raw for so delicate a word. Hawkish nose, slashing, black eyebrows set above those startling gray eyes, firm lips and proud chin. His hair was a shock of rich, thick, shiny black curls. She’d heard Leighton grumble about his unruly curls, shorn short in a last-ditch attempt at management, but to no avail. They still sprang free, a stark contrast with Leighton’s impeccably controlled exterior. She’d imagined running her fingers through those curls, gripping them as he she cradled his head between her thighs while he tongue fucked her to orgasm.
She looked lower still, to the impressive expansive of his broad shoulders, the bulk of his chest, his powerful thighs. She stopped at his large hands, hands that she’d expected to be soft and smooth, but which were the rough and calloused and now starred in her fantasies, her mind trying to conjure the sensation of those hands on her skin, grazing her nipples, moving down her stomach, moving lower still...
Layla looked back into the mirror, where Leighton tried, in vain, to smooth his hair. Tailored suit notwithstanding, Leighton was a powerful physical creature, and Layla, no dainty miss herself, couldn’t help but be in awe.
Chapter Three
“Layla?”
Leighton repeated the question when she didn’t respond.
“Layla, where are you today?”
She shook her head and said, “Sorry, Leighton. I just drifted off.”
“Well I need you focused, so pull yourself together.”
Her only response was a cold smile and a nod, something only Layla would dare, and one of the many reasons he respected her. As he tried to tame his damn hair, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was tall something that he, at six-six, rarely said about anyone, man or a woman. If he had to guess, he’d say she was six feet, though the low, flat heel of her boot may have added an inch. She was also substantial. He was accustomed to fragile, contained, and frankly, smaller women, but Layla was the exact opposite. He’d admit she had a lovely face, wide brown eyes, high cheekbones that a model would kill for, and full, succulent lips. Her broad shoulders highlighted the narrowness of her waist, which curved down to her full hips and ass, sitting atop long, thick legs, all wrapped in medium brown skin that Leighton refused to believe was as soft as it looked.
Most of the women Leighton had been with had had implants, but from what he could tell, Layla was naturally endowed. He was human, and he’d, on occasion, caught the press of her breasts against her top, or felt the brush of their weight across his arm, and been intrigued. It was unfortunate that Layla downplayed herself so much. As was usual, she was dressed in a black suit, with black boots and a white button-down shirt. The outfit did nothing to enhance her natural charms.
“Don’t I pay you enough to dress decently?” The words slipped out before he’d fully considered them, but much to his surprise, Layla laughed, a full, open sound that made her breasts shake and put a slight tinge of red under her brown cheeks.
A bolt of irritation shot through him.
“I’m glad I amuse you.”
“Leighton, you’re a businessman not a person stylist. And do you ask all of your employees about their wardrobes? If so, tell me now so I can contact legal because that’s way out of bounds.”
“Psh. You’re not just an employee. I trust you with a variety of matters vital to this company, and it’s totally reasonable that I have—”
“Never mind,” she said, cutting him off, her laughter fading. “Not that it’s your business, but I wear what I want, so feel free to never mention this again, okay? I’ll welcome Smythe when he arrives.”
And with that, she left.
••••
As Leighton entered the main conference room, the sound of laughter and pleased voices met him. Layla sat with Anson Smythe, and from the look of things, they were having a ball getting acquainted. Anger twisted in his gut. He loathed that weasel Smythe and was looking forward to taking his business. He hadn’t told Layla, didn’t think she’d approve of what he had in mind, but maybe he should have warned her to stay away. He didn’t want her too attached because there wouldn’t be anything left when he was done.
He refocused on the scene playing out before him, Layla and Smythe standing close, her hands clasped in his, happiness apparent on her face. Another jolt of anger flashed through him. It wasn’t right. Smythe was old enough to be Layla’s grandfather. And her, acting so pleased and familiar with a competitor. He almost saw red, but didn’t say anything. Layla must have seen him from the corner of her eye because she turned and, with a smile on her face, started to say, “Leighton, Mr. Smythe is—”
She stopped short, and he imagined she saw the anger that surely covered his face.
After a moment, she forged on. “As I was saying, Mr. Smythe has arrived. We were just discussing the annual charity fund—”
“That will be all, Layla,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ll take it from here. Make sure we’re not disturbed and be in my office by two. I have other matters I’d like to discuss.” He looked at Smythe.
“Very well, Mr. Means,” she said, the formality of her words in no way masking the strain in her tone.
••••
Layla went to her office and seethed. He’d dismissed her! Hadn’t even bothered to pretend it was anything else. She’d put up with a lot from Leighton Means, but outright disrespect...Ugh. She could have a temper, but felt justified in this case. She did a damn good job, poured her heart and soul into his company, into him, and this was how he repaid her. Some of thoughts she’d tried to suppress started creeping up. Smythe had mentioned an opportunity for her, something he th
ought she’d be perfect for. She’d started to dismiss it out of hand, but Smythe had stopped her, telling her they’d discuss it later.
Layla had had offers before and had always turned them down, but lately, she’d started to wonder. She owed Leighton so much, but she had dreams, dreams it was increasingly clear she wouldn’t be able to fulfill with him. Leighton had always been gruff and maybe a little careless with the feelings of others but mix in the sexual attraction that was growing daily and then this latest dig, and she didn’t know if her position was sustainable.
She sat down, tried to focus, and managed to get a couple of hours of work in before the ding of her e-mail alert grabbed her attention. It was a note from Smythe, regretting that they couldn’t talk more and asking if she’d like to continue the conversation at dinner this evening.
Layla didn’t hesitate to reply yes.
Chapter Four
Leighton’s meeting with Smythe had been fruitful. The old man knew Leighton had him cornered, and now it was simply a matter of giving him time to come to grips with the inevitable. Leighton had wanted this for years, had spent more time, money, and energy chasing Smythe’s small, and ultimately inconsequential business, than was sane. But he’d made a promise, and he intended to keep it.
He wasn’t as happy as he’d expected, though. He’d been distracted during the meeting, the sound of Layla’s voice and the anger and hurt in her eyes haunting him.
“Enter,” he responded at the sound of a soft knock at his office door and was surprised when Layla walked in. She’d schooled her features to hide any trace of emotion and maintained the professional facade that made her such a valuable asset. As she settled into the chair across from his desk, Leighton was unable to get a sense of what she was feeling.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Means?” Her tone was saccharine-sweet, and she didn’t meet his eyes.
Ah, so they were here now, Layla playing the respectful, distant employee. He wouldn’t stand for it.