Seduction in a Suit: An Office Romance Collection

by Monica Corwin

  “Hello. I’ve got an appointment with Ms. Bowman.”

  A twenty-something male dressed in a black polo shirt nodded and typed into a computer before returning his gaze to Jenny. “Room 105.” When she raised an eyebrow, he pointed to a corridor to her right. “Third room to your left.”

  “Thanks.”

  A humongous swarm of butterflies played havoc in her stomach as she approached the ordinary-looking door. Jenny stared at the plaque with the room number as if it could predict the future. Before she reached for the polished metal knob, Jenny prayed to any divine entity that happened to be eavesdropping. Not being religious sucked at frightening moments like this. With another deep inhale, followed by a long exhale, she stepped into the room.

  Fuck!

  She was royally screwed.

  Of all the interviewing committees in all the offices in New Orleans, Jenny walked into one whose chairman was a regular at Club Desire.

  Fuck.

  Non-disclosure clauses could not protect her. Dismay followed by dread beamed from Mr. Dalton’s gaze. Unfortunately, suspicion settled last as he squinted his small green eyes and scowled.

  Fuck! Fuckery fuck.

  Reining in the urge to bolt, the professional smile she had rehearsed in the mirror making her muscles ache, Jenny perched on the only empty chair, facing the three people behind a table. Her interview committee turned firing squad.

  She suppressed the hysterical laughter that clawed at her throat. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

  “You’re very welcome, my dear,” an elderly lady, whom Jenny suspected was Ms. Bowman, replied with a warm smile and a warmer Southern drawl. “You’ve got an impressive résumé, for one so young.”

  Mr. Dalton, the chairman, scoffed.

  Ms. Bowman glanced sideways at him with a stern expression in her bright blue eyes. When his expression switched to chagrined, she returned focus back at Jenny. “Tell us about your experience at your managerial positions.”

  “I appreciate you saying twenty-eight is a young age.” Jenny used her dimpled smile to endear Ms. Bowman further, then proceeded to describe ten years of different jobs with leadership positions.

  During Jenny’s talk, the third member of the committee engaged with Mr. Dalton. The third member was a thirty-something redheaded female, whom Jenny had hoped could tip the scales in her favor in a potential standstill between Ms. Bowman and Mr. Dalton. Jenny focused her friendliest smile on the young woman as she wrapped up her presentation, but the woman shook her head vehemently at something Mr. Dalton had whispered to her.

  Jenny’s efforts reaped a cold smirk from the woman with auburn hair, which befuddled Jenny until she spotted Mr. Dalton’s hand pressing the woman’s thigh under the table.

  “I’m Clarice Spector, Director of Communications.” Her low voice betrayed no emotions, even though his stubby fingers moved between her thighs before disappearing from Jenny’s view. “The position we’re looking to fill is for a person who will work directly under me and serve as a liaison with Mr. Dalton’s office. Ms. Taylor, I’m curious to know more about this gap in your professional career. Five years ago, you were head of the communications department at one of the most promising technology companies in this country. Why did you quit Horizon Tech, and where have you been working since?”

  Jenny’s gaze slipped to Mr. Dalton’s, and the murderous gleam in his beady eyes made her defiant nature stir to life. She wasn’t ashamed she worked at Club Desire. However, to protect its powerful patrons, the club included iron-clad clauses in staff contracts limiting to almost nothing the amount of information she could divulge about her current employer.

  At the same time, the elaborate story she had rehearsed in her mind for that question had lost its meaning. She went for the middle ground.

  “I work for a private organization that requires its employees sign a non-disclosure agreement. I’m not at liberty to talk about them or list them as reference.”

  While Ms. Bowman nodded and smiled, the redhead and Mr. Dalton exchanged charged looks.

  “So, we should just take your word on that,” Mr. Dalton observed as Ms. Spector sneered.

  Ignoring the tension around her, Ms. Bowman inquired, “How could New Orleans Housing Authority benefit from your strong suits, dear?”

  Jenny spent the remaining twenty minutes of the interview offering standard replies to typical Human Resources questions.

  As she left the building, the cold late afternoon breeze ambushed her, making Jenny turn her collar up and tight the coat around her body.

  Devastated didn’t begin to describe her state of mind.

  She would never get that job.

  How would she pay her mom’s bills?

  Busy nights at Club Desire were the norm. Fran Sommers from Human Resources manning the hostess lectern was a first.

  “Don’t act so shocked. Greeting incoming patrons isn’t a big deal,” Fran said.

  “Ask any hostess. They’ll tell you otherwise, including me.” Jenny winked. “First impressions go a long way, hon. I don’t have anyone booked tonight. Let me check the Lounge to see if any regulars are waiting for me. If not, I could cover for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “No problem,” Jenny shouted over her shoulder, halfway down the long, dark corridor that led to the double doors shielding the Lounge from the rest of the club. That was not for privacy, as most patrons chose the Lounge because they were into public sex or voyeurism or both. The doors isolated the loud noises inside the expansive Lounge.

  The familiar sights, smells, and sounds of sex assaulted her senses as Jenny stepped inside. Her eyes swept the room and captured writhing bodies, ecstatic faces, and gleaming stares. People were either engaged in sexual activities or looking for a willing partner. The way to tell staff from club members was the club’s logo, the word Desire stitched in purple letters on a black background. Staff playing Master or Mistress had the logo in some article of their clothing, while subs wore a collar with it. A glance around the room confirmed her regular clients present were otherwise engaged.

  Leaving the cacophony of the Lounge behind, Jenny made her way back to the hostess podium. As she ambled down the corridor, soft moans reached her ears through the countless closed doors. Each one led to a dungeon for masters and subs, or a bedroom for equal partners. People finding release in whatever kind of kink they favored.

  When her eyes fixated on the two men talking to Fran, those sexy sounds became a fitting soundtrack to her body’s response to them. Club Desire housed the most attractive men, both patrons and staff. Jenny dealt with them on a regular basis, but the two Greek gods towering over Fran took drop-dead gorgeous to a whole new level.

  Made-to-order suits clung to their lean bodies, hinting at bulging muscles underneath the soft fabric. Ginger and dirty-blond hair stylishly done to look messy. Square jaws covered in neatly trimmed hair. When both their stares locked on her, she felt the full blast of their power of seduction. They owned their sex appeal and wielded it as a weapon.

  So damn sexy.

  Sinfully seductive.

  Jenny held their stare, then looked over Fran’s shoulder to glance at their information sheets. Club Desire prided itself on providing its clientele with everything they craved before patrons even knew they craved it. From hostesses to subs and masters to bartenders, everyone studied the clients, so members didn’t have to ask for anything. Most times, names became unnecessary. That made patrons’ information sheets one of the most precious assets of the club.

  Scanning the newcomers’ papers, she realized they came highly recommended. Carol Sullivan, a NYSE legend, used to be one of the club’s best clients before she found her happily ever after.

  “Bryant McKinney”—Fran nodded to the ginger with piercing whiskey eyes—“and Mitch Brewer booked the purple dungeon and Cheryl for the night. Have you seen her around, Jenny?”

  Jenny eyeballed them before shaking her head. She was impresse
d and didn’t hide it.

  Their six-foot-six height contrasted with her natural five-foot-one. Even with the boost of a couple of inches from her impossibly high fuck-me pumps, Jenny’s head barely reached their chests.

  The appreciative gleam in their eyes as they lazily took in her red latex dress that accentuated her dark hair and made her blue eyes sparkle flooded her sex with warmth. She also had dimples and wasn’t afraid to use them.

  Mitch exchanged a brief look with Bryant before addressing Fran. “We wouldn’t mind a substitution, if your colleague here were to accommodate us.”

  Mitch’s electrifying grin reflected in his baby-blue eyes with devastating effects. Jenny would gladly accommodate those two hunks. Probably literally. Her girly parts clapped with excited anticipation.

  “I must point out that you’ve booked a sub. Jen is a mistress. Club Desire puts clients’ wishes first. So, I must ensure we’re on the same page about expectations.”

  Jenny didn’t need the not-so-subtle nudging, but she swallowed a rude remark. She had had her differences with Fran in the past, so better keep them there.

  “Glad to flip,” she promised.

  “Thank you.” Bryant’s velvety voice wrapped around her, making her blood zing in her ears.

  “Follow me.” She led the way to the stairwell and climbed ahead of them.

  The purple dungeon was one of the largest and best equipped in the club. It took up a big chunk of the third floor. She didn’t disguise a smile when the men gasped as they entered the room. She had grown accustomed to that reaction.

  “We’ll never leave this room,” Mitch exclaimed as his fingers traced the freestanding St. Andrew’s cross. The black lacquered wood with purple padded patches, where wrists, ankles, and waist rested, was a beauty. A favorite of Jen’s as well.

  “This is paradise,” Bryant agreed as he stood in the middle of the room, taking in every nook and cranny.

  When his probing stare focused back on Jenny, she melted on the spot. Maybe she had bitten off more than she could chew. Five minutes after meeting them, all she wanted was getting down and dirty with them, in any conceivable way.

  That was a first.

  Not at all what her job description required. Tops and bottoms should assuage the physical needs of club members, not their own emotional ones.

  Yet those men drew her in like a defenseless moth to a flame, and she wanted to get scorched. She forced herself to remember her place, what they expected of a sub.

  “Don’t.” Mitch interrupted her kneeling motion. “On the cross.”

  They wasted no time strapping her to the polished beams, the hemline of her dress hiked up her round thighs, barely covering her silk panties. The damp material peeked out from under her dress, and their searing gazes didn’t miss it.

  Bryant pulled the plunging V neckline of her dress until it exposed her bra, then tugged the latex under her breasts, framing and jutting them up. His hungry mouth covered a breast, and his tongue flicked the rigid nipple over the flimsy lace. She hummed as sensations shot up and down her body while Bryant suckled her tender flesh.

  Mitch knelt in front of her and grabbed her thighs. His warm, long fingers caressed her skin and rounded her hips to explore her butt. He chuckled when his digits found her thong, the sexy sound vibrating against her navel and making her juices pool inside her, coating the top of her thighs. “I love the way you tremble under my fingers, the way you smell. B, she’s ready for us.”

  “We’ve got the whole night. Let’s take it slow,” the ginger replied. “If we like you, Jenny, we might offer you a long-term deal. So far, I’d say we’re in the right track.” Bryant’s fingers tweaked one nipple as his teeth sank around the other.

  At the same time, Mitch’s fingers found her sex, stretching her so he could suck at her clit.

  Double the attention, double the sensations invading her, turning her muscles into jelly, making her body shake in its restraints.

  So damn blissful.

  Jenny dropped her head back and hummed.

  Such a damn promising night ahead of them.

  2

  The Ultimatum

  Bile burned Derrick Welch’s throat as he controlled the urge to punch a hole through the boardroom’s wall. That would only hurt his case, making the shareholders mistrust him more.

  Fuck!

  He’d be damned if he allowed those rats to destroy his family legacy.

  “Ricky, your old man must be turning in his grave at the thought of you selling the company.”

  “It’s Mr. Welch for you. Leave my father out of this. Besides, I’m not selling anything,” he snapped at the VP of Research and Development, whose department hadn’t come up with a viable idea in years. “I’ve diversified Welch Inc., getting us away from the fast-sinking newspaper printing market, finding new avenues for our web printers. I’ve brought more clients to this company in the last couple of years than the sales representatives combined. Am I wrong?” His defying stare searched the shareholders’, but most averted their eyes. “I single-handedly brought a hundred-year-old business into the twenty-first century and paved its path into the future.”

  “Yet the numbers for the last two quarters were pitiful,” Mark Jenkins said with scorn. The head of the sales department had been Derrick’s loudest critic over the last few months.

  He knew exactly why.

  “Six months of negative results in ten years of galloping profits is a drop in the ocean.” Derrick smirked at his opponent as murmured approval rippled through the shareholders. “Then again, you’re the one getting a sizeable finder’s fee, if you convince the board to sell out my family’s business.”

  Derrick called the man’s bluff and wasn’t fooled by Jenkins’s indignant huff. Glancing around the room, he realized the group was divided.

  Never a good sign because the voting could go either way.

  “My only concern is what’s best for Welch Inc. and its shareholders,” Jenkins offered, playing for the crowd. “To be honest, every downfall starts in small installments. Empires don’t collapse overnight. Although I don’t deny your successful track record, I’ve recently begun to wonder if you’ve lost your touch, Mr. Welch. I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

  Derrick would have gladly strangled the little weasel, if that wouldn’t have landed him in jail. His mother’s Italian genes got the best of him, and he smacked his palms on the polished table, sending papers flying, rattling the glasses of water and cups of coffee.

  “Fuck you, Jenkins. Be a man for once. Admit your team tanked the Glacier project. There’s no other explanation for that fiasco. If they had done their job, we’d have made a killing in profit.”

  Flustered, Mark Jenkins unfolded from his chair and got in Derrick’s face. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  Before Derrick had a chance to wholeheartedly agree, David Abbott, his CFO, stood up at the other end of the long table and called for a vote. “Those in favor of giving Mr. Welch a vote of confidence until he sorts out the company’s numbers, raise a hand.” He was the first to do so, and half of the shareholders followed his gesture.

  Not enough.

  Derrick’s heart sank to his stomach. Those men and women not backing him up at that vote had ever complained about the dividends they reaped as a result of Derrick’s visionary business tactics. A couple of bad choices and they wanted to sell his company to the first vulture that came swooping down.

  Although he had no proof to show to the board, the private investigator he had hired found out Jenkins was in bed with F&G and would receive a considerable amount in lieu of commission, if Welsh Inc. was sold to them. He had discussed those findings only with David, a childhood friend and trusted ally. He had agreed with Derrick that Jenkins must have sabotaged the Glacier project, but nobody in the sales team was willing to come forward.

  “We’ve got a tie,” John Burton stated, saying the obvious. The clueless VP of R & D wasn’t a bad person just an old-timer, the
last remnant of Derrick’s father’s men. John surely had nothing to do with Jenkins’s scheming, yet he pushed Derrick’s buttons like few others.

  “So it seems,” Derrick growled.

  “I’m putting forward a new motion,” David said. His eyes held Derrick’s, and he nodded slightly as if asking his friend to trust him. Derrick did, but the lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. “Those in favor of selling Welch Inc. to F&G, raise a hand.”

  What the fuck? Derrick’s ears buzzed as blood rushed to his head.

  Relief washed over him as he counted the minority number of raised hands. Not by much, though. He still didn’t get where David was going with that tactic.

  Apparently, neither did Jenkins. “What the heck are you trying to do, Abbott?”

  “Save the company. We must find common ground since there isn’t a majority for either proposition. I say we set a deadline for the numbers to improve before we consider more drastic measures.”

  “Fine,” Jenkins interjected before David could propose a motion. “I call a vote for a sensible deadline. I mean, we can’t sit and wait forever. The company would only lose market value. Those in favor of keeping an open mind to future discussions of F&G’s offer, if our numbers remain in the red, while giving a deadline until the end of the fiscal year for Mr. Welch to revert the company’s disastrous situation, please raise a hand.”

  The scheming little bastard squinted his eyes at Derrick. He knew that deadline was a challenge at best. The fiscal year would end in less than ten weeks, but it made sense. They needed positive numbers in the end-of-year balance sheet.

  Motherfucker.

  Jenkins’s tactic worked, and his motion won an expressive majority. “That’s settled, then. You’ve got until the end of April.” He defied Derrick.

  “Plenty of time,” Derrick assured the board. “Motion to adjourn.” When all board members raised their hands, he wrapped up the meeting. “Thank you all. I won’t disappoint you.”