LUCI (The Naughty Ones Book 2)

by Kristina Weaver

  “Oh, no,” I said, smiling as the bellhop left me in the penthouse with all my purchases. “You’re one of those old-fashioned types, aren’t you? The type who takes marriage very seriously — the be-all and end-all, the last, best thing two people can do.”

  “I even think you should wait until marriage to become intimate,” he intoned as I laughed at him. “Marriage is just a big decision, that’s all. It destroyed my dad when my mum died. It was hard to watch.”

  I swallowed hard. “I can understand that.”

  “Well,” Peter said quickly, his tone much brighter. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your long vacation. It’s time to start earning your keep, Ms. Ryan.”

  “I am eagerly awaiting your instructions, Mr. Bly,” I said in what I imagined to be my best secretary’s voice.

  “A man could get used to that, Gemma,” Peter said, his voice lower, rougher. “You should see the boner I’m sporting.”

  I blushed even though we were only on the telephone. “You’d better behave yourself, Mr. Bly.”

  “We’ll see.”

  And there I was, wearing one of my nicest blazer and skirt combinations, high heels making me teeter dangerously as I rode the elevator up to Peter’s offices.

  He greeted me himself, grinning and looking me up and down in a way that wasn’t very befitting of a professional office setting as the elevator doors rolled open.

  “You look marvelous, Gemma,” he said, stepping forward and giving me kisses on either cheek. “Cheers, really. Not a penny misspent.”

  “Thank you,” I said, darting a nervous glance around. The office was well-proportioned, but full of people. It was hard to imagine that there were other departments on other floors with even more people working at this company — harder still to remember that Peter was in charge of all of this.

  “Let me show you around,” he said, offering me his arm.

  “Thanks, but shouldn’t you be doing something right now?” I asked, afraid that people were staring. “I don’t want any preferential treatment, and I know you’re a busy man.”

  “This is exactly what I need to be doing right now,” he said. “I want you to know this place inside and out.”

  Peter’s company — the Bly Group — was a hotel conglomerate, I soon learned, which was why Peter thought nothing of me taking up residence in the penthouse suite at the hotel he’d set me up at. It was one of his company’s hotels, and there were dozens of other locations around the globe, hotels that Peter’s company bought and retrofitted and made into luxurious powerhouses.

  “The idea is that, while the hotel acts as a home away from home, it’s also nicer than what people are used to living in,” Peter said, showing me a few blueprints of properties the company was looking to acquire, laid out over a long table in a conference room.

  “It’s definitely nicer than anything I’ve ever lived in,” I said, describing the view of my penthouse home. “I get there, and I’m immediately comfortable, but also pampered. Like, you go on vacation to get out there and experience different places, but that suite would be like a vacation in of itself. I’d have trouble wanting to motivate myself to leave it to see the things I’d wanted to see on my vacation.”

  Peter stared at me for a few long moments, then whipped out his phone, his thumbs typing swiftly on the display.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked, then, more quietly, “Are you going to fire me?”

  “What?” Peter looked up from his phone, dazed. “No, I’m not going to fire you. That was a brilliant insight. I was just conveying it to marketing as an idea for our next advertising campaign. ‘The best part of vacation.’”

  “You liked it?” I asked. “I was just rambling.”

  “You’re going to do very well here,” he promised me. “You’ll see. Now. I’ve got a few things for you to sign to make it all official.” He produced a packet of papers and a pen, sweeping some of the blueprints aside to make room for me at one of the seats around the table. “I’ll give you a few moments to read through it — ah, here’s marketing now. Pardon me.”

  He stepped out to take the call, and the door closed behind him. I watched as he gesticulated wildly, excitedly, and I smiled, turning back to the papers. I ran my hands along the boardroom table. I couldn’t name what kind of wood it was, but it was sanded and finished to a satin smoothness, each place marked by an empty crystal glass and a leather pad with a penholder. It was very nice — nicer even than the conference room table I’d fantasized about while spinning tales to my mother about my office life.

  It was going to get a lot easier to talk to her, now. Now that this was actually my real life.

  I fought the urge to pinch myself and flipped to the back of the contract, signing it with a flourish. Even the ink from the pen flowed differently, as if it, too, were expensive. I pushed myself up from the comfortable chair and walked around, admiring the view from outside the windows, admiring the lush carpet beneath my heels. I went back to the blueprints, tracing the rooms with my fingers, noticing that they were all properties located in Paris.

  “All set?” Peter asked, poking his head back in the conference room door.

  “All set,” I said. “Signed and sealed.”

  “Perfect,” he said. “Any questions about the contract?”

  “None whatsoever. I do, though, have questions about these.” I indicated the blueprints. “Are you actually buying properties in France? These all say Paris.”

  He grinned. “We are now.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “The company’s looking at properties in France — just like you told your mother, and just like I explained to my father,” he said. “I got to thinking about it, and I realized that I really did want to expand our brand abroad more. Most of our locations are here, stateside, or back in London. Paris makes sense.”

  I gulped. “Are you seriously telling me right now that you’re planning on buying properties just because of one of my lies?”

  “It was a good lie,” he said, his grin not fading one bit. “Very forward thinking.”

  “You’re doing it to cover my tracks.”

  “I’m doing it because I want to do it,” he said. “And because I want you to come to Paris with me.”

  “Also to cover my tracks.”

  “No. Because Paris is the most romantic city in the entire world, and there’s no one else I’d want to spend time there with.”

  My heart did a funny flip-flop, and my stomach joined it the moment Peter leaned close to me and pushed a button on the table, flipping shut all of the blinds to the windows looking in on the conference room from the outer office. The light dimmed considerably, and then Peter’s cheek grazed mine, the stubble against my soft skin making me shiver.

  “Peter…”

  “Let’s celebrate,” he proposed, cutting me off abruptly, pushing me against the table before lifting me to perch me on its edge.

  “Wait…”

  I gasped as he pulled my knees apart and knelt on the floor, writhed as he hooked a finger in the crotch of my new silken panties, bit down on my tongue as he expertly inserted one finger into my very wet pussy, all the way up to the second knuckle.

  His grin took on a predatory tilt, and his eyes glinted at me in the dimness of the room.

  “What if…what if someone sees us?”

  “Can’t,” he said, licking his lips, drawing my panties down my thighs, over my knees, and off completely. “Blinds are closed.”

  “But what if someone walks in here?” It was so hard to speak. I was shaking, rattling the pens in their holders on the table.

  “Won’t,” he murmured, kissing the insides of my thighs. “They know I’m in here, and I’m never to be disturbed.”

  “Peter, we can’t.”

  He robbed me of all protest as he parted my labia with his tongue, lapping wetly at my clit before looking up at me, insolent.

  “Give me one good reason why.”

  “Because we�
��re in your office — in my new place of work. On my first day.” My chest was heaving, and I could feel my nipples harden inside of the lacy bra I’d bought to match the panties he’d divested me of. But I had to ignore it. This wasn’t right. I couldn’t do this and pretend to be a professional.

  “That’s not a good enough reason.” Then, he dipped his head between my legs, under my skirt, and ate me like he was a starving man. There was nothing I could do to stop him, torn in two over wanting him to stop and wanting him to never stop. He knew exactly what he was doing down there, and I had bite my own hand to keep from crying out when he brought me to swift and total orgasm, throwing my head back, sending a blueprint rattling to the floor.

  Peter stood up, licking his lips wickedly, and walked around the table to the door.

  “Familiarize yourself with the blueprints,” he suggested. “Think about what you like about your penthouse, what those properties could use to make people not want to leave them when they stay in them. And report back to me on it this afternoon.” He picked up the contract I’d signed, as well as the pen, and I quickly slid off the table as he raised the blinds once more, feeling breathless and weak and disheveled.

  He was already halfway across the office, and I was just bending down to pick up the blueprint my climax had knocked off the table, when I realized he’d taken my panties.

  Chapter 7

  That afternoon, after dealing with a hopelessly wet and musky crotch sans panties for whole hours, I glowered at Peter as I walked into his office, closing the door behind me.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Panties,” I said, holding my hand out. “Now.”

  “Are you sure you want me to give you your panties back, right here, where everyone can see?” he asked, smiling at me. “You’re very kinky.”

  “Lower the blinds,” I said at him, exasperated. “Then give them to me. I can smell myself, Peter.”

  His smile widened to that slightly manic grin, and he obliged. “I’d like to smell you.”

  I waved my hand at him exaggeratedly, and he gave me my panties back — but not before holding them to his nose and inhaling. I gaped soundlessly at him, wondering why that had sent a liquid shot of arousal straight to my crotch. I glanced behind me, my face hot, before slipping them on again and pulling down my skirt.

  “New dress code stipulation,” Peter said. “No panties in the office.”

  “Are you going to make everyone adhere to that?” I asked sarcastically.

  “No. Just you. I could do it, too, if you wanted. If you thought it was unfairly singling you out.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and made a move to walk away from him, but he lunged forward and captured my wrist.

  “Didn't you come in here for something?” he asked. “Something besides your panties?”

  “Do you really want to hear what I think about the Paris properties?” I asked skeptically.

  “Definitely.”

  I returned to the penthouse that night confused and aroused and angry. I’d done real work on my first day of my new job, offering an insight that Peter was convinced would make a successful marketing campaign and giving an outside perspective on what made a hotel successful in the context of that campaign. It was more than I’d expected to be doing as a secretary, but so was that hot moment in the conference room. It made me horny even now, thinking about it as I got undressed, making me even angrier.

  I went into the office the next day in pants, and in the most severe blouse I’d purchased, glaring at Peter’s obvious amusement as I went to my desk and began working down a list of tasks that had been laid out for me.

  “You can’t hide from me, Gemma,” he said at one point, drinking in the sight of me. “I know just what’s beneath those pants. How delicious it is.”

  I hated it and loved it at the same time, how greedy his gaze was, like I belonged to him. Hated it because, in a way, I did belong to him. I was his employee, and I was his charge. I was living in his hotel, free of charge, and spending his money. Loved it because it made me feel like I was wanted, made me fully accept my sexuality, made me explore things I didn’t even know I wanted.

  It made me feel desirable, and it made me feel dirty and used. I couldn’t separate it, couldn’t reconcile one feeling with the other. The days stretched into weeks, and I still couldn’t accept it, couldn’t tell him no, in no uncertain terms, that I would not have sex with him in the office. I looked forward to his games just as much as I dreaded them. I’d even started getting unbearably horny even on the elevator ride up to the floor, just thinking about what kinds of kinky tricks Peter would have in his repertoire that day.

  I walked into his office one early evening to deliver some copies of forms he’d requested earlier, and the flick of the blinds let me know we were about to play another of his games.

  “Come,” he said, and my legs carried me forward to him automatically, of their own accord. “This is a very nice skirt. Suits you very well. Only I noticed one thing.”

  His hand had crept up the back of it without me realizing it, and he squeezed my rump as if testing it for ripeness. “You’re wearing panties, and that's against company policy.”

  I flushed, loathing myself as I leaned into that rough massage. It felt so good. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Dole out a little punishment.”

  In a flash, I was laid out across his lap, my skirt up and my panties down, and he was thwacking me with something hard and flat. I yelped several times until I bit my lip, well aware of Peter’s erection grinding into my lower stomach, of my own wetness probably ruining his trousers.

  What was this? Was I into corporal punishment? It was such a shock, such a strange affront to this entire twisted situation that I pushed myself up and off of him, backing away from him, furious even if I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  “What’s going on, Gemma?” Peter asked, cocking his head at me as if I were the crazy one. He was holding a long metal ruler, and my rear still sang with the sting of it.

  “I have no idea,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “You tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’re two consenting adults,” he reasoned. “I think you know what this is. Haven’t you ever heard of spanking in a sexual sense?”

  “Of course I have,” my face coloring. “I’m just curious as to why we’re doing it in your office. You haven’t even visited me in the penthouse since I moved in. We haven’t gone on dates. I show up to work every day, and we have raunchy playtime just feet away from other people.”

  “What’s so wrong with that?” he asked, and his genuine puzzlement made me even angrier.

  “I don’t want to be your little sex toy,” I hissed at him. “If that’s what you think I signed on for when I accepted your job offer, then you are sorely mistaken.”

  Peter gave me a funny look, a flash of those too-blue eyes. “Gemma…didn’t you read the contract at all?”

  I frowned at him. “Well, I…sort of.”

  He blew out his breath at me, exasperated, and stalked around the desk, his boner still prominently displayed in his trousers. I had no idea what he was looking for as he rooted around in a cabinet until he yanked out a hanging file folder, ripped it open, and practically slung a stapled sheaf of papers at me that I caught awkwardly against the front of my unbuttoned blazer.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “It’s your ruddy contract, Gem,” Peter spat. I’d never seen him so angry, his face reddening, his blue eyes blazing, that erection going nowhere soon. “Why don’t you read the damn thing that you signed?”

  I held uncomfortable eye contact with him for just a few seconds too long before examining the wrinkled document. I couldn’t recall even the opening phrases on the first page from the day I’d signed it, excited to finally leave my old life behind me, to embrace the reality I’d been imagining for myself for a whole year. So what if I’d signed it without reading it? It wasn’t as if it were a contract fo
r my soul.

  I could hear Peter’s angry breathing as I carefully read each sentence, my frown deepening as I turned the page.

  “The undersigned will not disclose anything witnessed while working in the office or working in the capacity of the office outside of the premises,” it read. That was a little creepy, but maybe it made sense. There was no way I’d be tempted to run my mouth about company secrets that might leak back to the competition. I was sure loads of offices had very similar nondisclosure agreements in place to keep just this kind of thing from happening.

  But as I read on, my horror grew and grew.

  “The undersigned understands that she is entering into a contracted sexual agreement with Peter Bly, and that no details of this agreement may be revealed at any time under threat of lawsuit and subsequent termination,” the contract continued. “The undersigned will complete any and all sexual tasks suggested or demanded by Peter Bly, including but not limited to spanking, sexual encounters inside and out of the office, oral sex during conference calls, forgoing panties, and any other requests from Peter Bly. This contract stipulates that the undersigned must comply in any and all forms of request by Peter Bly. Failure to comply may result in termination of the undersigned’s position with the company and/or her relationship with Peter Bly.”

  The papers fluttered to the floor, and I panted in absolute panic.

  I had signed my soul away after all, failing to read Peter’s twisted contract.

  I’d signed myself up to be a sex worker.

  Chapter 8

  “Gemma! You’re not a sex worker! Would you stop?”

  But that was after I’d shoved Peter’s office door open and stormed away, dozens of coworkers gaping at me as I stomped across the floor in the shoes that his credit card had bought me. I wondered how many of the women in there had signed the same contract I had, the one stipulating all the different types of sexual acts Peter was entitled to while on the job. It disgusted me.

  I should’ve known better. I should’ve known this entire thing was too good to be true. A virtual stranger set me up inside a penthouse, enabled me to buy all the clothes I could ever want or need, and I assumed there weren’t any unwanted strings attached.