The Dirty Series: The Complete Bad Boy Billionaire Boxed Set

by Amelia Wilde

I unzip my pants, letting my rock-hard cock spring free, and move into position behind her. Cars speed by far below us, and lights twinkle on and off like stars.

  Cate is already dripping wet when I press the head of my cock against her opening, my hands gripping her hips, and ease her back onto me. She moans, the sound muffled by the panties, as my girth stretches her, impales her, reminds her who she belongs to.

  Her muscles contract around me, squeezing me as I fuck her, both of us high on the distance from the ground, on the way we’re in full view of anyone on the same level in the neighboring buildings, the power I have over her because she’s given it to me, the sweetest submission.

  I fuck her until she has a tremendous orgasm, legs shaking, head thrown back, crying out into her own panties.

  And then…

  Then I take her back to dinner, give her an exquisite dessert, and watch the light of that climax shine in her eyes all the way through the sold-out Broadway show, the drive back to my penthouse…and into my bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cate

  I don’t want to leave Jax’s bed.

  For the first time, instead of sleeping with me in the guest bedroom, he led me further down the hall to his own room. It’s the opposite of the guest room, which is swathed in white—white sheets, a white comforter, white accents.

  Jax’s space is dark.

  The walls are a rich slate color, and the silk sheets that cover his bed are a dove gray that seems like heaven to lie in. It’s calming in a way I hadn’t expected. Dark. Inviting. Strong. I’m safe here.

  The last thing I want to do when I wake up on Monday morning, after a weekend of exploring everything Jax’s money can buy in the city—next weekend, he tells me, we’ll go to the Hamptons—is head in to work at the Basiqué offices.

  The moment I get into the car, the pressure behind my eyes starts.

  Jax didn’t argue with me about coming into work. Instead, he had his stylist and the hair and makeup team come to his penthouse this morning so I could relax as long as possible this morning.

  As they went to work styling my hair, the thought floated across my mind: I could get used to this.

  Nope. No. I cannot get used to this. No matter what Jax has, and what he can offer, I have to keep my eyes on the prize, and the prize is still a job that can make me self-sufficient, dependent on no one else.

  Not even him.

  By the time Mark drops me off in front of the building, the pressure has built to a searing pain. I can hardly stand to look at the gentle morning sunlight.

  Get inside, I tell myself. You’ll be all right if you can just get inside.

  My motivation has deserted me.

  I almost forget to order Sandra’s coffee, and Manuel brings it at the last moment, sprinting down the hallway with only a minute to spare.

  “You’re the best,” I tell him, pressing a twenty into his hand as a tip.

  Get through the morning.

  It’s going to be small goals today. There’s no other way for me to survive. The splitting pain behind my eyes doubles, triples.

  People are starting to gather in the meeting rooms, outside the doors, talking causally to one another. She’s almost here.

  Sandra sweeps into the office right on time and divests herself of her purse—no coat today.

  A deep breath in. A deep breath out.

  I’m not quite all the way into her office when she starts speaking, and at first I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

  “The next issue is going to be a double issue. Let all the essential parties know.”

  I’ve already scribbled most of it down before it registers in my brain.

  “What?”

  “Was I unclear?”

  “No, I—a double issue?” A million thoughts swirl in my brain. Where is Sandra going to find the content for this? Is she going to poach it from the next issue after this one? That will completely fuck up the editorial calendar. Accounting is going to have a fit. And the scheduling—

  She’s already speaking, rattling off a series of about fifty changes for today’s meetings alone.

  “A double issue, Sandra? Are you sure?”

  Sandra presses her lips together, her jaw jutting out, and she takes one breath through her nose, then exhales. “I’m not asking for your input, Catherine. This is a necessary step for Basiqué. If you have a problem with our creative direction, you are welcome to seek employment elsewhere at any time.”

  A chill goes up my spine. No. I do not want to seek employment elsewhere—not without tying everything up here in a neat little bow, with a glowing recommendation from Sandra.

  “I don’t have a problem. I just wanted to—there’s no problem. I’m sorry, Sandra, go ahead.”

  The adjustments to today’s schedule grows to a hundred. I sit down at my computer, the headache having spread back to my temples.

  Screw up the scheduling on purpose. The thought surfaces from the back of my mind, and for a good minute, I give it careful, thoughtful consideration. Which meetings could I neglect to reschedule? Which things could I not do that would make the dominos collapse, one after the other?

  When I realize that I’ve begun planning Basiqué’s downfall, a sick feeling blooms in my stomach.

  Everyone was right. I’ve been an idiot all along.

  The splitting headache, the fatigue that follows me everywhere, and now this—actively fantasizing about ways to do my job so poorly that the magazine closes—I have to stop ignoring the warning signs. It might not be a collapse next time. It might be a full-on nervous breakdown…or worse.

  The realization that I have to leave here fills me with anxiety, and that’s when it hits me: I’ve become obsessed with my job.

  It’s far beyond a reasonable level.

  It’s all I’ve thought about for the past year.

  It’s taken the place of most of my friends, and any possible romantic relationships.

  And still…

  Still, I’m not completely sure I want to leave. Ultimately, it has to happen someday, but…

  I shake my head and breathe, the pain subsiding a little.

  You’re tough, Schaffer, I think to myself. You can make it another six months, a year—at the very least, you can steer things through the double issue, and then she’ll have to give you an excellent recommendation when you leave.

  Yes.

  That’s what I’ll do.

  I’ll make my exit gracefully, carefully, causing a minimum of disruption. I’ll stay in Sandra’s good graces—as tenuous as they may seem—and position myself to step directly into a better job.

  I just need a few months to do it.

  Before I can start on those plans, however, I have to reschedule several thousand meetings for today.

  I stretch my hands and bring up my calendar and email client, my mind buzzing with newfound motivation. This is the home stretch.

  I can make it.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jax

  It’s a goddamn hellish day for business, so the last thing I need at 5:00 is a surprise.

  Of course, that’s what I get.

  The knock comes at my door right on time.

  “Come in,” I call, the corners of my mouth already turning up into a smile I can’t suppress.

  It drops off my mouth the instant the door swings open, because it’s not Cate who comes in with a wickedly sexy expression on her face.

  It’s Sandra Sarzó.

  Her expression is decidedly unsexy.

  Sarzó’s dark hair is swept up meticulously behind her head, and she wears an outfit I’ve come to recognize over my time here: black, fitted, sharp. The pieces change from designer to designer, but the look never does. It must be why she likes Cate to do the same, although I’m almost sure that if Cate had the choice, she wouldn’t wear all black every day, no matter how fucking gorgeous she looks in that color.

  “Mr. Hunter,” Sarzó says, crossing the office and coming t
o a stop in front of my desk.

  “Ms. Sarzó,” I say, standing up.

  What the hell is going on?

  Maybe Sandra has found out about the arrangement between Cate and me. No, that’s unlikely. How would she find out unless Cate told her? An impossible scenario. Aside from that, I’ve been keeping our meetings short, playful…I don’t fuck her over the desk nearly as often.

  I save that for the penthouse, where Cate’s been spending her nights.

  She doesn’t keep me in suspense for very long.

  “Would you like to sit down?” I ask her, but she plants her feet and straightens her back, shaking her head.

  “I won’t be staying long. I’ve come to inform you that your daily meetings with Catherine will no longer be part of her schedule.”

  More than anything, this confuses me. Why today? Why this Monday, with the second issue due to be released in less than three weeks? I don’t let a single flicker of emotion show on my face.

  “And why is that, Ms. Sarzó?”

  “I will require all of Catherine’s time for the foreseeable future.”

  “Have you made changes to her duties?”

  Sarzó pinches her lips together. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Mr. Hunter.”

  This time, I let her see a hint of irritation. “I don’t see how it isn’t. Basiqué is ultimately my publication, Ms. Sarzó—mine.”

  She seems to get the idea that I’m not fucking around. Either that, or she reacted to my dominating tone the way many women—and men—do: by changing tactics.

  “Perhaps I should have approached this from another angle,” Sarzó says thoughtfully, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I’ve decided to make the next issue of Basiqué a double issue. It’s unprecedented in the magazine’s history and will make quite a splash. I have no doubt you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”

  Aha. This is all stemming from the last direct conversation I had with Sandra Sarzó. I’d put the summary of the magazine’s numbers on the desk in front of her and questioned her mercilessly. When she saw them, she didn’t flinch. Those numbers had come as no surprise to her, but as I’m beginning to see, that doesn’t mean she’s given up on course-correcting.

  “And,” she continues, “I’ve put several campaigns into place to drive readership and traffic to our website.”

  “This kind of change to the editorial schedule is significant.”

  It’s not a question, but she confirms it anyway. “Yes. Which is why I won’t be able to spare Catherine. I’ll need her to be available virtually around the clock if these efforts are going to be successful. I have no doubt she’ll rise to the challenge. Her work will be very demanding from here on out. I can’t see returning to our previous publication schedule if this issue succeeds…and I know it will.”

  I nod, taking in every word.

  My stomach churns with emotions I can’t sort out while Sarzó is standing in front of me. Disgust, for one: she seems not to care at all that Cate is putting her health on the line to excel at this job, and Sarzó is only going to ask her to do more. Cate won’t refuse. I’m anxious, and I fucking hate that flash of nervousness. It tells me I’m not in control, and as much as I think I’m willing to give that up—somewhat—in my love life, I won’t tolerate it in business.

  Except I can’t quite tear the two things apart.

  “I see. Were there any other updates you wanted to share with me?” I want to shout at this woman, to ask her how she can be so blind, so fucking selfish, but I’m brought back from the brink—that would show her that her decisions are under my skin, and I won’t do that.

  “That was all.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course, Mr. Hunter. I’ll keep you apprised of how things proceed.”

  “Excellent.”

  With that, Sarzó turns on her heel and waltzes out of my office.

  She hasn’t been gone five seconds when my cell rings in my pocket.

  The name on the Caller ID is the prison where my father lives.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel a rush of pity instead of sickening hatred.

  And I answer the phone.

  “Hello?”

  Before my father can speak, I have to sit through a prerecorded warning about accepting calls from inmates.

  “Jax?”

  His voice is tired and worn.

  “Hello.” I don’t know why he’s calling. More than that, I don’t know why I answered. It’s been years.

  “Hello, son. I’m—I’m calling about your mother.”

  Ah. “I’m not sure why.”

  “Well—” The silences are painfully awkward while he searches for the words. “Someone from her place got in touch with me. In the letter they said she wasn’t doing very well.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “They said—” Another excruciating pause. “They said she’s been asking for me. That she can’t remember the divorce.”

  The urge to rip him to shreds for everything he did still rises in my chest, but it’s somehow softer, more controllable.

  Something clicks into place in my mind.

  Cate is working herself to death out of a desperation I still don’t entirely understand.

  That same motivation, whatever is at the goddamn heart of it, is what drove my father to do what he did.

  “That’s true,” I tell him.

  “So I was…” He’s wary, waiting for me to lash out. “I was thinking, that if you thought it might help her, I could send a few letters. I won’t be out for another year, but I could write.”

  I let out a deep breath, and with it goes a large part of the animosity I’ve felt toward him all these years. “I’m sure she’d love that.”

  “All right.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Okay. I’ll do that.” There’s noise in the background. “I’ve got to go. Thanks…thanks, Jax.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I hang up and slip my phone back into my pocket.

  I know what I have to do.

  She might hate me for it, but I’m getting Cate out of this job before it kills her.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Cate

  I stay late at the office—very late—trying to keep up with all of Sandra’s latest directives. My motivation is back in full force. Now that I have a plan, I feel like I can do anything. With a little Advil in the mix, I’m unstoppable.

  I’m about to leave the office when the message from Jax comes in. He doesn’t text me often, and when he does, I know it’s important.

  I won’t be home until very late—possibly not until tomorrow. You don’t have to stay at my place alone if you don’t want to.

  I consider it for a minute, but…we’re just not there yet. I’d feel pretty weird about being there with his staff if he was away.

  That’s okay—I’ll be at home.

  I love you.

  That’s the first time he’s sent me those words in a text. A physical record exists now. My heart beats faster.

  I love you. Is everything OK?

  No.

  I wait. He’ll send more if he wants me to know.

  My mother isn’t well. They need me to come right away, and I’m not sure how long it will take before I can leave.

  I’m so sorry!!

  Part of me wishes he’d taken me with him, but that’s an insane expectation to have at this point in our relationship. And Sandra needs me here.

  The thought brings me up short. Would I really choose Basiqué over him if he asked me to go?

  The answer that comes immediately to mind makes me uncomfortable in its clarity. Am I really that much of a monster?

  It’s all right. I’m here now. Have to go.

  I send him back a heart.

  Mark drives me back to my apartment, and inside of ten minutes I’m dressed in my comfiest sweats, Chinese food ordered from the restaurant down the street, a glass of wine in my hand.

  After everything that’s happen
ed, I need a breather. I just wish it could have come under better circumstances.

  The food is good, but I find myself missing Laurence’s smile, his laughing enthusiasm, the way he’d take something simple that I liked and make it into an artistic creation.

  Don’t be so sappy, I tell myself. You’ll be back there before you know it.

  An hour later, full of Chinese food and wine, I tuck myself into bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

  Tomorrow will come early. And I have to be ready to meet it.

  I make it a point to be extra charming at my session with Carl, and I don’t fight it when he won’t push me to the max. If I’m going to make it through the next few months, I’m going to need to take everyone’s advice into account—especially Carl’s. One bad decision at the gym can throw me off my game for the entire day, and I can’t afford that.

  At my apartment I choose my favorite pieces, dressing like I’m dressing for battle. No makeup team today, but I take my time applying every layer until I’ve almost done it as well as they can.

  I sweep my hair back into a no-nonsense chignon and admire myself in the mirror.

  I look hot.

  The bags under my eyes aren’t nearly as pronounced now that I’ve made a firm decision about what I’m going to do.

  The only snag?

  Mark doesn’t show up.

  For months, he’s been waiting at the curb when I come down, always right on time. But when I get there, there’s no town care waiting.

  My stomach turns.

  Something must have happened.

  Mark would never just bail on me. There must have been an accident of some kind, probably a bad one.

  Oh, god.

  I don’t call him—what if he’s lying in the hospital somewhere?—and hail a taxi instead, urging the driver to get to the Basiqué offices as soon as I can.

  I’m jittery and nervous as the elevator takes me up. I’m a little later than usual, but not so much that Sandra will be here. I just need to find out what happened with Mark. That’s my first priority.

  I hurry down the hall and move to unlock the office doors…