“You can fling it into the trees for all I care, but the expense is still disallowed.”
“In the employee handbook that I was given on my first day, it clearly states that the sales force must be presentable at all times. You want me going on calls with my nipples poking through my shirt and my tits bobbing up and down whenever I say a three-syllable word?” I underscore this by gathering up my breasts—I can’t believe I said tits to a man—and hefting them once. “You’re saying I should contravene the handbook?”
“Well, Lindsay, it seems we finally agree on something.”
“We do?”
He turns around to stare at the bookcase behind him, and I see proof that he’s got excellent thrusting potential. His ass is drool-worthy. Firm. I wonder what sports he does. I can just imagine him, his shirt translucent with sweat and clinging to rippling abs and biceps…
He grabs a blue binder and turns back around. The Sunrise Imports Employee Handbook.
He drops it onto the desk, opens the cover and flips through. Then he whips the binder around and taps at the page.
“I want you to read this aloud,” he says. “Section 22-107. Expense accounts and personal usage. Come.”
It’s an order, and the way he says it makes me feel warm and itchy, like I have to obey.
Of course I have to. If I can get him to allow even one or two of those extra expenses, it’ll make my life a lot easier.
So I walk over to the desk. Up close, he’s even sexier. He’s got a light five o’clock shadow darkening his rectangular jaw. I think I can smell his aftershave, too. A little spicy, very manly, extremely expensive.
I like the way he smells.
“Read,” he says.
The handbook is photocopied pages set in a three-ring binder. We’re not talking stately legal documents here. I place my hands on it, my fingers curling around the sharp plastic edges, but instead of picking up the binder, I find myself bending at the hips.
My ass pushes out, and I allow my breasts to graze the tabletop. It’s hard to see a damned thing like this, my nose pressed to the paper, but that’s not the point.
He taps the binder again. “Read,” he orders.
Why the hell does this jerk get me so turned on?
I pull my head up a bit and slowly begin. He moves his finger along as I read aloud about inappropriate uses of the company credit card that I was entrusted with.
His hands are large. Strong. I see thick callouses on his fingers. My guess is they’re from lifting weights; several of my ex-flings have callouses that follow a similar pattern, though based on what I know of them, it could be from too much jerking off.
He continues to point to the words, like I’m illiterate. His behavior is completely condescending, but I stay where I am, mumbling through the sentences.
“Now,” he says, “if you’re done acting childish, fix your clothes and let’s finish this. I’ve got things to do tonight.”
“Childish?” I straighten and stare defiantly into his eyes. My tongue wants to moisten my lips, which feel dry, but I don’t dare; I don’t want to find him attractive, and I really don’t want him to know. “That’s no way to speak to a coworker,” I say.
“I’m not your coworker,” he says.
“Then why am I wasting my time in here?” I demand. My fingers fumble with the bottom of my blouse.
“Bend over,” he says, and my hands freeze. “Bend over!”
My heart thudding in my throat, I do it. I think he wants me to read the handbook again, but then he pulls it out from under my nose and slams it closed. The loud noise makes me flinch.
“If you’re going to act like a naughty little girl, then I’m going to punish you like one.”
I don’t have time to question what that means when I feel the full force of the binder slam up against my ass.
My face flushes hot in shock, and I push myself away from the desk.
“No,” the man says. “Stay where you are.”
And I find myself bending over the desk again, my hands braced against the unyielding surface. Nothing happens for a long time. All I can see is the desk, the chair behind it, and the curved edges of the man’s muscular thigh covered in what looks like expensive silk. He must be Donald’s boss, I decide.
I wonder what he’s thinking.
I wonder what he’s looking at.
And I really wonder what he’ll do next.
He steps away, and when the binder slams against my buttocks again, I have my answer. This time the blow is harder, but I don’t flinch.
The next strike has my inner muscles tightening. I arch my back and lick my lips. I’m adventurous in the bedroom, and I’ve gotten kinky a few times. Maybe more than a few times. But this is a lot more fun than BDSM games. Maybe that’s because it’s not a game. I don’t even know this man’s name. There’s no prearranged safe word. Hell, I’m not even undressed.
Strictly speaking, it’s not at all sexual, but goddamn if the next and final blow doesn’t give me something close to an orgasm.
If he continues, I’ll be a panting, gasping mess. I bite my lower lip so hard that it hurts.
I have never wanted anyone inside me as much as I want him, right now. I hate him for it, and I hate myself, too.
He drops the handbook on the desk and crosses to the window. “Get out,” he says.
I straighten and notice my legs are trembling. “What about the rest of my expenses?” I ask his rigid back as I fumble closed the buttons of my shirt.
He doesn’t turn to look at me. “Your personal expenses will be taken out of your paycheck until the company is repaid in full. I’ll make sure that no more than twenty percent is deducted from any single check so that you have enough to live on.”
I can’t believe I’m not fired, but maybe he’s worried about a lawsuit. I take a final look at the man’s imposing form before slipping out of the office.
Chapter 3
There’s only one thing on my mind when I arrive at work on Monday. I have to know who that man is. He’s been the only thing in my thoughts since Friday evening. He seems to have taken over my dreams, too.
Even though I’ve been working at Sunrise Imports for five weeks, I still don’t know everyone because I’m so often on the road, doing sales calls. Obviously a man who looks like my mysterious spanker would have caught my attention.
But as far as I can determine, there isn’t anyone in the accounting department matching that description, and Donald is on vacation for a full week. When I stop by, his office is empty. I notice the employee handbook has returned to its shelf.
I’m not even specific when I ask around. I whittle it down to, “Tall, dark hair,” because that’s as far as I get before Delores, the office manager, shakes her head. “No one like that in accounting,” she says. “It’s mostly women, and the men are all average height. And Donald reports directly to the owner.”
The man I’d met is most definitely not George Tarraget. For one thing, he’s half a century too young. “Maybe in another branch?”
She frowns as she thinks, then she shakes her head again. “Why do you ask? What do you need?”
“Oh, it’s a long story,” I say. I want to ask if we have a secret Toronto office, but she’s already giving me a funny look.
Then I have to drive almost two hours away to make a sales pitch. It starts off well, but I’m distracted, off my game. It’s so bad that I excuse myself during a lull so that I can go to the bathroom and do my dominant pose. I stare at myself in the mirror, and I know that I look like an idiot.
I stretch so hard that I’m starting to bend backward. I extend my fingers as if the world is mine for the taking, and I smile until my cheeks hurt.
In the end, I sign the client, though I take a hit on my commission and also promise some things that won’t make the higher-ups happy. Still, it’s all within acceptable parameters.
Time to head back to the office. This time I go straight to Quackk’s, but the room is still dar
k.
“You looking for Donald?” A woman whose name I don’t yet know has come up behind me. I’m vaguely aware that she’s part of the accounting division.
“There was a man in here Friday night,” I begin. “After Donald left. He was tall, dark hair, nice suit.” I leave out the bit about his impassive demeanor in the presence of disrobing women.
She stares at me blankly.
“Do you know who that might have been?”
“Donald?”
That makes me blink because Donald is short and rotund and bespeckled and not in a sexy-nerdy-Armani sort of way.
I use my hand to indicate the mystery man’s approximate height.
“Probably not Donald,” she concedes.
“Are there any guys in the nearby branches like that?”
“Tall? Sure, but there are tall men here, too.”
It’s at that moment that I regret not having taken the time to make some friends. Sunrise Imports is growing fast, and they’re understaffed, so everyone is busy all the time. It’s the only reason they took a gamble on me given the dearth of previous employment on my résumé. Though I think that George Tarraget, who hired me directly, realized that any woman who can talk her way into a closed interview without being on the list of candidates is probably an excellent addition to any sales team.
Tarraget surely knows who the man is, but he’s never around.
So I tell myself that eventually the guy will show up in the office again, and I wait for Donald to return from vacation.
Donald never comes back. He has a minor coronary episode the last night of his vacation, and he ends up taking a two-month leave. I’m not happy about that because I don’t wish ill health on anyone, but let’s admit it: the timing is horrible. I’m tempted to look up his address and go by with flowers and questions, but even considering it feels despicable, and I’m ashamed of myself.
Instead, I sign my name to the card and I guiltily add an extra fifty dollars to the collection to send him a) flowers b) a quilt and c) a personalized sugar cookie the size of a wagon wheel. The cookie wouldn’t be my first choice for someone with heart problems, but no one asks my opinion.
The mysterious stranger should be fading in my mind, but the opposite is happening. He’s taking on almost mythological proportions. I know his shoulders can’t be as broad as I’m remembering, or his chest as deep, or his jaw as rectangular. And I know the sight of his erection distending the front of his pants is most definitely an exaggeration because if it were the size that I’m now picturing, he’d need a crane to wrangle the thing into and out of his pants.
I’m starting to think I invented him completely.
The only thing that convinces me otherwise is that my paycheck is indeed being docked. My bonuses, too.
And that really sucks.
Three weeks to the day after my spanky encounter, I find myself working late at the office. This is the predictable byproduct of my lower paychecks. I racked up a lot of expenses during my latest unplanned relocation, so I need every cent I earn.
Still, I consider myself lucky. I’m alive, my family has no idea where I am, and I still have a job. In the meantime, I’m working my ass off, making calls, trying to pull in higher commissions.
It’s 7:30 by the time I push away from my desk. I’ve got some very good leads to exploit for the following week, and I bet I can reel in a whale of a client. I’m thinking about splurging on a movie tomorrow to celebrate. Matinee showing, of course. Don’t want to go too crazy.
A herd of ceramic coffee mugs sits on my desk. Mondays and Tuesdays I only go through two or three cups, but as the week wears on, proof of my exhaustion tends to accumulate.
I gather them up and take them to the break room. After I put them in the dishwasher, I poke my head in Donald’s office, just in case. The company brought on some contractor to take his place, but the man is already gone for the day. Everyone is probably gone.
As I’m walking toward the ladies’ room, I hear a man’s laugh coming from Tarraget’s office. I haven’t seen Tarraget in a long time. He’s supposedly on a deep sea fishing expedition available only to rich people. They’re guaranteed to catch mermaids or something.
With the stranger on my mind, I make my way toward Tarraget’s office. I’m wearing a knee-length sleeveless dress that wouldn’t be out of place on a presidential campaign trail, and my hair is swept into a high ponytail. It’s reasonable to expect that Tarraget knows about my misstep with the corporate card, so I’m glad my clothes today are tasteful. Sometimes, depending on the client, I do have to skank it up a bit.
Tarraget isn’t alone, I realize as I approach the office. I hear several voices, all male. All… sexy, actually. These men don’t sound old.
I round the final corner. The office door is open, and I catch sight of an enormous man. He looks like a Samoan wrestler, though I don’t think there’s an ounce of fat on him.
He’s hot. He could be a nightclub bouncer, but even from a distance, I can see that his dark gray suit is expensive. I’m guessing Italian-made, and it fits him perfectly.
He’s holding a glass of champagne. The flute looks painfully vulnerable in his enormous hand. He takes a sip, and I can tell that it’s not just his clothing that’s refined.
A smile comes to my lips. Circumstances forced me to adopt a strict “no boyfriends” policy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sometimes enjoy a hookup of convenience. The man I’m looking at would be very convenient indeed.
He catches sight of me and slowly lowers his glass. His dark eyes wander down my black sheath dress, then lower still, all the way to my black, four-inch heels, then back up.
“Won’t you come in?” he asks. His voice is stop-me-in-my-tracks sexy. Rich and deep, it vibrates along my skin. I’ve never looked at a man and gotten hard nipples, but I swear right now my breasts are swelling or something.
Smiling brightly, I step into Tarraget’s office.
“Hello, Lindsay.”
I know that voice from my dreams, and it’s every bit as condescending as I recall. I turn stiffly toward its owner and see the mysterious man I’ve been obsessing over for weeks.
He’s half sitting, half leaning on the edge of Tarraget’s massive wooden desk, and he’s wearing another pinstripe suit and somber tie. His short hair looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him. Of course he’s one of those guys who gets it trimmed every ten days so that he always looks the same. Of course. He’s holding a bottle of champagne. There’s an unopened bottle of champagne on the desk next to him as well as a mostly empty glass.
“Who are you?” I blurt. I’m so surprised to see him that I can’t even pretend to be aloof.
This makes the Samoan throw back his head and laugh, the sound explosive and impossible to ignore. The way he does it makes me think about sex. I have a hunch that he’s loud in bed, the kind of man who roars his pleasure.
Heaven help me. Do you have any idea how rare it is to be in a room with two incredibly sexy alpha male types?
Oh, god. There are three of them. The third man, who is sitting on a sofa on the other side of the door I just entered, is also holding a glass of champagne. When my eyes connect with his, my panties go from wet to wetter.
Right now, I’m liking my odds. Even if Mr. Stick Up His Ass doesn’t know how to look at a woman, these other two do. The man on the sofa also has dark hair, which I can tell is baby fine. It falls over his brow in a swoop, and I get the urge to push it out of his hazel eyes, but I wouldn’t stop there. I want to trail my fingers over his square, aristocratic jaw. I want to grind myself on him until the magic he exudes rubs off on me.
“I take it this is the woman you spanked,” the man on the sofa says. He’s looking right at me, so there’s no way he misses my face heating red.
“Excuse me?” My voice is high. Too high. This is not a socially dominant register.
“Yes, this is Lindsay.” My original tormenter sets down the bottle of champagne and rises to sta
nding. Heavens, I’d forgotten how tall he is.
He crosses the empty space between us and extends his hand. “Hawthorne Tarraget.”
“Tarraget,” I repeat softly. It had never occurred to me that I might be looking for someone related to the owner. It’s not exactly a family business.
“George is my grandfather,” he explains. “The amused gentleman to your left is Romeo Wood Bison. Don’t let the name fool you. He’s neither a playboy nor an emo kid. And on the sofa is—”
“Rick Slade,” interrupts sofa man. “Call me Slade.”
“Slade, Romeo… nice to meet… all of you.” I shake Hawthorne’s hand. I can’t bring myself to say his name. It’s simply too pretentious, too ridiculous.
“You can call him by the first four letters of his name,” Romeo rumbles.
It takes me a second to get it. “Hawt?” I snort. “That’s a joke, right?”
Hawthorne grins as he releases my hand. Romeo asks, “You don’t think he’s hot?”
Only then do I wonder how much these guys have already had to drink. I see just the one open bottle, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t already demolished a few others.
“Nice to meet you, Hawthorne.”
There’s a faint smirk on Hawthorne’s face, and for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I remember the size of the bulge in his pants. And then I remember that he’s been telling people about spanking me.
I push my finger into his face. “Talking about what happened is… obnoxious,” I say. Reprehensible would have been better. Or gauche.
This makes him smile. “Are you upset because I shared the spanking or the reason for the spanking?”
“Both!”
“I share everything with Romeo and Slade.” His smile widens. “Everything.”
The way he says it makes me think he’s talking about… but no, men don’t do that. Do they?
What I know for sure is that Hawthorne is nothing like he was three weeks ago. He’s still scary, don’t get me wrong, but his beauty is much more accessible when he’s smiling.
Executive Toy Page 2