Boss Naughty

by Hart, Alexa

  “Do you trust me?” He breathes the loaded question into my lips, stealing my own air and prompting me to respond.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Without another word he thrusts into me, deep and intruding, devouring my scream with a hard kiss. Julian stills inside me, allowing my slick walls to adjust against his impressive size.

  “It’s better if it’s fast, beautiful. I’m sorry.” He mutters against me, pausing to add, “tell me if it’s too much and you want to stop.”

  I gasp, still shocked from the sudden and pinching invasion, soreness settling throughout my walls, complimented by a deep and unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction.

  “No,” I manage to gasp out to him, “please don’t stop.”

  My long red painted nails dig into the hard flesh of his back as he begins to move, slowly, grinding against me, massaging my clit. I moan into his soft lips, a deep heat beginning to bloom in my core, feeling full and satiated.

  “Julian, oh God.” Without warning, Julian lands a small, unoffending slap against my cheek. Not enough to sting, but enough to shock me. He grips my chin, chastising me silently.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. Sir.” I correct myself, the words coming out in breaths as I struggle to keep up with his thrusts, each one growing faster and faster than the last until he settles into a quick and shallow rhythm.

  A scorching heat is coursing through me, originating at my core and traveling down through my legs all the way to the tips of my toes. I need more.

  “I know you’re close, baby. I can feel it. Your pussy is fucking drenched, clenching around me.” Julian doesn’t release his grip on me, instead lowering it to wrap his strong fingers around my throat, squeezing slightly.

  The dominant gesture sends me over the edge, exploding around him as I scream his name, neighbors be damned. The feeling is unlike anything I could have possibly imagined, curling my toes and bringing tears to the edges of my eyes. Julian continues to pound into me, riding my orgasm to the very end and forcing me to feel each new wave of pleasure with equal intensity.

  He moans into my neck, cursing, his grip in my hair tightening. Capturing me in a kiss, his tongue darts out, devouring mine in one desperate move. I can feel his balls tighten, brushing against the sensitive skin of my most intimate places as he thrusts into me deep and sure.

  “Sir,” I begin, but whatever I was going to say is drowned by the sound of his struggled moan.

  “Fuck, Ryan. I’ll punish you for that tomorrow.” He grips my waist, pounding into me with unbearable speed and force two-three times before stilling, buried inside of me.

  My chest heaves with exhaustion under his weight, and at some point I drift to sleep without even realizing it.

  * * *

  Sunlight streams in through the expansive window on the far side of the room, waking me, bringing my body to uncomfortable warm temperatures. At some point after I fell asleep, Julian must have cleaned up, because there are no condoms, or condom wrappers to be found, and I am snuggly beneath the sheets.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” Julian mutters the greeting against my hair, of course already awake. I could have never guessed it – his breathing sounds perfectly even from where my head rests on his chest.

  “Mmm. It is.” I mutter against his warm skin, not wanting to wake up and start the day. “Let’s stay in bed.”

  Julian chuckles at my proposal, kissing the top of my head of what is surely extraordinarily messy hair.

  “I have another idea.” His voice is thick with telltale mischief, and before I have a chance to worry, he is moving.

  Julian snakes a strong arm beneath my body, barely lifting a finger to flip me onto my stomach.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, taken by surprise at the abrupt position change.

  “I told you today would be different. Now, shh.” Julian mutters against me as he plants warm kisses between my shoulder blades, sending a shudder down my spine. I moan at the unfamiliar sensation, butterflies swarming in my stomach. Who knew something so small and insignificant could feel so wildly delicious?

  “Yesterday you had gentle. Today, you’ll have me. I’ll start off nice.” He informs me.

  We are both still naked from the night before, so it isn’t hard for Julian to position himself at my slick and waiting entrance, forcing my legs to remain closed and straight, trapped between his knees. I arch my back, trying to grant him easier access to my hot and desperate core.

  “So eager, beautiful.” He murmurs between kisses, planted against the hot skin of my back. “And what is it that you want?”

  “You, sir.”

  Julian chuckles deviously, “we’ll have to work on making you more comfortable with dirty talk.”

  Without another delay, he sinks into me with ease, my tight folds stretching to accommodate his size.

  I moan at the erotic feeling of being utterly dominated, helpless beneath him. My arms are securely pinned beneath my body, and my legs are trapped between his. I am completely and wholly at his mercy, and the thought brings me almost to the edge of orgasm.

  “More, please sir.” I beg him, imploring him to pick up his torturously slow pace.

  “Just remember, you asked for it.” Julian loops an arm beneath me, encircling my waist, and reaches his free hand up to grip the headboard, his thick muscled arm flexing as he leans on the wooden piece for leverage. I don’t have to wait long to see what he means. Julian sets an unforgiving pace, slamming into me deep and hard, each thrust coaxing a scream from my lips. It’s painful, and yet somehow it’s exactly what I wanted. I am writhing beneath him when he finally grants me mercy.

  “Come, princess. Come around me.”

  I do as he orders, screaming into the plush hotel pillow as my walls constrict against his impossibly hard cock, milking him, begging him to stay inside me forever. He explodes moments after I do, stilling inside me. We stay like that for a few moments, spent and sated. When Julian finally pulls out, I whimper at the unwelcome loss.

  “Wear that cream-colored sweater today. The cable knit one.” He orders, pulling his clothes on haphazardly enough to walk across the hall to his room.

  “Yes sir.” I agree, earning a smile before he closes the door behind him, leaving me to get ready for the day.

  Chapter 8

  Ryan

  “Good morning, sir.” I smile at Julian as he saunters from the elevator, sporting a crisp black three-piece suit and a bit of scruff – a product of not having had a chance to shave last night. I smile secretly to myself at my use of the sordid nickname, so inconspicuous in our current setting.

  “Good morning, Ryan. Sleep well?” He sits across from me at my small breakfast table, taking a long sip from the mug of black coffee I had waiting for him. I snicker at the question. No, of course I barely slept at all. But he knows that.

  “Very well. Thank you, sir.” The corner of his mouth catches in a small smirk at the address, but he doesn’t say anything. “What’s on our agenda for the day?”

  I ease into the question, the air around us melting easily from pleasure, to business. Julian’s mouth blooms into a smile and he flashes me a guilty look, immediately raising my suspicions.

  “I have a confession,” he starts, his eyes dancing with mischief, “this isn’t actually a work trip. Well, for you anyway.” He adds the last sentence as I open my mouth to yell at him. “I’ve never actually had a personal assistant before you, so I really didn’t need the help. I just wanted to get you away for a few days.”

  “So you basically kidnapped me,” I smirk, wanting to be angry at his deception, but not quite finding it in myself.

  “I’d say that's overstating things a bit.” Julian chuckles at me, putting his hands up defensively. “However, you do have a full agenda for the day, so eat up. You’ll need your energy.”

  I raise my brow at the last part, to which he quickly adds, “not for that. Unfortunately, I will be working this week. Sam will take you around.” Julian refers to
our driver from last night. I nod as he explains.

  “Okay, where will I be going.”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  “No,” he chuckles, “you hate not being in control. I think we’ve established that you’ll need to get past that.”

  I humph at him, taking an indignant bite of my fig-jellied toast.

  “Sam will arrive shortly; he’ll escort you throughout the day to the various things I have outlined on your agenda. Then, when my meetings are over, we’ll meet for dinner.”

  “Okay.” I relent. “Where? Should I wear anything in particular? I should probably go change into better walking shoes…” I glance down at my Louboutin’s.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, darling.” Julian assures me, finishing the contents of his cup and standing. “Ah, perfectly on time.”

  I follow his line of sight to Sam, who is approaching our table. Standing, I pause for a moment of uncertainty. Should I kiss him goodbye? Should I remain professional? I silently curse myself for not bringing up the topic of publicity in bed this morning. Julian reads my thoughts, gently gripping my elbow and planting a small short kiss on my cheek. Inconspicuous – we could be comfortable lovers, or we could be plain boss and assistant who have known each other for years. To the outside world, it is nothing to question.

  “Have a good day.” He whispers in my ear knowingly before leaving. I turn my gaze to Sam, clutching my own hands awkwardly. He is holding a shopping bag in one hand, and a gift bag in the other.

  “Good morning Miss Blake. You may want to sit.” Sam motions toward the table as he hands me the shopping bag. Hesitantly, I inspect its contents – a shoebox, of course. Julian would have thought of everything. Curiously opening the white cardboard casing, I find the most London pair of shoes I’ve ever seen. I chuckle to myself, finally understanding why Julian insisted I wear my cream colored sweater; it matches perfectly. The leather brogue oxfords are a deep camel-coffee color, sitting on black soles with black laces. And of course, they fit perfectly as I slide them on over the no-show socks that were in the bag with them. Paired with dark jeans, my cable-knit sweater, and a trademark trench coat, I look like a stereotypical London hipster. I smirk a bit, thinking about what my mother would say if she ever caught me in such “un-feminine” shoes; the thought makes me love them even more.

  “Thank you, Sam.” I smile up at the dutiful driver.

  “Just following orders Miss Blake, now this.” He sets the gift bag in front of me, and I peer at is skeptically.

  Reaching inside, I pull out a myriad of contents, each with a note attached.

  First, a full, unopened, pack of Julian’s favorite pens, with a sticky, its note making me giggle, just a bit. So you can finally stop stealing mine.

  Next, a thick leather-bound notebook, it’s cover the same color as my new favorite shoes, engraved in Olde English font, “RB.” A place to store every brilliant thought in that pretty head.

  Julian is some-odd miles away, probably caught up in some business meeting, and yet he’s still making me smile.

  Last is an envelope, small, and white. On its cover, in Julian’s telltale messy scrawl is written, For my soon-to-be favorite author.

  I smile, unexpected tears prickling at my eyes and threatening to spill over. I wonder if he knew how much the little gesture would mean to me. Carefully ripping open the envelope, I tap the bottom of it impatiently, watching as two tickets flutter out onto the table, one marked for me, and the other for Sam.

  Historic Literary London Walking Tour.

  I gasp, glancing up at Sam who’s grinning despite his obvious best efforts not to.

  “Mr. Price said you’re to pick out a souvenir from each destination. Come on, best not be late.”

  I grin, following Sam down the elevator and out onto the street, stopping for a moment as I realize.

  “Sam,” he glances at me, “don’t take this the wrong way – I’m glad for the company, but why are you going on a walking tour, if you’re a driver?”

  Sam laughs blatantly at me, shaking his head. “Mr. Price told you I was a driver?”

  “Well, no. I suppose I didn’t actually ask. You were driving last night.”

  “Yes, I was. I’m not a driver though.” Lifting the edge of his overcoat and blazer, Sam motions to a firearm he has tucked into a holster at his waistband. “I’m security, Miss. You didn’t actually think Mr. Price travelled without security?”

  I ponder the question – honestly, it never occurred to me. My parents always have security, of course, but I haven’t actually considered the reality since moving to college and demanding my security detail remain at home. Of course it makes sense, a man as wealthy and powerful as Julian would naturally have enemies.

  “If you’re with me, who’s protecting Julian?” A sudden and striking worry constricts my chest, horrifying images flashing through my brain, prompted by the newfound information.

  “Mr. Price has other agents with him today.” I nod at the polite, yet firm answer. This line of questioning is done.

  “Do you know where we’re going? Where does the tour start?” Sam regains his previous composure, light and relaxed.

  “Westminster Abbey.” I nod, smiling. I’ve been there many times, but somehow I know this time will be better.

  Chapter 9

  Ryan

  The tour was everything I imagined it would be, and so much more. We started at Westminster Abbey, visiting the tombs of some of the greats: Chaucer, Dickens, and Shelley. They didn’t have a gift shop, much to Sam’s chagrin – or rather, fear of disappointing Julian – so as a compromise, I allowed him to take several ridiculous and morbid photo’s of me with the tombs. I’m sure Julian will get a kick out of them.

  Next, we stopped at an old book shop, opened in 1906, that Arthur Conan Doyle apparently frequented back in the day. There, I bought a pocket version of “The Hounds of Baskerville.” Well, actually I didn’t. I tried, and was promptly rebuked by Sam, who handed over what I presume was Julian’s credit card. From there, it was a long walk through the standard London drizzle to the Dickens house. I’ve actually been there before, on a weekend trip in college, but somehow it hadn’t lost its magic. The old-brick townhouse museum sits in the middle of a small Holborn street, inconspicuous and dazzling. Admittedly, Dicken’s doesn’t impress me as much as the other greats, but when I saw the “Please Sir, I Want Some More” engraved keychain, I had to buy it for Julian. Sam cocked his brow, but accepted my measly explanation that Julian just loves Oliver Twist. I can’t wait to see his smirk when I give it to him – no, I can’t wait to kiss away his smirk when I give it to him.

  The British Library came after that, and frankly, I almost abandoned the rest of the tour when I got a look at the original Jane Austen’s. Sam practically had to drag me down the marble steps of the large red-brick building, struggling to keep up with the rest of our group. They, like the abbey, also didn’t have a gift shop. I settled for snapping quick contraband photos of each of my favorite displays, resolving to show Julian at dinner. Our last official stop on the tour was the best. Shakespeare’s Globe. The replica theater was beautiful. It’s almost earie, standing in the very same spot people like Shakespeare, and Dickens, stood. I wonder if they knew they’d be who they are, when they were alive. At the final destination I bought a collector’s edition of “The Taming of the Shrew,” giggling to myself at the checkout counter, imagining Julian’s face when I give it to him.

  Now, I am sitting across from Sam in a small corner booth of some inconspicuous cafe, tucked on a picturesque street in Piccadilly Circus, surrounded by bookstores. Sam is sipping calmly on a cup of black tea, intently watching our surroundings while I drum one of my new pens against a blank notebook page, searching for inspiration, smiling despite myself at the unexpectedly incredible day, wishing that Julian was here so I could tell him about it.

  As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

 
You’d better be writing.

  So demanding, even over IMessage. I smirk, padding my thumbs against the bright screen.

  Or what, sir?

  Oh princess, I can’t wait to show you.

  A sweet mixture of anticipation and fear boils in my stomach as I read his words, then read them again. Leave it to Julian to get me all hot and bothered in just one text. I scoff at him, drawing Sam’s momentary attention. Choosing to ignore his quizzical stare, I set my phone face down on the table, diving into my notebook and staining the pages with words I’ll probably edit, and re-edit later. To my surprise, the words pour out of my pen with ease, stopping only every few pages to contemplate a synonym, or sentence structure. By the time Sam calls my name and pulls me from my made-up world, the sun is beginning to dim in the sky, and there is a thick stack of pages in my formerly clean notebook, each stained front-to-back with black-ink words.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your thoughts, Miss Blake, but there is one more stop we need to make before meeting Mr. Price.” Sam’s face is painted with genuine apology, his hands outstretched to carry my belongings for me. I nod, standing to follow him with a small thanks. We hail a black cab, and he gives an address I don’t recognize.

  Peering out of the deep tinted windows, I watch the day fade to black, illuminated in soft golds and pale blues of the passing storefront lights, littered with silhouettes of strangers on the streets. When the car comes to a stop on the side of a busy street, I immediately know the purpose of our last trip. We are at Harrods department store.

  “You didn’t think he was actually going to let you get away with just a few trinkets, did you?” Sam smirks at me with more ease than he held this morning, compliments of our newfound friendship. My cheeks blush red, no, I suppose I didn’t.

  “Did he tell you what he wants me to get?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Why is everyone using that phrase today?