Bigshot Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance

by Cat Carmine

  “Do you want to eat in the kitchen?” I ask Ally.

  She shakes her head. “Can you just put it on the coffee table? I’m not really hungry right now.” I notice she hasn’t really touched her wine either.

  I bring her a bowl of pasta and set it on the table in front of her.

  “You sure you’re feeling okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine, Hannah,” she says with a sigh. Then she forces a smile. “I appreciate the concern though. I’m just a bit tired.”

  “‘Kay. Well, tell me if anything changes.”

  “I will.”

  I go back into the kitchen and try not to sigh too loudly. Ally and I have a complicated relationship — like so many sisters do — but the roles that have been forced upon us have made it even more difficult.

  I eat quickly and then wash my bowl and put the pots to soak. I top up my wine glass and after popping my head in the living room to check on Ally one more time, I finally retreat to my bedroom.

  I only have one thing on my mind right now — checking my email.

  As soon as I close my door, I grab my phone and scroll through it. To my disappointment though, I still have nothing new.

  Maybe this is it — maybe he’s finally gotten tired of just emailing. I knew it was bound to happen eventually. A man like that must have women throwing themselves at him all day long. I still couldn’t believe he’d let our email correspondence go on as long as it had.

  He had messaged me on a site called Lovemail about a month ago. I don’t even know why I’d made a profile there — it was mostly for hook-ups. The vast majority of people didn’t even use photos of their faces. Just select, um, body parts.

  It was totally unlike me to even go on that site, never mind post a picture and write up a little description. But after one too many glasses of wine one night and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness (and, okay, horniness) there I was, posting a risqué photo of my ample cleavage and describing myself as a sweet vixen up for anything.

  What a joke. And now Mister Bigshot had obviously seen through it and moved on to someone who was actually up for anything.

  I sigh and flop down on the bed. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

  More than fun, actually. He brought out a side of me I didn’t know existed — a very, very naughty side. A side that made my cheeks flush and my pussy wet. A side that, I have to admit, I’m really going to miss.

  But this is for the best, I guess — after all, that Hannah, the Lovemail Hannah, isn’t real. The real Hannah is a good girl who takes care of her sister and dates nice boys and has normal sex.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  Not that I even date nice boys or have normal sex these days. I haven’t dated anyone since Matt — and look how that had ended.

  Thinking about Matt makes me shudder in embarrassment, and I realize that ending my correspondence with Mister Bigshot is definitely for the best. I should just put this whole business out of my mind completely.

  I crack open my laptop and am just queueing up Netflix when my phone pings.

  My breath catches as I reach for it, and then warmth floods my body as I see the words on my screen:

  “You have 1 new Lovemail message.”

  3

  lovemail

  From: misterbigshot@lovemail.com

  To: sweetvixen@lovemail.com

  Subject: Can you help?

  I’m sorry this email is finding its way to you so late in the day. I wanted to write something out earlier but I couldn’t even look at your last message without getting a little … problem.

  Actually, not so little, if you know what I mean. ;)

  I have only you to thank (blame?) for that, Miss Vixen. Do your parents know you have a mouth like that? And where did you learn about these naughty activities? I’ll be honest, I actually had to Google one thing you mentioned and all I can say is that I’ll have to send our IT department a very expensive bottle of whiskey in apology if they ever look at my search history. In fact, I think I might need some very expensive whiskey myself.

  How was your day today? I wonder if you thought about me as much as I thought about you. Sitting in a meeting with a client today I found myself daydreaming about your mouth. That sweet fuckable mouth. I pictured you under the desk in front of me, silently unzipping me, taking me into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around my dick, licking my balls. I bet you know what you’re doing in that department, don’t you? I bet you love to suck cock.

  Thinking about you is the best distraction. It’s borderline ridiculous how much I look forward to your emails.

  -Mr. Bigshot

  From: sweetvixen@lovemail.com

  To: misterbigshot@lovemail.com

  Subject: Oh, I can help

  Well, Mr. Bigshot. Always a pleasure to hear from you. A man I don’t mind waiting for. It’s very naughty of you to think about me sucking you off during a client meeting. Especially because you should know by now that there’s no way you’d be able to keep quiet during such an event. The way I’d work your cock with my tongue would leave you panting. That’s the Sweet Vixen Guarantee (tm).

  I confess I spent a lot of time thinking about you today too. Actually, I spent a lot of time thinking about chairs. (Don’t ask.) But my mind refused to focus — all I could think about was you, sitting in that chair. Smiling so sexy. Beckoning me to come to you. And then me climbing into your lap. Lifting my skirt, moving my panties to the side. Sliding down onto your hard cock. Riding you until we both came. Until we saw fireworks. Fucking you in a four thousand dollar chair.

  So that was my day. In a nutshell.

  - Sweet V.

  From: misterbigshot@lovemail.com

  To: sweetvixen@lovemail.com

  Subject: I need that chair.

  Are you trying to torture me? I’m Googling cures for blue balls right now. I’m not even joking. You are forcing me to take matters into my own hands, when I’d much rather be taking you into my own hands.

  It’s been a month now. A month of teasing and flirting and an amount of, ahem, self-love that’s making me feel like I’m thirteen years old again. I didn’t like being a teenager, Sweet. I’m a man. A very hot-blooded man. A man who wants to fuck you until you forget your own name.

  Meet me. Let me do all those things to you for real. I even have the perfect chair (see attached.)

  4

  Hannah

  Deep breaths. Don’t freak out, Hannah. Do. Not. Freak. Out.

  I try to drink my orange juice. Ally is staring at me across the breakfast table like I’ve lost my mind, so I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of keeping my freak-out in check.

  “You okay?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

  “Mmhm,” I murmur noncommittally as I finish drinking my juice.

  I don’t know why this is coming as a surprise. Of course he would want to meet. Of course he would. Like he said in his email, he’s a hot-blooded man. He isn’t going to be satisfied with emails forever.

  To be honest, I’m shocked he went a whole month. I had to have gotten at least thirty emails from him in that time, and most of them were dirty, but a lot of them were sweet too. We’d opened up to each other. We’d talked about families, relationships. I knew about his brothers, his ex-fiancee. He knew about my sister’s MS, our parents’ death.

  Of course, there’s the naughty stuff too. Oh, is there naughty stuff. Stuff that makes my cheeks flame to remember. I’d written him things that I would never in a thousand years be able to say to someone in person. And I like how free it makes me feel. Like someone other than boring old Hannah Cole.

  And don’t even get me started on the photos I’ve sent him. Dear God.

  I take a bite of my toast and try to swallow but it sticks in my throat. I can’t meet him. I can’t. If I do, he’ll see just how different the real me is from the persona I’d created.

  SweetVixen. Even the name makes me snort with laughter. I might as well have chosen LakerCheerleader for how truthful it
is.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Ally asks again. “You look a bit … feverish.”

  “I’m fine. Honest.” I laugh to show her just how fine I am but it comes out high-pitched and just a bit manic-sounding.

  Ally raises her eyebrows again. We’ve spent enough time together that she knows I’m lying through my teeth — just like I knew she was lying about how she was feeling yesterday — but we also know each other well enough to know when not to push. This is one of those times.

  I clear our plates from the table and squeeze her arm as I walk by. “I’ll be back after work.”

  “Of course you will,” she says, grinning a bit ruefully. “Where else would you go? That’s your life: work and here.”

  It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. Sometimes my sister is a little too perceptive.

  “Love you, Als,” I say, shaking it off and grabbing my bag.

  “Love you too, Hans,” she replies. Then, with a half smile, she adds, “Be good.”

  Sloane stops me before I can even make it to my cubicle.

  “What’s wrong?” She looks me up and down.

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Hmm, let’s see. Could it be the oh-so-sexy sheen of sweat covering your face?”

  “It’s hot out.”

  “How about the fact that you’re wearing two different earrings?”

  My hands fly to my ears. Shit. “I was a little distracted this morning.”

  “I see that. Tell momma what’s going on.”

  I hesitate. I’m not ready to give Sloane all the gory details of my online fantasy life — but then again, it might be nice to get some objective advice.

  “Coffee later?” I suggest.

  “You betcha.”

  I spend the rest of the morning staring at that same damn chair photo he’d sent me. If I thought my distraction was bad before, today it’s nearly insurmountable. All I can think about is Mister Bigshot. Fucking him on that chair the way I’d described to him in my email.

  It turns out to be a very long morning.

  When Sloane finally gives me the signal, I’m more than ready for a coffee. And I’m ready to spill to someone about what’s on my mind.

  “I met this guy online,” I blurt out as soon as we get in the elevator.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” she says, shrugging. “Lots of people meet online these days. What’s he like?”

  “Wonderful. Sweet, and charming, and soooo sexy.”

  “Great. So what’s the problem?”

  “He wants to meet.”

  Sloane turns to me, mouth agape. “You haven’t met him yet?” she hisses.

  “No.”

  We get out of the elevator. Sloane links her arm through mine.

  “Oh, honey. That’s the cardinal rule of online dating. Meet as soon as possible. Otherwise you get attached to a person who may or may not even be real. Why do you think those swiping dating apps are so popular? No heartache.” She pauses. “You’ve seen a picture of him at least, right?”

  “Not of his face,” I admit, then look away, sheepish.

  Sloane clutches her heart in mock horror. “Oh sweet Jesus. Hannah, what if he’s a hideous troll?”

  I shake my head. I may not have seen his face, but no one with a body like that could be a troll. That broad chest, those sculpted abs, the sexy tattoos, that thick, straight, perfect cock. Oh yes — I’d seen everything. Well, everything except his face. But there was no way any part of this man’s body was anything but perfection.

  “I didn’t mean to let it go on this long,” I plead with Sloane as we wait in line for our coffee. “I just got invested in our messages. I started looking forward to them, and then neither of us had mentioned meeting, and it just kind of went on like that.”

  “And now you like him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re afraid to meet him and be disappointed.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t mention that I’m more afraid he’s going to be disappointed in me.

  “Well, there’s only one thing to do.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “You have to meet him. Rip off the Band-Aid.”

  “What if I like the Band-Aid?”

  “Too bad. Open that baby up and let the air in.”

  “Are we still talking about dating?”

  “I think so.”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject. The smartest thing you can do right now is find out whether this guy is a dud or not.”

  I bite my lip. The coffee line is long, and there are still at least four people in front of us.

  “Sloane?” I hesitate, then just blurt it out. “What if I’m the one who’s a dud?”

  I hate myself almost immediately for asking the question. Sloane and I have only known each other a few months, and already I’m dumping a lifetime’s worth of insecurities on her. Very smooth, Hannah. Way to win friends and influence people.

  But Sloane just squeezes my arm. “Lady, you are not a dud. You’re smart and funny and cute. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

  Her words give me a momentary warm glow, until I remember just how explicit my emails with Mister Bigshot have gotten. He isn’t expecting smart and funny and cute. He’s going to be expecting … well, a sweet vixen.

  Which I most definitely am not.

  What am I going to do?

  5

  Hannah

  Sloane and I get back to the office just in time for the staff meeting.

  The Loft & Barn offices don’t have a boardroom big enough for everyone in the company, so meetings are broadcast over video conference. Each month, they rotate which department gets to join the Whittakers in the actual boardroom. This month, joy of joys, it’s marketing.

  The group of us files upstairs. Though us plebes work on the eighteenth floor, the executive offices are up on thirty. It takes three elevators to get all of us up there, and Charlene stands in the eighteenth floor lobby the whole time, directing us in like an anxious air traffic controller.

  “Come on, come on!” she hisses, making some elaborate arm gesture that I’m pretty sure means “snakes on a plane” in sign language.

  I cram into an elevator with Sloane, Jim and a few other people from our section. We get to the thirtieth floor and head to the boardroom. Nobody talks. No one likes going to these meetings in person — at least when you’re logging on over video you can get some work done or surf the internet while the meeting drones on. When you’re in the boardroom you actually have to look alert and pay attention.

  Oh well. At least it means getting to see the Whittaker brothers up close and personal.

  It’s standing-room only in the boardroom so I find a spot at the back, between Jim and Sloane. We amuse ourselves by taking bets on how many times Charlene will smooth her hair down during this meeting. She is, of course, right up at the front of the room, where the brothers won’t be able to miss her.

  It isn’t long before the murmuring in the room quiets. I strain to see above the people ahead of me. Is it …

  Oh yes. There he is.

  Trent Whittaker.

  Also known as sex on a stick.

  The man might be a tyrant but the Lord has blessed him well in other departments. Six-foot-something and built like a caged animal. He filled out a suit the way most men could only dream of doing. Dark hair, dark eyes, a perpetual six o’clock shadow that you just want to feel rubbing up between your inner thighs.

  Whew. Maybe there was a sweet vixen in me yet.

  I look away as Trent starts talking, too embarrassed now to look at him. Just being in the same room with him is enough to make my panties feel uncomfortably damp.

  “Thank you to everyone for being here today.” His deep voice carries through the room. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Trent Whittaker.”

  There’s polite laughter in the room. As if there’s anyone here who doesn’t know him.

>   “Hello to all of you out there in video land, and welcome today to our marketing team, who are joining us up here on thirty.”

  The polite laughing turns into polite clapping. I’m sure half the people tuning in online have already stopped watching, but here in the room, his very presence is keeping my whole body at full attention. Lust is coiling inside my gut. I blink a few times, trying to vanish the mental image of him throwing me down on the boardroom table and taking me as hard and fast as he wants.

  This is crazy, I think, as a flush covers my skin. I seriously need to get out more.

  “My brother Luke has asked me to pass on his regards today.” Trent’s voice is like butter, melting over us. “He wanted to be here but he’s busy with the new collection and … well, we wouldn’t want to interrupt a genius hard at work, would we?”

  Everyone laughs politely again.

  I try to distract myself from the rich timber of Trent’s deep voice by looking around the room. I take in the wave of grey and black suits, the neatly coifed hair. Even Charlene, who normally doesn’t dress up, is wearing a smart charcoal blazer. I look down at my own yellow sundress, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look. I wrap my white cardigan tighter around me, glad that I’m at the very back of the room.

  “We’re well on track for the season, and Luke is in the final stages of finishing this year’s flagship pieces.” Trent flashes a thousand megawatt smile. “Now, I know normally we would already have the pieces finalized by now and you would have the photos and the catalog would be well under way. But I promise you Luke and I are both working as hard as we can to get everything ready for you.”

  He pauses to take a sip of water out of a glass sitting on the boardroom table. His throat bobs as he swallows once, twice, three times. No one in the room breathes a word in the silence.