by Claire Adams
"So, you admit it. You love her and not me."
"You can't tell me that you want there to be more between us," I said to her softly. "I'm impatient, moody, difficult to work with, and a complete asshole most of the time. We had some terrific times together fucking, but you don't love me."
"You are an asshole," she agreed with chagrin, and it broke the tension between us.
"You deserve someone far better than me to be your boyfriend. If you don't feel comfortable being my assistant anymore, I'll transfer to work somewhere else in the building or write you a recommendation letter for any other company in the country. I hate to lose you, though. A lot of the success of this company I owe to you and the incredible work you do. Just tell me what you want and I'll make sure you get to work there."
Angela looked mollified and I felt a sense of relief. I shouldn't have, though. There's a reason for the saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” and I should have remembered that.
"Thanks, but I think I'll stay working for you." She smiled at me, and I should have noticed the malicious gleam in her eye, but at the time, I mistook it as happiness. "Oh, by the way, one of your college friends is waiting in your office. He said he ran into you at the party and he wanted to meet with you about a business proposition."
"Oh, great. Who is it?" I felt glad that we were back to business as usual.
"Just go on in; you'll see." She sauntered away.
I entered my office and froze for half a second before regaining my composure. I locked the door swiftly before crossing the room to shake his hand.
"Charles Dorsey. How are you?" When we shook hands, his was sweaty and weak. He looked like shit. Even though we were both around the same age, he looked twenty years older than I did, with wrinkled jowls, a balding head, and a paunchy gut that hung down over his waistband. It made me glad that we'd taken different paths, or that could have been me, too.
"I'm good, ya know, I'm good," he stammered in a rush of words. "How are you? It looks like you're doing good; yeah, it looks like you're doing really good. We shared a lot of good times together back in the day; yeah, a lot of good times. Remember all the good times we shared?"
He sounded like he was itching for a fix, and the sight of him with his twitching eye and restlessly moving body sickened me.
"I don't remember those times as being quite that good. If I recall, they sucked pretty bad. I was always broke, unable to pay rent, barely able to focus. I lost my girlfriend and my friends, and I nearly lost my business and everything I owned.
“If it hadn't been for being locked up in that rehab center, I would have. Thank God Gwyneth loved me enough to dump me. It was the wake-up call that got me committed into rehab and saved me from losing everything else I had left."
"Yeah, so you know how rough it can be when you’re down," Charles said, missing the point entirely. "What do you say you help an old frat brother out? Fraternity brothers for life, remember? I just need a few thousand bucks to pay off some debts and get some medication that I need. You can see I've been sick."
"Yeah, I know just what kind of meds you need. Forget it. I'm going to help you in the best way I can—by not helping you at all. Get yourself checked into rehab, Charles. I'll even help cover the cost. Other than that, you're not getting a dime from me."
"How about a job then? I'm about to lose my house. I can't tell Lisa I got fired from another job; she'll leave me. Help me out. You owe me."
"How do I owe you?" I was getting pissed off now and started guiding Charles to the door.
"We were frat brothers. We were part of an unbreakable bond of brotherhood. All that you are is because of me."
"All that you are is because of addiction. Get out until you get yourself cleaned up." I shoved Charles out of my office door and called for security to escort him out.
"You haven't seen the last of me. Brothers don't stab brothers in the back like this," he was shouting hysterically as they hauled him away.
"Angela, how could let him in my office? He's obviously a wreck," I barked angrily, looking for my assistant.
"Oh, sorry. He said you were old friends, so I figured it would be okay." She smiled at me with exaggerated sweetness.
"Don't let him in the building again. In fact, don't let anyone in my office again without my permission, got it?"
"What? Sorry, but I can't take orders from you right now. I'm on my way out to lunch with Steve from finance."
"You mean my CFO?" I was flabbergasted. Why would she would be having lunch with him?
"It turns out that he needs a new assistant, so I'm transferring there. He invited me out for a champagne lunch to celebrate. I guess you're on your own for the rest of the day. Oh, and don't forget you have an interview in fifteen minutes."
She gave me the finger as she blew me a kiss goodbye and then sauntered away. Shit! What a time to have my assistant quit, but I guessed I got what I deserved for thinking I could screw around in the office and never pay the price.
I was still struggling to delegate all of Angela's duties to other members of my staff when the interview reporter showed up with his cameraman.
"Never a dull moment at Speed Motorcycles," I joked as I guided them into my office. “I’m always racing around doing something."
The interview went smoothly. He had lots of questions about the All American, and I was able to really talk up the selling points of the bike in a conversational way. His questions about my relationship with Kayla gave the interview a little spark of gossip I knew would attract readers, and I was careful to keep my answers vague to keep them wanting more.
"Miss Brandt did a terrific job showcasing the All American in this month's issue of Speed Magazine. I respect her tremendously and felt a real connection with her when we were working together on the cover shoot. So it was really good to see her again at the party."
"Are the rumors true that you two are now a couple?" the reporter pressed.
I knew Kayla would want me to say that we were, but my negative experience with Angela that morning had shown me how ugly break-ups are and reminded me just why I never wanted to be in a relationship. It put a blockade up in front of my heart, which had been opening up when I was alone with Kayla at the hotel all weekend, and slammed it shut again.
"No, we're just very close friends," I copped out, even though it made me feel disgusted with myself. "We had a very nice time at the party and I enjoyed working with her professionally, but I am still a confirmed bachelor with no plans to ever be in a committed relationship."
"I see. A lot of single women out there will be happy to know you’re still unattached, but disappointed to learn you plan to stay that way forever," the reported chuckled. He glanced at his watch and said, "I see our time together is up, but do you have time for one last question?"
"Of course, anything," I grinned. The interview had been going great and I wanted to end it on a high note for the company. I was hoping he'd ask me one last question about the future for Speed Motorcycles or what innovations we had planned next. It would be the perfect way to wrap up the interview and wipe out my guilt for betraying Kayla.
"Everyone is speculating on the one question you never seem to want to answer. Please tell our viewers, Mr. Colson: how did you come up with the name of your company, Speed Motorcycles?"
Shit. That was the last thing I wanted to have to talk about on television, especially after just kicking Charles Dorsey out of my office. I stood up and put my hands in front of the camera to hide my expression.
"Sorry, I forgot I have an important video conference with someone half-way around the world that I really can't delay. It would be an insult to them to keep them waiting. Thanks for coming in, and thanks for the interview. I love your show. I watch it all the time."
My walking powerfully forward, I managed to force the reporter and his cameraman to stagger backward until I had pushed them out of my office. As soon as they were clear of the threshold, I shut the door in their faces and loc
ked it securely.
Exhausted, I collapsed into my chair. What a disaster today had been, and it wasn't even lunch yet. I was looking forward to my dinner date with Kayla more than ever. I needed to unwind, and I knew just how I wanted to do it. I had a feeling she would love the kinky new game I had in mind. I just had to make sure she didn't watch the television interview first.
Chapter Twenty-one: Kayla
Ethan had left a chauffeured limo for me at the hotel and instructed the driver to take me anywhere I wanted to go. I could see faces peeking through their curtains and pedestrians just stopped and openly stared as the fancy black car pulled to a stop in front of my apartment building.
I felt wonderfully conspicuous as I walked into my shabby apartment and felt everyone watching my every step. So, this was what it was like to be famous. My cell phone, which I had left at home, was completely dead after having been gone all weekend, and I had to search for my charger. As soon as I plugged it into the wall socket, my phone came blinking to life and I saw I had twenty-eight messages on my voicemail.
Wow, Ethan had been right. I couldn't believe it. I grabbed a Diet Coke from my nearly empty refrigerator, kicked back on my couch, and listened to them one by one. Everybody had called: my parents, agents searching for clients, the director of marketing for many prominent companies, and even Mick had called to tell me congratulations. It was a heady feeling and I reveled in it. Now it was time to strategize about my career—but first I had to return the most important call on my voicemail.
"Hi, Mom. It's me."
"Kayla, sweetheart. Your father and I are so proud of you. He bought nearly every copy of the magazine at the supermarket Saturday morning and has been handing out to everybody in town, bragging that you’re our daughter."
"I'm pretty sure everybody in town still knows we're related," I giggled. It was a small town and everyone in it knew everyone. Still, it made my heart swell to know my parents were proud of me.
"The reporters for the gossip magazines are saying that you might be dating the owner of the company. Is it true?" Mom sounded both excited and worried at the same time.
"We are," I breathed, and it felt more real after saying it to her. True, I had already said it to Ethan's friends Gwyneth and Vick, but that was just telling it to strangers in a moment of jealousy. Saying it aloud to my mother somehow made it transform from a fantasy weekend into a real relationship.
"Be careful, sweetheart. You don't want to be known as the kind of girl who sleeps with powerful men just to get modeling jobs. I know you're not like that, but men like this Ethan Colson who own million dollar companies, they can trick innocent girls into thinking there's something there when there isn't."
"I know how to take care of myself, Mom. Don't worry." Had she forgotten that I'd been living in L.A. for the past three years? I knew how to gauge when a man was going to be a sleaze.
"I know you do, sweetheart, but I've read all the articles about this man. He's known for sleeping with the models on the cover of his magazine and then dumping them. He's also stated numerous times that he'll never be in a serious relationship. I just don't want to see you get hurt."
"Ethan's been that way in the past, but we have a connection. It's different this time. Trust me, I know him, and this is for real."
"You thought that with Mick, too. I don't say that hurt you, but you're just getting over a relationship and that can make you particularly vulnerable."
"Ethan's not like that. I'm smart enough to know the difference between real love and just being used." I was angry now.
"I know, sweetheart. Just be careful. Don't jump into things with him too fast."
"I won't," I promised, but it was already too late. After spending an entire weekend in bed together, Ethan already had my heart.
I spent the rest of the afternoon calling back the agents and marketing directors who had called me, hearing their offers and making appointments with the ones that sounded the most appealing. My schedule for the week had never been so full. By the time I finished the last call, I felt exhausted but exhilarated. I couldn't wait to tell Ethan about it. I glanced at my clock and was startled to see it was already time for our date.
I dug through my closet and found the new lingerie I had bought as a surprise for Mick, but never wore. It would the perfect outfit for tonight. The black, silk, corseted top had a sweetheart bust line that maximized my cleavage and laced down the back for a sexy look. The matching black silk panties were a high-waisted thong that showed off my round buttocks and long legs. The black, thigh-high stockings attached with a garter belt to the corseted top, like an old-fashioned harlot's, and a pair of black stiletto heels completed the look. The outfit was deliciously naughty, and I slipped on a sweet, little pink cotton dress on top of it for a deceptively innocent outer shell. Ethan was sure to love it, and I was already feeling aroused just thinking about his reaction.
When I got to his mansion, he opened the front door himself.
"I gave all the maids and servants the night off," he explained with a sexy grin. He looked fantastic in a dark-blue suit with a pale-blue tie. I thought about what he had done with the last tie he had, and my pussy began to quiver with anticipation.
"Have a seat. Dinner is ready." He showed me to the dining room where the table had been intimately set for two, with fine china, crystal wine glasses, and a bottle of expensive Merlot chilling in a bucket of ice nearby.
We dined on delicious cuisine, prepared by his private, French chef. We started with an appetizer of brie cheese crepes with béchamel sauce graniteed, followed by spinach salad with champagne vinaigrette.
The main course was a mouthwatering filet mignon with a rich brandy crème sauce, and for desert, chocolate mousse. We sat for hours as we ate and talked and laughed and drank.
Ethan listened avidly as I told him about all the phone calls I'd had that day. He didn't give me unsolicited advice or try to bully me into taking the modeling jobs he wanted me to do like Mick would have done. He just listened and gave me his unconditional support. It felt good to finally get that from a man, and I realized in that moment just how much I'd been craving that all my life.
"I can't believe I've been hogging the conversation this entire night. Tell me about your day? How was the office?" I blushed, realizing we'd done nothing but talk about me for hours.
"I don't want to talk about business. I do that all day at work. I want to talk about something else," he said, and his voice suddenly became thicker. The way he was looking at me so lustfully let me know exactly what he had in mind, but I felt like being playful.
"What if I want to talk about work? Tell me about your day, Ethan," I said with an intentionally petulant pout.
"I just told you I didn't want to talk about that. Are you being bratty?" His eyes sparked with delight, even as he glowered at me in mock anger.
"I can be a brat if I want to," I taunted and tossed a green bean from my plate across the table at him.
With amazing reflexes, he leapt up and yanked me out of my chair. He grabbed my dress and ripped it off my body with his strong hands, tearing the thin, cotton fabric like it wasn't even there. As I stood before him, trembling in nothing but the sexy, black lingerie, I enjoyed watching his eyes dilate as he looked me up and down, and I felt a distinctive bulge within his slacks press against my thigh.
"You are a naughty girl, aren't you?" he said with an appreciative growl. He pushed the contents of the dining table onto the floor with one swipe of his arm, causing the dishes to fall to floor with a noisy crash. Glaring at me, he said, "Now, I'm going to teach you how to be good and not such a brat. Bend over the top of this table and spread your legs wide."
I did as I'd been told, laying my torso flat against the top of the table with my ass sticking up in the air, and my thighs spread wide. Using the cloth napkins from the table, Ethan bound my ankles to the legs of the table, forcing me to keep them that way. Then, he tore my cotton dress into long strips which he used to bind my
wrists stretched out in front of me to the legs on the other side of the table, forcing me to stay bent over, with my breasts pressed flat against the hard, wooden surface.
"Now, naught girl, I'm going to teach you what happens to brats." He sounded threatening, but I wasn't afraid. Indeed, my entire body was quivering with delight as I excitedly waited to discover what pleasures he had in store for me. Was he going to spank me like he did in the hotel or whip me with flogger like he did in the bedroom? The answer surprised me.
Ethan left the room, and when he returned, he was carrying a long, black, leather whip. The sight of it sent chills down my spine and I shuddered, but my pussy grew slick with the juices of my arousal.
He cracked it in the air, and the sound of it was fearfully loud. Then, he coiled it around his hand and rubbed the leather braid against the bare skin of my upper thigh where my stockings didn't cover them and up around my naked butt cheeks. He pushed my thong aside and found my lips were wet and ready, and he gently massaged me there, making me moan with pleasure. Then, he inserted the handle of the whip inside my slippery slot, fucking me with it there.
I strained within my bonds as my pleasure grew, and the sound of my panting and moaning echoed off the dining room walls.
"I'm going to come," I gasped as I felt my orgasm drawing near, and that's when Ethan suddenly and cruelly withdrew the handle, abruptly ceasing the stimulation moments before I could climax.
"No, naughty girl. Only good girls get to orgasm," he snarled, and I realized then what my punishment would be.
He stepped back away from me then, unfurled the whip and gave me a few light flicks with it on the fleshy part of my thighs and buttocks. It stung painfully, and I yelped out with every smack of the leather on my delicate flesh; but he was an expert, and knew just how to wield the weapon without breaking the skin or causing me serious harm. The pain was more emotional than anything: humiliating me like a small child being beaten by a disapproving father.