I smiled in the darkness of the room. I’d fallen in love with Peter — in love, and definitely in lust.
Chapter 9
Peter was so easy to be with. That was the most rewarding thing I discovered over the course of the next few weeks. He eschewed drama, was eager to make things simple, and had a passion for enjoying life. He came over to the penthouse often, sometimes just to chat before he had to jet off to some meeting. The man stayed busy, which was probably why the company had continued to do so well after he took it over from his father.
When he wasn’t meeting with important businesspeople from around the world, though, Peter was with me. He loved taking me out to restaurants and bars around the city — places I never thought I would so much as peek inside, past the doorman. Peter never had trouble getting us in whether he bothered to arrange for reservations or not.
We grew to love each other in the most natural way possible. Maybe it wasn’t the classic way — how people met on the street and had a whirlwind romance and got married and had babies together. At the very least, it was the modern way. We’d hit it off at a bar and gone off together to consummate that mutual lust; then our parents planned to get married, and he hired me at his business and set me up in the penthouse of one of his company’s hotels.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t altogether conventional — or even modern.
I had trouble believing my life sometimes, the way the skyscrapers jutted out against the blue sky just outside my window, the way Peter made me feel when he escorted me from place to place around the city, his hand on the small of my back, directing me as to where to go, even how he fussed at me for not spending as much as he thought I should on the card. It troubled me a little that he kept track of the spending, but I understood. It was his money. It was just strange to consider him examining line by line itemized receipts of my purchases — which I knew he didn’t do. I had odd daydreams about him confronting me over picking out the generic brand of tampons, which were about three dollars cheaper than the name brand. It was the way I’d been raised. Just because I had a credit card with no limit at my disposal didn’t mean that I was going to start spending superfluously. I refused to buy something unless I needed it.
“You’re going to need a coat for autumn — winter, too,” Peter would remark, drinking wine while he watched me model a new outfit I’d bought for him. “Those dresses are nice, but you’re going to get cold.”
“You forget I’ve already spent a winter in the city,” I crowed, whipping out my old quilted ankle-length coat — complete with hood lined with faux fur. I’d saved up for this bad boy, put it on layaway, paid for it every week with whatever money I could spare. I’d starved for this thing, and it had kept me warm all winter.
But when Peter saw it, he broke down laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded, examining the coat to see if it perhaps carried a stain on it throughout the off season, or perhaps a hole. It was a little frayed, maybe, but still serviceable for several more years, as long as I took good care of it. “Maybe it needs a cleaning, but this is a good coat!”
“All right, I can see that it’s a good coat,” Peter said, choking on his laughter as he tried to take a sip of his wine. “I’ve noticed that you’re missing no fingers or toes or other extremities, so I trust that it took care of you last winter.”
“You have a big ‘but’ coming,” I said, peering at him and hugging my coat to my chest. “I can hear it.”
“But,” he exploded, giving me a wild look that made me laugh in spite of my insecurities, “that coat just won’t do this year. Maybe it was good on a walk through the park, scooping poop, but you’ll need something new this time. How do you feel about fur?”
“I feel that I would rather not,” I laughed, throwing the coat at him. “You don’t understand. This coat was an investment for the next three winters in the Big Apple. I can’t just throw something like this away.”
“You don’t have to throw it away,” he said. “But how would your new outfits look underneath it?”
“I won’t even have to have a coat this winter,” I decided.
“And how’s that?”
“The car,” I said, as if it were obvious. “I’ll barely be outside. Just out of my hotel and into the car, then out of the car and into the office. Easy.”
“Not in a blizzard it’s not,” Peter countered. “And certainly not in the dress you’re wearing.”
I looked down at the low-cut silk item I’d picked up recently at his behest. It was a little something for the evening, as he put it, and I felt like a princess in it. “What, you don’t think these match?” I shrugged on the coat, and Peter nearly spilled his wine jumping up to all but tackle me.
“Don’t you dare!” he said, laughing as he unwrapped me. “That dress deserves a nice coat, don’t you think?”
“This is a nice coat,” I persisted. He just didn’t understand what it had taken for me to get it. I couldn’t give it up as easily.
But the next evening, as soon as I got back to the penthouse following work, Peter was there with his customary grin, bearing three enormous boxes.
“Those better not be what I think they are,” I warned. “I said I didn’t want another coat. That also goes for three whole new coats.”
“Think of them as gifts,” he said. “A present from me to you. Not something you had to go out and buy.”
I looked at him, suspicious. “When did you even have time to go out and get these? You were at work all day.” I knew that because we’d been role playing all day. I’d had no fewer than four orgasms during the extent of business hours and had barely gotten anything of note done. I hoped that my coworkers were getting more accomplished than I was. Otherwise, I wasn’t sure how the company was going to fare this quarter.
I gasped each time I opened a box, each coat more beautiful than the last. The first one was a rich wool, soft to the touch and so warm it made me break out in a sheen of sweat the second I tried it on. The second one was a buttery leather pea coat, belted at the waist and extremely flattering to wear. And the last was a red satin trench coat, warmly lined and gorgeous.
“I don’t know what I’ll do with this one if it starts raining,” I said, twirling around in the last red coat. It made me feel somewhere between princess and super spy. It was an empowering coat, if that made any sense. I knew I looked good in it without having to glance at Peter to judge the approval in his face.
“Jump back in the car, I’d imagine,” he joked.
Life with Peter was amazing, and that was no lie. I didn’t even feel the compulsion to lie to him anymore. He knew my every whim and desire, knew the things that made me throw my head back and laugh. Even my mother noticed a difference whenever I’d chat with her on the phone.
“You seem happier than normal,” she observed after talking my ear off about various wedding planning meetings she’d been conducting with a host of dress shops and potential reception halls.
“Do I normally not sound happy?” I asked, laughing at her.
“Well, not necessarily,” she allowed. “I don’t know how to describe it. Lighter. Like you’re not as stressed out. Did me intervening on your behalf with Peter do anything? I noticed you’re not having as many night events anymore.”
“Night events” had been the way I’d lied to my mother about having a second job, at night, following my day job as a dog walker. It was a good explanation to have when she wanted to yammer on after 6 p.m., when I was trying to get dressed to cocktail waitress and shove some food down my throat at the same time. Otherwise, she would’ve been suspicious of me.
“He’s been a little more conscious of which events I go to,” I allowed. “But you shouldn’t have said anything. It’s his prerogative. He’s the boss. And I benefit from going to those things. I learn a lot.” I enjoyed a private smile at that. Peter was teaching me a lot — sexually and otherwise.
“I like Peter,” my mother announced. “And Frank speaks highly of hi
m.”
“I should hope so. Peter’s his son, after all.”
“He’s good to work with?”
“Very good.” And that wasn’t any kind of lie whatsoever. I’d never worked with someone as “good” as Peter before in my life. I doubted that I’d ever come across anyone else with Peter’s specific talents, but I didn’t want to think about that. It was strange. I didn’t think of my life beyond the point when Peter and I would give up our dating experiment. I didn’t think of the men who might follow him. For some reason, it was easier to think of Peter as the man I’d be with for the rest of my life.
It was a frightening thought, especially since I hadn’t dated anyone at all since moving to the Big Apple. Had I finally found the man I was meant to be with?
“Gemma?”
“Yes?”
“I asked you if you saw Peter outside of the office,” she said, and I blanched. “Do the two of you socialize?”
“Don’t you think it would be a little weird if we did?” I countered. “I’d be afraid that it would show favoritism among the other employees.”
“Gemma, you’re about to become family,” she said incredulously. “There’s nothing nepotistic about it.”
She had no idea. It was the very definition of nepotism — and maybe even something a little more insidious — that he’d hired me in the first place, but she didn’t know anything about that. He’d only hired me after we'd realized our parents were marrying each other. And when we’d agreed to give dating each other a try. He had been behind my renaissance, of sorts, in New York City, giving me the means to start fresh after my solo attempts at being successful had failed miserably.
“I’d just rather function at work on my own merits,” I said, wincing at my own lie. That was a bad one. Peter might try to convince me otherwise, but I was somewhat convinced that I had very few professional merits. He’d used an idea of mine for a marketing campaign that was becoming more and more successful each time it aired on television, but I’d just been running my mouth, nervous at being inside a real office for the first time since I’d moved to the city. My other main task was entertaining Peter, but I wasn’t complaining about that.
“Well, as long as you’re happy,” my mother told me. “Call me soon.”
“Okay, I will. Bye.”
I wished I could tell her the whole truth, but I wasn’t about to reveal to my mother that I was not only seeing Peter extensively during and outside of work, but I was also having the best sex of my life with the man who was about to become her stepson. It was too strange, too off-kilter, and I was sure it would make her worry about both my well-being and my sanity.
The reasoning behind all my lies was to make sure she didn’t worry. She had enough on her plate with her upcoming wedding. It was something she was excited about, but it was also a point of stress. I don’t think she’d ever planned a wedding before, and there were more choices than I think she could’ve ever imagined.
All I’d ever wanted to do was to make my mother believe that everything was going just fine in my life, even when it wasn’t. She didn’t need to worry about me. I could worry about myself.
And now, somehow, impossibly, Peter was very occupied with worrying about me. He wanted to know constantly whether I was happy, whether I needed anything, if there was someplace I wanted to go or something I wanted to do.
“You can’t buy love,” I protested one day when I walked into the penthouse to see dozens of red roses in a stunning crystal vase on the countertop in the kitchen. “I love you just the way you are, dummy. You don't have to lavish me with money and gifts.”
He blinked, and I realized it was the first time either of us had confessed to that emotion. Love was such a funny and fickle thing. Lust was easier, the mutual admiration two people had for the movements they were able to produce together, the feelings. Love was sticky, worrisome, a bag of worms.
But Peter took a single rose from the vase and touched the soft petals to my lips as I smelled the blossom.
“I love you, too,” he said. “But I also love spoiling you, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
I coped as best I could. Retail therapy helped. With Peter encouraging me to spend his money, I did. It was fun. If that made me a bad person, then so be it. But when the money was there and it made him happy for me to buy things, I’d do it.
It was late summer — perhaps the last of the hot days we’d have this year, barring anything apocalyptic next month. It was a mere handful of weeks ahead of our parents’ wedding, something that still gave us pause.
“Have you told your dad about us?” I asked on the way to work. We were both taking the car, as Peter had stayed the night with me in the penthouse. I told him that he should just move in, but he said there was more excitement and mystery with two separate places we called home. It was hard to believe that he still considered some things to be mysterious after he’d explored every inch of me, but there it was.
“God, no,” he said, chuckling and shaking his head. “Nothing against you, of course, but he’s irrepressible. He’d want to know every detail. He’d call you at all hours to make sure I’m treating you right. He has chased away many a girlfriend, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe I’ll tell your dad,” I said, stroking my chin thoughtfully.
“What about you?” he asked. “Does your mum know?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “If she knew, your dad would know, and the whole thing would be blown apart.”
“We’re going to have to tell them, eventually, you know,” he said. “It’ll be a hell of a thing to hide at the wedding.”
“I know.” I leaned against him as we approached the office building. “I just don’t want to steal their thunder.”
It was looking to be a gorgeous wedding, if the leaves would continue changing at the same rate. There were already patches of fire among the foliage in Central Park, and it would only get better between now and then. I started working through my list of tasks, keeping the thought of the wedding in the back of my mind. My mother deserved this. She deserved to be happy. Hell, maybe I deserved to be happy, too.
“I’m going to need to see you in my office,” Peter said, tapping his fist against my desk as he bustled by, jolting me out of my stupor of thinking. I felt dual shots of anxiety and arousal. I knew just what that tone entailed. He had something in mind, and I had a game to play.
With most of my previous boyfriends about as exciting as thinking missionary was my favorite sexual position, Peter had opened up endless new doors for me to walk through — if I wanted. He’d push me, but not too hard. In the end, it was always my choice. I knew that, much of the time, I’d be rewarded by doing something I wasn’t sure I wanted to do. That didn’t make the next time, or even the time after that, any easier. Peter was imaginative, endlessly creative. He always had something new in his head that he wanted to try out.
We could both agree that Peter playing the dominant boss was one of our favorite kinks. He enjoyed ordering me around, making me do his bidding, making me come apart in the end, helpless to his expert torment.
But I’d surprised him one morning, answering his request to come “keep him company” during a long conference call with some of the vice presidents of the company in his office. I’d gleaned the idea from that wretched contract I’d signed, but I thought he’d be pleased with my initiative.
He put his end of the call on mute as soon as I stepped in to the office, someone on the other end droning on and on about profits and dividends, but I wagged my finger in his face and pushed the mute button again, placing my finger against his lips before straddling him.
“You’re going to have to be very quiet,” I whispered, my lips against his ear, and then I very gently eased myself off of his lap and down to the floor, at his feet. He used to keep the window blinds to his office open, but since he closed them practically every time I entered the room, he figured it would be a good idea to just keep them closed all the time to
avoid any suspicion.
Honestly, I would’ve been sure that at least somebody in the office would’ve caught on by now, but it was a discreet workplace and they all adored working for Peter. He was an incredibly giving supervisor, making sure everyone had whatever resources they needed at any time. He was lenient about time out of the office, including giving employees the option to work from home, and he gave raises every single year no matter how the company was faring. Maybe it was just a testament of a happy workplace that no one seemed to notice or care that the boss was screwing around with his secretary. We were adults, and we both liked it. There wasn’t any crime in it.
Now, though, half listening to several voices on the conference call start talking at once over an apparent point of contention about stock options, I slid Peter’s belt open and unfastened his pants. He kept his eyes on me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the bulge in his underwear proving to me that I was doing a very good job holding his attention.
I easily found the slit in his underwear and drew out his erection through it, maintaining eye contact as I moved my head closer and closer to it until I was just inches away. If possible, he’d begun breathing harder, his blue eyes locked with mine, neither of us paying attention to the ebbs and flows of the conference call.
Painfully slowly, I stuck my tongue out — playfully, at first — then extending to delicately touch the dewdrop of arousal that glistened on the head of his cock. Peter’s eyes fluttered closed, and he inhaled, long and sharp. I noticed that the conversation on the phone had halted, and froze.
“Mr. Bly? Would you like to cut in?” a voice ventured.
“Yes, now that you ask, I would like to offer my two cents, for what it’s worth,” Peter said easily, not opening his eyes. Ever so gently, as he began talking about expanding their hotel business in other countries, he pushed the back of my head, indicating that I should go about my business without minding his. It was so sexy watching him as I ate him inch by glorious inch. He struggled to maintain composure. I didn’t think he understood what he’d been signing on for, trying to talk to probably dozens of businessmen in rooms across the world while getting head from me for the first time. It was electrifying, and I instantly understood why he always liked to be in charge.
CALLIE (The Naughty Ones Book 1) Page 57