by Nikki Chase
God, I wish a great, empty void would appear right under this stupid chair and suck me away somewhere else. Anywhere else.
This morning, I got to the office early so I could edit a few chapters of my romance manuscript before work. But the computer on my desk was dead, and nobody in the IT department picked up any of my fourteen calls because it was too early in the morning.
I actually bumped into Jeff from legal in the elevator, though, so I knew he was around. He’d once mentioned liking to tinker with computers in his spare time so he probably could’ve helped.
But he’s also a creep who stares at my chest and says things like “milk jugs” and “birthing hips.” I wouldn’t be too surprised if one day he says something like, “Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?” And that would be the start of my life as a sex slave, kept in the dungeon of Jeff’s basement.
So, for the sake of my freedom and liberty, I decided to use my boss’ computer.
It seemed like a good idea, until I realized I’d forgotten to take out my USB stick before slipping out of his office.
Even worse, my moment of realization came only seconds ago when Heath started reading out a passage from my manuscript.
And he hasn’t even gotten to the sexy part…
“Heath, I’m so sorry I used your computer. I promise I won’t do it again,” I say, breaking the silence before he finishes reading the whole thing. “We should get back to work. Mr. Mikhailov’s assistant has already texted me to let me know his flight from Moscow had landed on time, so he should be here in less than an hour.”
“He flies on his own private jet. Of course he’s on time,” Heath says, easily dodging my obvious attempt at changing the subject. He reads on. “I realize Mr. Jones is standing right behind my chair. As he bends down, he rests his hands on my shoulders. I can’t help but imagine those big, masculine hands running all over other parts of my body. His stubble tickles my neck and I almost giggle, but then he whispers, ‘You’re in trouble now, Sarah.’”
Heath huffs a small laugh. His eyes twinkle with amusement as a thin smile forms on his lips. “Is that where it ends?”
“It’s uh, not done yet,” I say. “Really, it’s not ready for anyone to read yet, so—”
God, how is he so damn gorgeous? Those steely blue eyes make it hard for me to even think when he’s around.
“Oh, these pink marks with comments from Jane—these aren’t notes from someone who’s read this?”
“That’s just Jane… my roommate. She, uh, beta-reads for… Uh, that means she reads my manuscript and gives me her feedback before I publish it,” I stammer.
Why am I telling him all these things? Shut up already, Kat! He already knows too much.
“Hmm…” Heath’s eyes refocus on the screen, his forehead wrinkling, even as his lips remain curled up. “You want my feedback?” Before I could respond, he says, “I like it, up until the sex part. I feel like there are…more creative ways to have sex in the office that you haven’t considered.”
Blood rushes to my face, heating up my cheeks and ears. Maybe I shouldn’t have pulled my hair back into a ponytail today. Now there’s no place to hide from Heath’s penetrating gaze.
“Uh… thanks,” I say softly.
I want to shrink into the size of an atom and vanish. Maybe that way Heath will remember this day as the day his assistant simply poofed into thin air, rather than the day his assistant left some smut she’d written about him on his computer.
God, what if, years and years from now, Heath will still remember me as the assistant who left some smut she’d written about him on his computer? What if he whips out this story to tell his ultra-wealthy clients at parties and they all laugh at me as they clink their champagne flutes together?
“If I were the boss in this story…” Heath glances at my flushed face and smirks wickedly. “I’m not saying I am… I’m just making some suggestions. But if I were him, I’d make my assistant give me a blow job under my desk. Or maybe I’d strip her naked and fuck her against the glass wall so anyone looking in the right direction can see her O-face.”
Now it’s not just my face that’s red hot. The tingles between my legs tell me blood is rushing to another part of my body, too.
I wonder if he’s done all those things before—Heath does have a little bit of a reputation, although that was years and years ago, before his marriage and subsequent divorce.
I should probably be outraged that my boss would say such dirty things to me—in his office, no less. But I was the one who stuck my USB stick where it didn’t belong.
And if this were to go public… Considering Heath is the golden child of Wall Street, it’s going to end up on the tabloids, or even that page on the newspaper with all the zany, funny articles.
And although I’m a nobody right now, I don’t want my name associated with that. I’d hate for anyone to Google my name, only to find out about this dumb mistake. I want people to only see my books when they look me up—not that I have any published yet, but I will.
I guess a scandal with my notorious boss could help boost my sales, but I’d rather not have something like that be my claim to fame.
I’ll have to admit I like Heath’s ideas, though. I like them so much wetness is leaking out onto my panties just thinking about him doing all those things to me…
“Thanks for the feedback,” I say before my thoughts get any wilder.
Despite my overwhelming wish to disappear, I decide to face this problem head-on. That seems to be the only way to end this torture. I put my hand on the big, wooden desk between us, palm up. I meet Heath’s gaze. “Can I have my USB stick back, please?”
“Of course.” Heath casually pulls the little device out of his computer.
He’s acting as if he hasn’t deliberately dragged this out, but I haven’t missed the naughty glint in his eyes, or the amused smile playing on his lips. He’s enjoying this.
“Thank you,” I say as he deposits the USB stick on my palm. I ignore the jolt of electricity that I feel when our hands touch for a second. “I’ll get the files ready for the meeting with Mr. Mikhailov.”
Without waiting for a response, I get up from the chair—which really is comfortable, despite the awkward situation—and hurry out of Heath’s office before my arousal leaks through my clothing and leaves a spot on the leather.
As I close the door, I hear Heath say, “I’ll be here if you need more help with your story.”
Heath
Damn.
When she looks like that, it’s almost a crime that Kat is writing about sex, when she’d make a killing as a porn star. That’s the kind of body—and face—that belongs in front of a camera; not behind a keyboard.
Her full ass wiggles deliciously in the tight casing of her pencil skirt, her gait exaggerated by the heels she’s wearing.
I’d love to get my hands on those swaying hips and yank her back onto my hard cock. I’d pull her blonde ponytail so she’d have to arch her spine. I can almost see her creamy ass cheeks jiggling as they bounce off my thighs to the rhythm of my thrusts.
And to think I never would’ve found out about her dirty side if it weren’t for her little story…
“I’ll be here if you need more help with your story,” I say before the door shuts with a click. I smile, and it widens into a grin, which turns into a chuckle. I burst out laughing to myself as I think about how crazy life is sometimes.
My hot, young, prim-and-proper assistant has a filthy mind. Who’d have thought that underneath that demure, professional façade is a dirty, dirty girl?
I’m glad I got here before she could get her USB stick back. Now I know she thinks my eyes are “sparkling pools of blue” and my hair is “a thick, lush forest inviting her to get lost in it.”
I don’t usually like the flowery language of romance novels, but this is an exception.
I cast a glance at the mouse under my palm and grin. So Kat’s jealous of the wheel of the mouse, huh? Intere
sting.
I run the pad of my index finger lightly over the rubbery surface of the wheel, imagining it’s Kat’s clit I’m playing with.
What does she look like when she’s coming? Does she furrow her brow? Part those red, juicy lips? Moan out my name?
Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to find out…
My cock strains against the front of my pants.
If Kat had looked under the desk, she would’ve seen how unbelievably hard I was.
I imagine myself grabbing the hair on the back of her skull and pulling her onto her knees so she could suck my cock under my desk.
I wonder if she suspects that I’ve had those fantasies about her since she started working here last month. I didn’t just come up with those “suggestions” on the spot. There’s no end to the kinky, depraved shit I want to do to her.
I can tell she likes my fantasies from the way she completely lost her composure.
Katherine York. My new assistant who, despite being only twenty-one, always behaves professionally and wrangles my schedule beautifully.
I’d hoped, of course, that her smoking-hot body was not wasted on a frigid prude, but to find out that she has a lively imagination—involving me, no less… it almost makes me angry.
See, the sad joke is, the very reason why I know her in the first place—because she’s my assistant—is also the reason why I can’t fuck her.
I don’t shit where I eat.
There are many girls out there I can sleep with. And they won’t cause my business to implode due to sexual harassment charges.
Maybe that’s a little paranoid. Maybe sleeping with my own employee will only make the atmosphere at the office unpleasant when the whole affair inevitably ends.
But I’ve worked too hard on this company to let my dick destroy it.
One too many high-profile CEOs have been entangled in sexual harassment cases, and I have no intention of joining their ranks.
There are women who throw themselves at me whenever I show up at corporate functions and social events held by my wealthy clients. I’ve made a name for myself and apparently that’s an aphrodisiac because those women don’t even know me, and they wouldn’t be so keen if I were just an average white-collar worker.
But even those girls are trouble. An investment banker friend of mine got roped into paying child support by some gold digger with a penchant for poking holes in condoms.
I used to enjoy having a little fun with those girls, but these days? I’d rather DIY it than take the risk.
If I were really aching for a woman’s body in bed with me, I’d hire an escort—not that I’ve ever done it. I like some degree of intimacy in my sexual encounters, so I’ve never been interested in that.
I don’t judge men who do hire escorts, though.
Escorts are some of the most honest women out there. They tell you exactly how much they want, you give them that amount, and they leave you alone after that. Easy peasy.
Wall Street doesn’t bat an eye at men who hire escorts.
So many of them spend almost all their waking hours at the office, so it’s no wonder they have trouble connecting with their partners.
As far these men are concerned, they’re doing it for their wives and girlfriends. Their women don’t have to spread their legs, and they still get to enjoy the benefits of their relationships, like money, status, and keeping the kids together.
Escorts cost less money than mistresses in the long run. They draw less attention, too.
As for me, I don’t have time to acquire mistresses. I’m more interested in making money for my clients so they can acquire mistresses if they want to.
I only have one ex-wife and she gives me enough trouble. I don’t need more women fucking up my life.
I pick up the landline phone and speed-dial the legal department. “Hello Jeff, anything I should know this morning?”
“If you’re talking about the contract with McAdams, we’re still waiting to hear from them,” Jeff says from his desk two floors below me.
“Damn it.”
Before I can hang up, Jeff speaks up. “I have heard from Melanie, though. She’s willing to take less if—”
“I don’t care what she wants,” I cut Jeff off. “She’s not getting another cent from me.”
“Heath, be reasonable. It’s going to cost less money and take less time if you just accept your ex-wife’s offer, or at least, negotiate.”
“I told you, Jeff, I don’t care what it costs. She’s not getting another cent from me,” I repeat.
“Okay,” Jeff says, in a tone that says he disapproves.
I fume quietly as I hang up.
He’s really not in a position to judge, seeing as he’s just my lawyer and I didn’t ask him for his personal opinion. It annoys me sometimes that I need to disclose details of my personal life to keep everything running smoothly, but I guess that’s just one of the little inconveniences of being rich. Nobody’s going to feel sorry for me for that.
My smartphone beeps.
Only my parents and a handful of important contacts know this number, so it’s probably important. As I read the text message, blood drains from my body.
I quickly grab my keys and walk out of my office.
“Heath, where are you going?” Kat gets up from her desk and follows me, scurrying to meet my pace. “Mr. Mikhailov is almost here.”
“Reschedule it,” I say, mashing the elevator button.
“I can’t. He’s flying to Australia tonight,” Kat says.
“Cancel it.”
Kat
“Maybe I should just give up.” I throw my head against the back of the sofa and stare at our popcorn ceiling.
“No,” Jane quips quickly as she moves to the couch beside me. “I like the way you write. The descriptions, the conversations, the settings… Come on, Kat, you’ve got what it takes.”
“I know I’m not a horrible writer, Jane. But I don’t know if I have what it takes. I mean, after working on this manuscript for two years, I’m still not done yet.”
“I think what you have now is great,” Jane says. “You’re just too much of a perfectionist to see it. You go crazy overthinking the tiny little details, but I think the book is perfect. You just need to finish it and publish it.”
“I don’t know… Those rejection letters from publishers have shredded my youthful optimism. I’m old and jaded now.” I let out a big, exhausted sigh. “Or maybe I just suck.”
“No, you don’t,” Jane insists. “And you’re only twenty-one. You’re too young to be jaded.”
She’s my biggest cheerleader. My only one, actually. And not for the first time, I wonder if she’s wrong about my writing.
“After all my hard work, the only people who have read it are me, you… and my boss,” I say. “Open your eyes, Jane. Maybe the publishers are right and I just suck.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to help here. You said you’ve always wanted to be a romance author.”
“I haaave…” I whine. “But I suck.” I let out a big, heavy sigh. “Plenty of people want to be Hollywood stars, but they just end up waiting tables their whole lives. Maybe I’m like one of those people. I just need to make peace with the fact that I’m probably going to be a corporate assistant my whole life.”
“No, you’re not,” Jane says.
“I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but maybe I don’t have what it takes to make it as a romance author.”
“You can… what do they call it… publish without a publisher…?”
“Self-publish.” I pour wine into a fresh glass. I’m feeling lonely, getting drunk on my own. I shove the glass of wine into Jane’s hand. “Between work and babysitting my step-brother, I barely have much time left to write. According to my research self-publishers have to spend a lot of time on marketing and promotion to succeed. Oh, and spend money on those things, too. I don’t have time or money.”
“Could you maybe do less babysitting?”
Oh boy,
here we go again.
“You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.” Imitating her, I say, “Oh, just do less babysitting.” I give Jane a flat stare. “Geez, that didn’t occur to me, Jane. Thanks.”
Jane laughs. “Make it your challenge-of-the-day thing to stop babysitting for Vera.”
“Don’t make fun of my challenge of the day. It’s gotten me through some difficult times.” I’ve been coming up with daily challenges for myself as a way to avoid feeling overwhelmed with the many responsibilities on my shoulder. It helps me focus my energy on just one thing, so even if I drop all the other balls, the important thing gets done.
“I wouldn’t even dream of bashing your weird productivity trick. I’m serious. I don’t know why you keep doing that. Vera has been nothing but mean and ungrateful.”
“I don’t know either.” I pause. “Okay, maybe I do. It’s mostly because of she makes me feel guilty if I don’t help her out. And I feel bad for her son. He’s the one who’s going to suffer if I drop Vera. So that’s out of the question.”
“Oh.” Jane looks like she still has more things to say. She probably only bites her tongue because we’ve been through this too many times before and I’ve never listened to her.
My whole life, my step-mom, Vera, has always put me down. And even though I’ve moved out, she hasn’t let me go completely. She still hounds me on the phone all the time, asking me for money or free babysitting for her eight-year-old brat.
I’ll show the mean old hag. I’ll write a book as successful as 50 Shades of Grey. Once the movie based on my novel comes out, she won’t be able to call me a failure anymore.
“Okay, so… Try again until you get a publishing deal, I guess,” Jane says. “I know that’s nothing new and probably not the advice you want to hear, but I don’t see any other way.”
“But how?” I ask. “I’ve sent out my manuscript to a bunch of publishers. I tweak it every time I get the tiniest hint of feedback from those people. And you know most of them have only sent me form emails from some rejection template. I don’t know what else to try.”