And who am I to deny the young lady what she wants?
Now don’t misunderstand me; I could hold off all week if I wanted to, but right now, all I want is a quick release.
I reach down, wrapping her thick blonde hair in a tight fist, winding it roughly around my fingers until I have her head gripped firm and tight between my spread legs. Then, with a shudder and a grunt, I let myself unload into her mouth. From the way her eyes widen, I can tell this load must be way bigger than whatever she’s used to. But like a good little slut, she gulps it all back.
Finally I push her off me, zipping myself back into my pants while she stands and rearranges her skirt, which has ridden up around her thighs, giving me a flash of her bright pink panties which are no doubt soaking wet.
She dabs her mouth with the back of her hand, then turns to look at me once more, her face flushed, her hair messy, her eyes still glazed with lust.
“Will that be all, Mr Grayson?” she says, her voice trembling a little, her lips still glistening with my come.
“There’s one more thing,” I reply coldly. “You’re fired.”
It’s like a fairytale. I wake up and for a moment this just doesn’t feel like mylife. It’s as if I switched places in the night with a movie star, or a model, or at the very least someone insanely rich. Because right now I’m lying here in thebiggest most comfortable bed in the whole world, wrapped in the softest Egyptian cotton sheets imaginable, in the hugest, most tastefully designed penthouse suite, right in the middle of London – a million miles away from my old life, my crappy job, and my even more crappy apartment back home.
Maybe Mom was right after all, I think as I stretch out and sigh a happy contented sigh. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I was imagining ...
But just then the antique phone on the bedside table chirps into life with a shrill deafening ring, only feet from my head, shattering the blissful mid-morning silence.
“Hello?” I mumble into the receiver, still kind of blurry eyed and half-asleep. I don’t remember asking reception for a wakeup call when I got here late last night, but I guess I was still a little groggy and jet-lagged ...
But this isn’t reception calling.
“Where the hell are you, Stacey?” growls a familiar voice.
Colt.
“And good morning to you, too,” I shoot back. “Since you’re asking, yes, I had a wonderful flight, thank you very much.”
“What time is it?” he interrupts.
I roll over onto my side, in order to catch a glimpse of the antique alarm clock on the polished mahogany night table near my head.
“Uh ... quarter after nine?” I mumble, as my fuzzy eyes adjust to the clock’s ornate display.
“Which means that you were meant to be at the office fifteen minutes ago, Stacey. It’s all in the information pack that I know you received. Now get dressed and get your ass over here, pronto.”
I’m about to tell him to go to hell, but before I even utter another word, I hear the phone slam down on the other end of the line.
I stretch out beneath the sheets, trying not to let him get to me, the way he always managed to do, back when we were teenagers.
But it’s been years since then.
Things are different now.
We’re both grown ups ...
And maybe he’s right. It is a little unprofessional of me to be late on my first day. With a final sigh, I push myself up from my lovely warm bed, and make my way to the shower.
§
Holeee shit, I think, as I look up at the building. Colt’s business must be doing seriously well. I mean, I knew from the reports I always heard from Mom and Alexander that he was making a name for himself, but this is way beyond what I was expecting. Is he a billionaire or something?! I grew up poor, at least until Mom met Alexander. And the kind of money that he had was incredible to me. I guess it still kind of is. But it’s obviously nothing to the kind of money his son must be making.
Why didn’t they warn me that he was so goddamn rich? So powerful?
I guess they didn’t want me to feel any more inadequate than I already do.
His company’s offices are situated right in the middle of Mayfair, just a five-minute dash from my penthouse suite, and even I know that premises in this location must cost some serious cash. And we’re talking one huge building too: jutting proudly upwards, the exterior all tinted glass, with thick ridges of concrete running down its sides, the top floor slightly larger than the rest, kind of creating a bulge like shape, almost like a ...
No way, I think incredulously. Don’t tell me this whole goddamn building has been designed to resemble his ...
“Can I help you, madam?” the doorman says in a voice straight out of Downton Abbey, breaking me out of my thoughts. And to be honest, I’m glad for the distraction.
“Um, I’m here to see Mr Grayson?” I venture.
It feels super weird to say Colt’s full name like that, but I’ve already been warned explicitly that I’m in no way to let on that we know each other (God knows why).
At the mention of Colt’s name, the doorman’s eyes light up like a pinball machine and he actually bows before saying, “Of course, Madam, right this way,” as he quickly ushers me inside to the elevator over by the reception desk.
“I’ll take you up to Mr Grayson’s office myself ...” he adds, nervously punching in the number 25 on the dial and then waiting, twiddling his thumbs, for the doors to open.
I wonder what’s suddenly got him so nervous. It’s like he’s actually scaredof Colt or something, and it makes me wonder how much Colt has really changed from the smug, arrogant but essentially harmless boy I knew all those years ago ...
The doors to the elevator ping open and we both step inside. As we whoosh upwards, I hardly have time to check out my reflection in the polished chrome of the walls – maybe I should have taken Mom’s advice after all and picked up out some brand new clothes, instead of this thrown-together-at-the-last-minute thrift store outfit – before the doors slide open again and we’re stepping out into a large, bustling open plan office, utterly modern and from the looks of it extremely busy.
“You must be ... Stacey?” another English accent, this time a female one, says from somewhere to my left.
I turn around to face a tall brunette, pretty, with flawless golden skin, maybe a year or two older than me. She’s smiling down at me kindly and man, is shetall. That’s when I notice. She’s wearing heels; killer six-inch heels. And as I scan the office, it slowly dawns on me that everyone – or at least every female employee – is wearing heels. Everyone except me.
I glance down embarrassedly at my own scuffed leather loafers and just hope to God that nobody notices.
“That’s me,” I grin back sheepishly.
“I’m Elizabeth. Mr Grayson is expecting you,” she says. “Come on, it’s this way ...”
As she leads me across the office in the direction of a set of imposing looking dark wood doors at the far side of the room, striding quickly and confidently on those gigantic stilettos, I get the feeling that everyone’s stopped what they’re doing to watch me. And sure enough, each time I venture a timid glance over at one of my new work colleagues, I’m met by eyes staring straight back at me.
As we walk, Elizabeth points out some things that I’ll need to know – like where the restrooms are, and the coffee machine. She’s warm and chatty, and it feels a little like talking to an old friend. But then, just as we reach the doors, she stops and turns to me.
“Now, Stacey, I can tell I’m going to like you,” Elizabeth whispers under her breath, looking me up and down, “but more importantly, I don’t want to lose the office sweepstake. So please be a darling and try not to fuck him in your first week here, okay?”
I feel myself blush hard.
Did she really just say that?
But before I can even think of a reply, she’s turned and buzzed an intercom on the empty desk that sits outside what I’m guessing is Colt’s privat
e office.
“Mr Grayson? Miss Richardson is here to see you.”
I hear a crackle and then that familiar coldness of his voice in reply. “Send her in.”
“Remember what I said,” Elizabeth whispers with a wink, before turning to stride back into the busy office.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” I mumble, but she’s already well out of earshot.
I turn back to those imposing doors, take a deep breath, then push them open ...
Wow, has it really been so long since I last saw her? Because I have to admit to myself, she’s even more attractive than I remember. Okay, she’s still kinda skinny, and those certainly aren’t the biggest breasts I’ve ever laid eyes on, but there’s just something about her. Something I can’t put my finger on.
Focus, Colt, I tell myself. Remember: you’re the one in control here. The only reason she’s here in your office, attractive or not, is because you’ve decided to have some fun with her.
And it’s gonna be so easy, I think with a grin, as I look at her standing there in the doorway to my office, unsure what to do, dressed in what have to be the least-sexy clothes I’ve ever seen: a cheap plain white blouse, a black fitted jacket, a black below-knee-length skirt, and scuffed black leather loafers, all of which look like they’ve come straight out of the JC Penney bargain bin. And her outfit look all the more out of place in my office, because I only employ women with style.
I’m gonna have to do something about her clothes, I think as I take her in from head to toe.
“Long time no see,” she says with an awkward wave, obviously trying hard – but failing – to hide her nervousness.
And I find myself savoring the moment, doing absolutely nothing to ease her discomfort – even though I know that the right thing to do would be to tell her to please, come in, take a seat.
Instead I just leave her hanging there, standing awkwardly in the doorway, as I push myself to my feet and stride towards her, closing up the distance between us with a few confident steps, knowing just how good I must look in this five thousand dollar suit, my hair freshly cut, my skin smoothly shaven and tanned, bathed just this morning in the finest lotion, knowing that my scent is probably intoxicating her senses, as I keep my eyes fixed firmly on hers, waiting for that moment I love: that moment when a woman’s pupils dilate, just a fraction, and I know I’ve won; I know that they want me.
I wait for it to happen, but goddamn ... it doesn’t.
Her pupils don’t dilate.
What the fuck?
“Mind if I sit down?” she says, casually, breaking my gaze and pushing past me to take a seat in the chair that faces my desk.
“Uh, sure,” I say, trying to maintain the upper hand here, but momentarily shaken. And by the time I’ve turned around to head back to my desk she’s already seated, waiting for me to join her.
There it is again, I think. That familiar frustration she always creates in me. That need to mess with her.
“Okay,” I say, pacing back around to my position of power: behind my desk, reminding her just who the fuck is in charge here. And I don’t sit down, either. I remain standing, my palms placed firmly on the desk, my eyes blazing, burning into hers as I speak. “It’s immediately apparent, Stacey, that you’ve got a lot to learn about business. First impressions count. And what do you think that my first impression of you is, Stacey?”
She looks like a rabbit, caught in my headlights. I can see the first flickers of panic in her face, as she reappraises what is obviously the best outfit she owns, before slowly shrugging her shoulders.
“My first impression of you, Stacey,” I continue, “is that you look like a waitress in a cheap diner, and not one of my highly-trained, highly professional staff. If you read the information I had my PA send to you before starting, and I’m beginning to doubt that you did, you will know that Get There Now is the first word in luxury travel. I said luxury, Stacey. And you look like you’re selling the overweight masses a cheap week in the sun. And that is not what I’m selling here. I’m selling glamor, I’m selling excitement, I’m selling sex, Stacey. D’you think you can sell that too?”
At this she just shrugs again, still so obviously trying to play it cool, but to my satisfaction I do notice the very slightest blush rising to her pale, milk-white cheeks.
I push a blotter towards her, then pluck my Mont Blanc fountain pen from its stand on my desk and thrust that towards her, too.
“Write down your measurements,” I command.
She raises an eyebrow and looks at me as if to say, Is this guy being serious? But the look I give her back tells her that yes, I am indeed being deadly serious.
With a quick sigh, she starts scribbling her measurements down on the blotter and then, once she’s done, she pushes the pad back towards me and I scan over what she’s written.
“You’ve missed cup size,” I growl.
“You’re joking, right?” she snorts.
“I’m being deadly serious,” I shoot back coldly.
With a final roll of her big brown eyes, she reaches to snatch back the pad but I hold out my hand to stop her.
“Actually,” I cut in. “Let me guess ...”
As I let my eyes stray down to her breasts, assessing their size through the cheap white cotton of her blouse, I watch her squirm in her seat, and despite myself, I feel the familiar rush of blood to my cock.
“I’d say you were a ... 32C?” I venture.
The way her eyes flash in surprise, for a split-second I think I’ve got it right. But then she quickly shakes her head, meeting my gaze defiantly. “Wrong,” she spits, her eyes narrowing, her nostrils flaring. “If you must know, I’m a 34B actually.”
I take the blotter and jot the final measurement down, before dropping it on the desk.
“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” I say. “I’ll have some new clothes sent over to your suite by this evening,” I continue. “And I expect you to wear them tomorrow.”
“So what exactly am I supposed to do anyway?” she asks, exasperated.
“You’re my new PA,” I tell her. “But this is a high level job. You’re not just going to be looking after my diary and accompanying me to all my meetings, you’ll also conduct research reports for me, and you’ll keep an eye on market trends and alert me to anything you think I need to know. I want you to be proactive in keeping an eye on the market. Think you can do all that?”
She meets my eye with that familiar anger I’ve missed so much flashing in her big brown eyes.
“Sounds like a piece of cake,” she says, but I can tell, by the briefest flicker of her lip and the subtle pulsing of that vein in her neck that behind that cool surface, she’s a little more ruffled than she’s letting on.
“Good,” I say, smiling.
I slide open a drawer, remove a Blackberry, then hand it to her.
“Keep this on you at all times,” I tell her. “I want you on call for me, twenty-four seven. Do you understand?”
“Yes, boss,” she says, the hint of sarcasm barely disguising the anger in her voice. I can tell she’s just seething at the prospect of being at my beck and call, day and night.
“That will be all for now, Miss Richardson ...” I add. “I’ll have one of the girls from the office run you through everything ...”
She pushes herself to her feet and turns to leave.
“Oh and one more thing?” I call out, just as she reaches the door.
She stops and turns back to face me.
“Don’t ever be late again.”
What a total asshole! I mean, come on. Who the fuck does he think he is! I shake my head in exasperation, as I walk the few blocks back to my hotel. Hopefully the whole ‘I’m the big boss and you’ll do exactly as I say’ act was just some stupid joke – it was hard to tell if he was being serious or not.
Has he really changed that much?
His accent definitely has. It seems to have taken on just a hint of British now, rounding off the harsh edges that used
to be there. Transatlantic I guess you’d call it. And I hate myself for finding it kind of ... sexy. Although I’d never tell him that of course; there’s no way in hell I’m giving him the satisfaction, despite the way he always seems to make me feel.
He looks like a man now, too. It’s clear he still takes just as much care over his appearance as he did back when we were kids, only now instead of sports gear and the latest sneakers it’s no-doubt insanely expensive tailored suits and, judging from the size and shape of him, long sweaty sessions in the gym, probably with some private trainer.
God. I hate him so fucking much. He always seems to know exactly how to push my buttons.
If anything, he’s even worse now he’s the head of some company, throwing his weight around, with the whole world as his playground.
I try to shake off my frustration and focus on the good things. I mean, here I am in London, and it’s totally beautiful. Everywhere you look, the buildings are just so quaint and pretty; even cuter than I was imagining. And if I can just get through my first week here, then I’m free to go sightseeing and explore. I can’t wait. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet some cute British guy – someone who’s actually nice and thoughtful. A real gentleman, instead of an entitled arrogant asshole like Colt ...
Come on, Stacey, I tell myself as I step into the lobby of my hotel and head towards the elevators. You need to stop thinking of him. It’s exactly what he wants. He wants to get under your skin. So don’t give him the satisfaction. Just do your job, to the best of your abilities, and apart from that, you don’t owe him anything. He sure as hell doesn’t own you. After all, what’s the worst he can do?
But even as I’m thinking that, just as I open the door to my penthouse suite, I see that not only has the bed been made, but that piled on top of it are a huge array of shopping bags, each emblazoned by a different high-end, high street logo.
What the hell?
Then I remember what he said: that he’d send some new outfits over to my suite by the time I got back.
Colt Page 4