Dirty After Dark (A Billionaire Boss Romance)

by Anne Connor

  “The steady cash flow, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t make all my money on my good looks, filthy mouth and charm alone. I’ve made some pretty good investments. Like the office building where you now work. But yeah, if people stopped calling me, eventually I’d lose all my clout. The money wouldn’t dry up overnight, but it’d diminish over time.”

  “And the girls?” she challenged. “What about them? You think you’ll still have a steady stream of girls at your mansion every Sunday?”

  “So you heard about the pool parties.”

  “Would those dry up too?”

  “No girl is every dry when I’m around.”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Cheesy.”

  “You didn’t say it was false.”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  “So you do like me.”

  She licks the corner of her lip and makes my dick rock-hard with that tiny gesture. “What happened to professional?”

  “I didn’t do or say anything unprofessional. You’re the one with the dirty mind, miss.”

  “You said that every man in here was looking at me and...you know…”

  “I was just pointing out the cold, hard truth. Illustrating a point. And that’s what I do for a living, and if you’re doing to be part of Dirty After Dark, you should get used to it. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  “I did say we should keep things professional.”

  “This is professional. It’s my profession to give sex advice.”

  “You are good with words, boss. I’ll give you that.”

  The waiter comes by and I order two more of my favorite sweet, salty margaritas. The fresh lime and hint of mint they throw in there would make it so easy for me and Sara to keep talking all afternoon, but there’s some things we need to take care of back at the office.

  After paying and going back to the office, I retreat into my space and Sara goes back to her desk. I’m not at all tipsy, the result of having the occasional liquid lunch when I’m doing an interview for a magazine or a photo shoot for an advertorial spread. As I sit down at my computer to see what emails have come in, I keep glancing over at Sara. She seems confident and a little bit looser than she had at the interview and this morning. She seems to be getting along swimmingly with the rest of the staff, and I happen to catch her and Matt having a quick cup of coffee at her desk in the mid-afternoon.

  I’m looking over some numbers for the fourth quarter budget when I realize it’s five and time for everyone to start going home. At few of my staff stay behind and finish up whatever they’re working on, and I see Sara leave around a quarter past five. Kayla waves goodnight to me shortly after, and I stay behind to check some social media feeds.

  It all got to be a little bit too much when I was in New York, and having Lexi on my jock all the time did not help. Everything spiraled out of control when her old man gave me his blessing to go off to the West coast and Lexi blew a gasket.

  I scrub my face with my hands and get up, moving over to the window. I’ve had enough of staring at spreadsheets and numbers all day. Shit, I’m getting old. I’m gonna have to start wearing those special glasses they make for people who look at the computer for long periods of time. At 32 I feel like I’ve lived a whole life in the recording studio, at club appearances and in front of the camera. Gazing out my window, I see Hollywood Boulevard and my own faint reflection in the glass.

  There’s nothing online about me and Sara being out at the restaurant today. The gossip rags don’t need to report on something as innocuous as a lunch. There was only one quick blurb about us, something about a new work relationship and it didn’t identify her by name, which I was grateful for.

  I’m not sure if I should have warned her about the possibility of being in the media if we started spending time together, but I’m sure if she did her homework, which it seems she’s now done, she would know about that small risk.

  The air outside looks heavy and thick, and the early spring warmth and smell of summer are putting me in the mood for something hot and quick. I have my pool party on Sunday, Sara’s right, but I like to have a look, don't touch policy for those. It gets too complicated when I have that many women together in close quarters; I find that it just encourages jealousy, and I don’t want that. I want to play nice. The girls I have threeways with are vetted carefully and I only accept once I know that they’ll be able to keep all the drama to a minimum.

  I’m not ashamed to admit that a few of those threeways involved strippers. Not prostitutes, not that I’m against paying for sex. I’ve even counseled callers to seek out the services of pros when they are interested in it for whatever reason - needing to be anonymous, for example. I had a caller once who was a young gay man from a conservative, small town. He craved companionship and affection. He didn’t want to risk outing himself to his parents and community, but he happened to visit a friend at college in a nearby state. Not knowing how to approach another man for a casual encounter, he decided that the best thing would be to hire someone, although that was also something he had no idea how to broach. I made a few suggestions, and even though he was concerned about the ethics and legality surrounding it, I told him it wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.

  So yeah, I’m definitely not against hiring pros. But some of the strippers I’ve been with have been phenomenally sexy, with the modest tits I like and comparatively big asses and small little nipped waists. I haven’t paid for sex with any of them, not exactly, but I do like to give them really fucking good tips when I do get a little bit crazy with them in the champagne room.

  Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I check and see that my incoming texts are blowing up. Selfie girl with the double Ds in the red push up has texted me again, this time it’s the edge of her panties against her tanned, dark ass. It’s nice and round and perky, and I consider it for a second. I bet those lace panties would shred in my hands in a second.

  I adjust myself and look over at Sara’s desk, where she has a stack of old medical texts. Kayla searched all over southern California to get those on special loan from a university's library a few counties over, where they have vintage archives. I knew by looking at her that Sara’s responsible and would take good care of the books.

  I swipe to text the girl with the red lace panties.

  “Not tonight, sweetheart. Sorry.”

  I punch in Sara’s name and pull up a text.

  “You have to come to the pool party on Sunday.”

  I slide my phone back into my pocket. It’s Friday night, and I consider what I should do tonight. I could go home and just kick it, or I could go out for some drinks. I even think about texting red lace back and telling her my plans just fell through and I want to see her, but that seems rude. Plus, I can’t get Sara out of my mind.

  Her pretty, delicate little hands and her soft, smooth, young skin. Her dark hair and the sprinkling of freckles on her shoulders. I can’t get her out of my head for some reason.

  My phone buzzes and I take it out, expecting it to be red panties trying to argue with me or convince me to meet her for just a quickie, but it’s Sara.

  “Is that an order, boss? Is attendance at the pool party a requirement for the job?”

  I picture her on a pool float in a tiny black bikini, her natural and pretty body in sharp contrast to the girls that usually come. I like them too, but she’s just a refreshing change of pace. Something new for my eyes to feast upon.

  “Not unless you want it to be,” I shoot back, smiling. I decide to go home and stretch out on my bed, maybe take in a cheesy Lifetime movie. I know they’re for women, but I like them.

  9

  Sara

  There’s a strange package on my front porch when I arrive home from the campus library after my day at Dirty After Dark. It’s a simple, shiny black box with a matte black bow contrasting the box, criss-crossing against the hardness of the box’s lines. It tempts me as I walk toward it. There’s also a thin stack of junk mail assembled next to it,
and I bend down to grab everything with my free hand while unlocking my door.

  I hitch the box under my arm and toss the mail on the kitchen counter when I get in, sending my keys onto the tile-topped counters with a clank. The sound fills the air of my small studio alcove apartment. There isn’t much room for the sound to travel.

  I flip absent-mindedly through the stack of mail. I recently applied for additional student aid, and my eyes grow wide, my pulse quickening as I come across an envelope from my school. I poke the corner into my index finger, turning the envelope over in my hands. It doesn’t look like good news. It’s a small envelope, and I know from experience with these things that good news always comes in a large package, usually a manilla envelope with extra postage.

  Still, I open the envelope and the plastic window displaying my name and address crunches as I take out the letter. They regret to tell me my application for additional student aid has been denied, but they want me to apply again should my financial situation change.

  I draw in a deep breath and let it out, padding over to my refrigerator. I pull out a mini bottle of white wine and twist off the aluminum cap, not bothering to pour myself a glass. It’s just me, so I take a sip right from the bottle. When I told Ryan I’m not much of a drinking, this is what I meant - my poison is a mini bottle of white wine from the supermarket.

  The box on my counter grabs my attention again. It’s like it doesn’t belong in my apartment - with the inexpensive formica furniture and small book shelf in the corner, the single bed that I attempted to make a little more luxe with light gray sheets and white pillow cases along with a navy blue duvet cover.

  I stand over it and peer down, taking a sip of my wine. I certainly did not order anything, but I check the small bone-white card tucked inside the black ribbon and it has my name and address on it. Narrowing my eyes, I trace a finger along the edge, the color of the box a decadent, inky-black color like the blank space between the stars on a clear night.

  Plucking an edge of the thick black ribbon carefully between two fingers, I give an easy tug and the bow comes undone, unwrapping the box from its sumptuous cage.

  I open the box to peek inside, feeling my heart thrumming inside my chest, my pulse picking up. I lift the lid fully and place it aside, working my way through layers of white glossy tissue paper, finally coming to another white card inside.

  Sara, it reads simply, I thought you might like something new to wear to the pool party. It’s signed by Ryan.

  My face flushes with heat and I take another sip of my wine, placing the bottle down on the counter alongside the box and go deeper to get to its contents. Tucked beneath another layer of tissue paper is a classic, gorgeous black two-piece, not too skimpy, with a full, relatively modest brief and triangle top. I recognize the brand, so I know it wasn’t cheap, and it’s my size. The halter neck and sides of the briefs tie with slender black strips, and it would be exactly my taste if I wore anything but one-pieces.

  I take the bikini out of its box and lay the pieces down flat on the countertop, the luxurious fabric silky and smooth in my hands. I didn’t realize they made bathing suits that felt like this one.

  Shaking my head, I can’t help but let a little smile pull across my face as I imagine myself trotting into the pool party in some chic espadrilles, maybe with a sarong wrapped around my waist and sipping on mojitos with the beach bunnies and bombshells that frequent Ryan’s infamous pool parties.

  Taking another sip of my wine, I push the bikini back into its box and sweep it into my bedroom.

  I quickly strip out of my work clothes, tossing them in a heap on my bed. I consider leaving my underwear on in case I want to reject Ryan’s give - but I strip out of my underwear and bra and pull the bikini on fast.

  I turn to regard my reflection in my mirror and pull my long brown hair out of the bun it’s been wrapped up in all day, shaking my head and letting my locks fall around my face and down my back.

  A deep breath in and out, and I turn around to check myself out. I have to admit the swimsuit looks great - it looks and fits better than any bathing suit I’ve ever worn.

  I told him I want to keep it professional, so I know I shouldn’t be loving this as much as I am, but I can’t help it. A knock at my door interrupts my fantasy of trotting around a billionaire’s mansion white nibbling on canapes.

  I grab my bathrobe from the hook next to my mirror and make my way over to the front door.

  “Who is it!”

  “It’s me, now let me in.” Jess hits the door with her knuckles a few more times and pushes past me when I open the door, taking a straight line to my refrigerator.

  “Sorry,” I say, wrapping the robe around me a little tighter and fastening the sash around my waist when she looks me up and down with an arched eyebrow. “I was just trying something on.”

  “You go on a shopping spree without me?” Jess roots around in my fridge and takes out a mini bottle of wine of her own.

  “Not exactly, but I did get something new.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ryan sent me something. He sent me...this.” I open my robe slightly and let Jess have a peek at what I’m hiding. “Do you think it would be totally crazy for me to wear it on Sunday?”

  “You’re already going to one of his pool parties? I’m impressed. He must really like you.”

  “He doesn’t like me. No more than he likes any of his interns.”

  “But he doesn’t usually invite interns to the pool parties.”

  “That’s fine, but it’s still for work. Strictly professional.”

  “Sweetie, that bikini doesn’t look professional. I bet he bought that for you so he could get you all wet and peel it off.”

  “Jess!” I close the robe and tighten it around me. “This is business. It’s part of the job. It’s just that the lines are kind of blurred, you know?”

  I turn to the side and suck in my stomach, poking at bits of skin stretched over curves that are a little bit too curvy, flesh that’s a little bit too fleshy.

  “Well, yeah. That’s because there are no lines.” Jess pulls a pair of sunglasses out of the top drawer of my dresser and trots over to me, putting them in my hand. “It’s his job to be slightly inappropriate at all times.”

  “That’s what I thought too, but that’s not true. Not exactly.” I walk over to my dresser and root around in my underwear drawer, vaguely remembering that I might have a sarong in there. “He’s always got sex on his mind because he has to. But that’s all part of the job, you know?”

  “Not just part of the job, it is the job. And like I said. It’s inappropriate.” She smiles and hops onto my bed.

  “Yes, but for him, it’s his profession. So that makes it all business. Right?”

  “Mmhm,” Jess says, “and is this pool party part of your official job duties?”

  “No.” I hold the sarong up to my body, stretching it around my midsection. “He said I absolutely did not have to come if I didn’t want to.”

  “Of course you want to. Free food, free drinks, a relaxing day in the sun. Your boss making you dripping wet. What is there not to want?”

  “Yeah right, more like a bunch of girls throwing themselves at my boss while I sit around like a dork, shoving all the free food into my face. And by the way, I’m still not sure if I’ve forgiven you for getting me into this mess,” I say with a smile.

  “Oh, you love it.”

  10

  Ryan

  This is why I came to California. And Sara’s right - it was because of a song, or songs. California love, California dreamin’, California girls - I’ve experienced all of it through music, and I wanted it in the flesh. I ached for it. I felt it deep inside my bones, wanting it on my skin, the buzz of the sun and my name both on the lips of a girl laid out on a rainbow beach towel while I lotion her up.

  Like I said, I’m a simple man. My tastes are very vanilla.

  “Everyone have everything they need?” I pass through a group o
f girls sitting on the edge of my pool, their feet dangling into the water.

  “Ryan, sit with us. Please!” One of the girls, a young woman with smooth, young, sun-kissed skin says. She leans back as I stand over her. The girl looks up at me, sticking her chest out, begging me, arching her back. “We need you to help us with a girl problem.”

  This is one of the perks of the job. I part two of the girls with a wave of my hand and sit down between them at the edge of the pool.

  “Let me make it all better,” I say. The girl stretches her long legs out in front of her, splashing at the water and laughing.

  “I’m not a very experienced girl,” she says, cocking her head to the side and looking up at me with her big blue eyes. I already know what she’s going to say. This is how girls come onto me all the time. It’s nearly constant. They want me to show them how it’s done. They want me to give them the first-hand Hart experience. “In fact, I’m a virgin. And, well....”

  She bites down on her lower lip and pouts.

  “What’s the question?” I say, a little smirk forming on my lips.

  The other two girls sitting with us giggle softly. I can’t tell if they’re laughing because this girl is not actually a virgin, or because I’m playing dumb, acting like I don’t know what her question is.

  “Well...do you think I should wait for love, or just get it out of the way with the next hot guy that hits on me?”

  “If you’ve listened to my show, which I’m sure you have, you’ll know this is a very personal decision. What do you want to do? Is there a reason that you’ve waited this long?” I know she hasn’t waited very long at all. She’s only about 18, and I know she’s baiting me. Virgin or not, she is not innocent.

  I hear the door leading out to the backyard slide open and shut through the soft bass of the music, and I look over.

  It’s Sara, walking toward me and looking like a damn angel.