Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  She answers before the end of the first ring. Cate’s standards for her own work are impossibly high, if this is how she approaches shit like phone calls—and I think it is.

  “Catherine Schaffer,” she says, her tone level and professional. I almost miss the hitch in ‘Schaffer.’ My name on the screen does something to her.

  “I’m going to need your phone number, Ms. Schaffer.”

  “My desk line is—”

  “Your personal cell.”

  “Oh,” she says softly. “For…?” The way the sentence trails off tells me she might be feeling a little buyer’s remorse over agreeing to our arrangement so quickly. I bet it felt good, to relax the death grip she has on her life right now, but if the obsessive energy that radiates off her is any indication, she’s already coiled tightly around her to-do list for the rest of the evening.

  “I’ll need to send you instructions for our meetings. I assume you won’t be at Basiqué all weekend.”

  “No, I won’t.” I hear a single, steadying breath come over the receiver. “What kind of instructions?”

  God, this woman is a dream. She might not know it yet, but she wants me to take control for this thirty minutes, totally and completely. The longing in her voice gives her away. Even if she’s torn about her loyalty to Sarzó, I don’t think she’ll be able to resist me.

  “Any instructions I deem necessary. And you’ll follow them.”

  I’m going out on a limb. The first time I used this tone with her, she pressed her shoulder up against the door of my Aston Martin and stopped speaking to me. If she withdraws right now, I’m not going to force her.

  “I will.” It’s not a question. It’s an admission.

  “Your number, Cate.”

  She rattles off the number, and then her voice becomes louder, brighter. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. I’ll schedule that for Monday.” Sarzó must have come back into the room.

  “Don’t be late,” I say into the phone, then set the receiver gently into its cradle.

  I have some work to do before tomorrow.

  There are things I’ll need if I’m going to push Cate to her limits.

  16

  Cate

  Jax’s silence over the weekend is excruciating.

  I spend most of Saturday in the office, checking and double-checking the schedule for next week. Bee tries to video chat twice. I decline both calls and feel wretched about it both times. But I know that if she sees my face, she’ll know I’m barely holding it together.

  Every time my phone buzzes I leap to see who it is, even though I know it’s only incoming email.

  He could be emailing you, I tell myself in a reasonable tone.

  If he’d wanted to email me, he wouldn’t have asked for my phone number.

  But Jax says nothing. No instructions. Not even a hello, for two agonizing days. Despite the strange departure of that party on the Fourth of July, he’s sticking to his rules: everything is going to be strictly contained to our daily meetings in his office.

  It’s late Sunday night when a message comes in.

  At the short buzz that indicates a text my heart skips a beat, and I steel myself for the disproportionate disappointment of finding out that it’s Bee sending me a pregnancy update instead of Jax.

  That thought fills me with shame. My sister is pregnant with twins. There’s no reason I should be dodging her. What if the message had been from her, telling me that they were born? Could I be any more of a work- and Jax-obsessed bitch?

  But it’s not a message from Bee. It’s from Jax.

  Save this number to your contacts as ‘Hunter’.

  I do as he says—even though he can’t see me—then tap out a reply. Should I send a screenshot to prove it?

  No. Too much.

  Saved.

  Good girl.

  My breath catches in my throat. The phrase sends a bolt of pleasure straight down the back of my neck, down the length of my spine, and lands between my legs.

  Can I be that starved for attention and praise?

  I can.

  I grip my phone, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, for another full minute, but there’s no obvious reply. When I’m beginning to think I should send something, anything, the icon indicating that he’s typing pops up above my thumbs.

  For our meeting tomorrow, you’ll be wearing red panties.

  My heart beats a little faster. Instantly, I’m taking a mental inventory of my dresser drawer. I have exactly one pair that will work, and they’re skimpy, all lace, something Bee bought me a few years ago as a joke. She knows that beneath all the brand-name pieces, I’m a stickler for comfort next to the skin, which explains my extensive collection of non-red panties that can be worn without lines showing through.

  I borrow a lot from the Closet—all the department heads do—but Sandra prefers my wardrobe to be mainly in shades of black, black, black aside from a few statement pieces. It’s not a dress code she’s ever been explicit about, but all it took was a few well-placed comments about the “overwhelming brightness” of a couple of my outfits for me to take the hint and adjust.

  Needless to say, red panties have not been high on my priority list.

  Will the ones I have be good enough?

  There’s no time to shop before work, and my lunch break is barely long enough to get to the ground floor of the building, much less to the nearest Victoria’s Secret.

  “Stop,” I say out loud, standing up from my couch and pushing my hair back into a loose ponytail. “You’re being a crazy person. Your panties are good enough.”

  Hearing those words come out of my own mouth sends me into a fit of giggles.

  I laugh so hard that I cry, and when I’m done I fall heavily onto my bed, suddenly feeling very sober and serious.

  When I got promoted to Sandra’s lead assistant a year ago, I moved into my own one-bedroom apartment. Having a roommate was too much of a hassle, and I knew that if I was going to handle the stress of the job, I needed a peaceful place to come home to. For a while, I spent my late nights and weekends making improvements to the space, decorating it carefully, arranging it precisely.

  Now I’m wondering if having someone here at the end of the day—not a man even, not a lover—would be better than spending every night alone. Things might be better if someone other than my cleaning lady set foot over the threshold every week.

  You know they would only be a distraction.

  I’m so exhausted, so on edge despite the giddy laughter, that the thought takes hold more strongly than it should.

  Would it? Would it be a distraction to have someone to talk to aside from Sandra and a few of the girls in the office? When was the last time I met them in the cafeteria for lunch? How long has it been since I decided eating at my desk was my only option?

  Too long.

  But before I can fully convince myself that easing up on my work would probably be the best idea health-wise, the memory of my father’s face after he found out he was being forced into early retirement with not enough money saved in the bank flickers into my mind in full color.

  After that, it’s easy to push away my worries about lunch dates and roommates.

  I’ll have plenty of time for those things later.

  Will you? Really? asks the voice from the back of my mind.

  I start to formulate an argument, but the heaviness of my eyelids make it impossible to stay awake long enough to see it through.

  The only thing to do now is rest…and make it to 5:00 tomorrow.

  17

  Jax

  When Cate knocks softly at my office door, right on time at 5:00, my cock is already hard. The anticipation has dogged me all day. It’s been impossible to concentrate on anything.

  I don’t make it a habit to be in my office at Basiqué all day. For one thing, I have far too many business matters to attend to, far too many money management plans to guide, to do that, as much as I’d love to hang around waiting for Cate to find some excuse to visit m
y office before 5:00.

  She won’t do that, though. These meetings will mean release for both of us, but I know it’s the only concession that Cate is willing to make when it comes to testing Sarzó’s temper. I don’t know why she puts up with it. I don’t know why she’s so blindly loyal. I only know that she is.

  Ultimately, it’s probably for the best. This thing between Cate and I, this arrangement—it won’t be permanent. It can’t be permanent. And we both know it. If she gets too wrapped up in things, if it starts to mean too much, then at least she’ll have her job to go back to.

  That is—if they make it clear it’s not a waste of my money.

  The deal I’ve made with myself is that I’ll keep business separate from extracurricular pursuits with Cate. No matter how things turn out with her, I need to evaluate Basiqué on its own merits. It’s the only way I can be completely sure she’s not influencing me with her perfect body.

  “Come in.”

  She glides into the room silently and presses the door closed behind her, helping it along despite the fact that it’s designed to close by itself. From the set of her shoulders I can see that she’s nervous. There’s only a hint of her calm professional self, but she plays it up as much as she can, walking toward me with even steps, never wavering on her sky-high heels.

  “Hello, Mr. Hunter.”

  She’s brought a stack of notes with her to keep up the facade. Cate never lets any details slip, does she?

  Her weight shifts toward her usual seat, but then she reconsiders, biting her bottom lip. Straightens her back. Looks me in the eye.

  What a spitfire.

  “Ms. Schaffer.”

  I don’t waste another moment, standing up smoothly from behind my desk, not bothering to adjust the hardness pressing against the constraints of my pants. My first steps are back toward the door, and Cate swivels her head to watch me press my palm against the shiny plastic panel alongside the hinges. The lock engages with a barely audible click.

  In four steps I’m standing behind Cate and sliding my palms down the side of her curves, drawing her back into me. She lets out the tiniest gasp when her ass presses up against my erection, but she doesn’t pull away.

  I run the back of my hand down the smoothness of her cheek and bend my head toward her neck, planting a kiss at her jawline.

  “Is this—” she breathes, clenching the papers in her hands so that the paper crumples, “—is this what you meant when you said you’d make it worth my time?”

  “With twenty-six minutes left? I haven’t even started.”

  A shiver runs through her body.

  “What are—”

  I draw two fingers gently over her lips, silencing her. “I’m here to give you something you need, Ms. Schaffer.” She opens her mouth, and I know she’s going to ask me why I’m not calling her Cate. Pressing her lips again with my fingers, I take her earlobe between my teeth and apply the slightest pressure. Another gasp. “Arrangement or not, we’re still in the office.” She nods against my hand, opening her mouth slightly so that she can rest her teeth on my fingers. Her hot breath on my skin makes my cock jump.

  “What’s going to happen now…” I say slowly, letting her take in every word while I brush my hand upward from her waist and take a firm hold of first one breast, then the other, squeezing, cupping. Her nipples are hard, begging to be pinched, and I accept the invitation. “…is that you are going to obey my every instruction without hesitation, without question.”

  She stiffens in my arms, reacting to the gentle tweaks of her nipples with shudder after shudder.

  “Acknowledge that you’ve heard me.”

  “All right,” she says, exquisitely, softly.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter,” I prompt.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter.” As soon as I give her an explicit instruction, her voice becomes stronger, more confident.

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I release her, stepping back. “Bend over the desk.”

  “What?” She spins to face me, her eyes wide.

  “Bend over the desk.” I articulate every word carefully, but without irritation. I am the picture of patience even while my cock throbs in its prison. Her eyes cut over to my desk, and then lock back on my eyes.

  “Without hesitation, Ms. Schaffer,” I remind her with a half-smile. She’s going to love the hell out of this. But she has to let it happen.

  She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Squaring her shoulders, she steps over to the desk and bends over it.

  My god, is she a gorgeous creature. She’s already trying to do her best, even though she doesn’t know all the rules yet.

  I step over to her, placing one hand on the small of her back. “Good girl.” She has her head turned toward me enough for me to see her bite her lip, the blush spread across her cheeks.

  I’ve found her favorite phrase.

  That was easier than I thought it would be.

  Cate might have complicated reasons for subjecting herself to the torture of working for Sarzó every day for more than a year, but her deepest self is simple. And filthy.

  “A couple of adjustments. Your breasts should be firmly against the surface of the desk.” I press down, and she offers no resistance. “And your legs…” I move behind her and put one scuff-less, shining shoe between her heels, pressing outward so she’s forced to spread her legs farther apart.

  “Have you made a note of this position?”

  “Yes.”

  I tap her back twice. A beat goes by before she remembers. “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Good girl.” A tiny shiver of delight.

  While she holds herself in that position, practically vibrating with excitement and nerves, I run my hands over every inch of her back, her waist, her hips, finally moving down to the hem of her skirt.

  “Did you follow my instructions?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter.” Her hands are pressed flat against the empty surface of my desk, and she tenses as I lift her skirt, pressing it up to her waist so that her firm, round ass is exposed to me.

  “Oh, Ms. Schaffer,” I say, allowing a hint of disappointment to enter my voice.

  She swallows, says nothing. Amazing how quickly she’s catching on to our little game.

  “I see you’ve tried to follow my instructions. Unfortunately, you’ve fallen a bit short. You should understand that when I make a request, you should do everything in your power to fulfill it to the best of your ability. These are red panties…” I trace one of the lacy seams with a fingertip. “…but they’re a little threadbare. That’s not acceptable.”

  “No, Mr. Hunter,” she whispers.

  “Do you know what happens to people who don’t meet my expectations?” I keep my voice even and low.

  “No, Mr. Hunter.” A hitch in her voice when she says my name.

  “They get punished.”

  She takes in a sharp breath and starts to push herself upward.

  Stops.

  Lowers herself back down.

  My god, she is perfect for me.

  I push that thought aside. Perfection or no, there is no woman who will ever be allowed to have such an influence on me.

  “This is our first meeting, so I’ll go easy on you.”

  Her shoulders relax.

  “Hold still.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”

  I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull them down to her knees, exposing the smooth, white skin of her ass, slightly parted by the spread of her legs. It takes everything I have not to groan out loud at the sight of it.

  I want her so badly.

  I might have been lying when I said I wouldn’t punish her today.

  It won’t be a punishment she’s expecting.

  The pink folds of her pussy are already glistening, wet, and all I’ve done is bend her over my desk.

  Yes. This is exactly what she needs.

  I catch a glimpse of the clock. Ten minutes.

  In one step I’m back beside her
, one hand putting pressure on the small of her back, one hand on her inner thigh, sliding up to meet her wetness. She moans when I stroke her folds with my fingers like she hasn’t been touched in forever.

  She probably hasn’t.

  The thought that I’m the first in a long time makes my breath catch in my throat, but I don’t let on. Instead, I collect her wetness on my fingertips and start to explore every single inch of her, every single fold, every single crease.

  It drives Cate wild.

  Inside of a minute, she’s struggling to keep her legs spread and barely succeeding, pressing back against my hand, writhing. I stroke her in a measured rhythm and her breath matches it, little gasps that are so hot I want to fuck her right now, right here, the first meeting. I’ve already had to wait too long.

  But I can control myself.

  I need to show her that I control her as well.

  “Don’t move,” I say, my voice steely, and she tenses, trying so hard not to move that she’s shaking as my fingers work her pussy.

  Five minutes.

  I slide two fingers into her opening and they meet with absolutely no resistance, she’s soaked. Her muscles immediately clench around them and I let out a short sharp breath.

  I want to bury my cock in her up to the hilt, to fuck her with total abandon, to bottom out against the very limit of her and let myself go. I want to claim her like I’ve never claimed another woman before and never will again. I want to make her mine, so totally and completely that she’ll never consider another man.

  Three minutes.

  When I withdraw my fingers she whimpers a little, and I give her a light slap on the ass. “Who is in control, Ms. Schaffer?”

  “Y—you are, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Don’t forget,” I say as I glide my fingertips along her slit until they make contact with her swollen clit.

  Two minutes.

  She puts her own hand over her mouth to stifle the little moans that she can’t stop. I’m circling her clit with my fingers quickly, evenly, tiny targeted movements that are bringing her to the brink. Cate can’t escape it without disobeying me and the submissive side of her is on full display—she doesn’t make a single move to get away from the intense sensations. She clamps one hand over her mouth and curls the other over the edge of the desk, holding herself in place as she’s wracked with uncontrollable shudders emanating from her hips.