The Boss's New Plaything

by Layla Valentine

  Deciding I like the man too much to toy with him, I assure him that the name brand is fine, and that I’m sure he’ll look great regardless of what he chooses. He doesn’t reply, but I imagine he’s smiling at my response.

  Setting my phone down, I consider my reflection in the mirror for a moment. All I’ve really sprung for, as far as makeup, is a bit of eyeliner. I had entertained the thought of a nice shade of lipstick, but considering we’ll likely be eating wings or something similar, I don’t want to waste the effort.

  I don’t look bad, but I don’t look nearly as nice as I’ve made myself look for work ventures. The woman that stares back at me from the mirror is remarkably average. A remarkably average woman, going on a date with a billionaire.

  I almost expect him to send another text, begging me to go somewhere a bit more upscale. He hasn’t been particularly insistent about the expensive places we go, but I feel like he has a self-imposed obligation to try to impress me hanging over him.

  If I hadn’t seen his huge package, I might think he was overcompensating for something. I’m not about to tell him that, though.

  After leaving my apartment, I begin the short walk to the bar where we’re spending the evening. It’s been a staple of my day-to-day life since moving here, and I’m eager to share the simple and cozy little place with the man I’m growing to care more and more about every day. I’m watching my phone more than where I’m going, and I nearly run into someone as I move to step up onto the outdoor deck.

  “Sorry,” I blurt, cutting myself short when I see who it is. Rather, what he’s dressed like.

  Though I’ll admit that Carson cleans up nice in a suit and tie, there’s something about seeing him in a simple T-shirt and jeans that sends a surge of arousal through my body. I smile warmly at him, and he considers me somewhat awkwardly.

  “How do I look?” he inquires.

  I smile, brushing away some invisible lint, more as an excuse to feel his chest muscles.

  “You look perfect. Come on, we’re sitting out here. It’s a lot more peaceful, and it tends to get a bit rowdy inside and, well…” I trail off, meeting his gaze with a half-smile.

  “Baby steps,” he chuckles, looking at the deck with faint appreciation. “This is nicer than I expected. Then again, I’m not quite sure what I expected,” he muses, walking towards a table and taking a seat.

  I sit across from him, trying to keep the dopey, lovey-dovey grin off my face.

  “You were expecting a dive! Admit it,” I tease. He rolls his eyes, but his almost bashful smile tells me that I’m right.

  The dinner goes well, considering how long it’s been since Carson has been to a simple bar and grill. His face ends up covered in wing sauce, and I try not to laugh as he gets a little too upset over it. Instead of mocking him, I tenderly dab at his face with the wet napkins we’ve been provided with. He pouts adorably, and unable to resist, I lean across the table to kiss him.

  With an expression that is both startled yet pleased, he pulls me in for another, deeper kiss. I run a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, curling my other fingers in the collar of his shirt. As good as he looks in it, I’m becoming increasingly eager to see the outfit on my bedroom floor…

  Wait. My bedroom floor? The thought strikes me abruptly, the fact that I’m actually considering taking him to my dingy little apartment. He seems eager to continue our intimacy away from the public eye, however, and I’m not sure I feel patient enough to make the drive to his place.

  “Do you want to…come to my apartment? It’s nothing fancy, but—” I begin, cut short as he leaps up from the table.

  “Yes, of course,” he says urgently.

  Carson throws a wad of bills on the table, as if that’s how you’re actually supposed to pay at one of these places. The waiter doesn’t seem particularly bothered as he comes out to collect our plates, however, and Carson offers the other man a kind smile.

  “Keep the change,” he says simply, stepping towards me and offering his arm.

  Grinning, the two of us walk arm in arm to my apartment complex. Though he seems eager to see the place, doubt rises within me at the idea of letting him see the place I live in. I hadn’t even cleaned up before meeting him at the bar! The kitchen is a disaster, and I haven’t folded clothes in weeks. Every time I go to his place, it’s clean and tidy—perfectly well kept, with not a single thing out of place.

  Beginning to wonder if he’ll think less of me upon seeing the mess that is my apartment, I tighten my grip on his arm as we approach the door. I fumble with the key for a moment, and his hands idly roam up and down my back.

  I shiver at his touch, managing to push the door open and stumble inside. If he’s surprised by what he sees, he doesn’t show it. I’m not sure if I should be offended or grateful, but he seems preoccupied with other things.

  “Where’s the bedroom?” he asks huskily.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I lead him through the apartment to my tiny bedroom. I’m immediately ashamed of my scratchy sheets and the modest mattress that has honestly seen better days. I part my lips to apologize, but he slips his hands beneath my shirt, lifting it up and over my head.

  “It’s not as nice as I’d like,” I mumble, and he smiles.

  He leans in to press a tender kiss to my lips, and I sigh against him.

  “It’s perfect. Just like you,” he breathes. He nudges me towards the bed, and I sit on the edge before drawing him closer to me. He shifts awkwardly, grabbing the front of his jeans in a rather obvious gesture. “There’s not much breathing room in these things,” he mutters. I smirk, popping the button and sliding them down his hips.

  “All the more reason to get out of them,” I reply cheekily.

  He chuckles, and I note he’s still wearing his expensive underwear. He pulls off the T-shirt, exposing his broad and strong chest. I pull him onto the bed with me, and he lifts my hips to guide my pants down my legs. Arousal is already flooding through my veins, hot and almost painful in its intensity. He smirks at the simple pair of white panties I’m wearing, and I blush as I avert my eyes.

  “I wasn’t expecting to get laid,” I offer weakly.

  “Well, you should know better than that,” he teases, reaching around me to unsnap my bra.

  Once I’m nude, save for my panties, he pushes me onto my back, settling his knees on either side of my hips. He stares down at me with an adoration that no man has ever shown me before. I feel myself blushing at the attention, tilting my head to avoid looking him in the eye. It’s too much for my heart to take.

  Undeterred by my sudden timidity, Carson leans in to brush his lips to the side of my neck. He drags his tongue down my chest to the peak of one of my breasts, then takes my nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he pinches the other between two fingers.

  A strangled gasp spills past my lips, and I realize that I’d really been worried over nothing. It doesn’t matter if we’re in his high-end penthouse or my simple apartment. We simply can’t get enough of each other.

  I arch into his touch, tingles shooting through my body just from the attention to my breasts. Every other encounter we’ve had has felt hurried, but there’s something about the patient attention he lavishes upon my breasts that has me aching for more. Carson draws away slightly, exhaling a breath of hot air against my already hard nipple. He flicks his tongue against it a final time before switching off, taking his hand to the right and moving his mouth to the left.

  My hips are already rolling against him, desperate for contact. I drag my nails up his back, hissing in pleasure as he grazes his teeth against the sensitive flesh of my nipple. I jerk my hips up, giving him a rather obvious look. He seems to take the hint, slipping his member free from the confines of his briefs. He presses against my slit through my underwear, and I let out a needy moan.

  “Please, Carson. I lov—I need you,” I gasp, managing to catch myself.

  He considers me rather strangely for a moment before pulling my pant
ies down, then positions himself quickly, and I can feel his eyes watching every slight movement of my face. He gauges my expressions for what I like, pressing into me slowly and sweetly. I moan, a long and guttural sound, as he fills me completely.

  “You’re beautiful. I love you so much,” he whispers, almost too softly for me to hear. Though he already confessed his feelings on the plane, it still startles me to hear the words.

  He presses his lips to mine, and I allow my eyes to flutter shut as he begins to move inside me. Breathy gasps spill past my lips, and I find myself babbling incoherently from how damn good it is. I brace against him, pressing my face against his shoulder as he continues to thrust.

  Hips moving erratically, it’s obvious that he’s nearing his peak. It strikes me to tell him to pull out, but something stops me. I want to feel him come inside me. I want him to fill me to the brim. I clench my muscles around him and he groans haggardly as he orgasms. I reach my own climax mere seconds later, and my inner walls work to milk him for every drop.

  If he realizes what’s just happened, he gives no indication. He simply slumps against me, nestling his face between my breasts.

  “I love you, too,” I say quietly. “I know it means very little, when you already have so much, but…you have me, as well,” I continue nervously.

  His breathing is soft, and I wonder if he’s already gone to sleep. However, he shifts beside me, tugging me on my side so that he can remain sheathed inside me.

  “With you, I’m richer than I ever dreamed,” he murmurs.

  We share an adoring smile, and in spite of my scratchy sheets and lumpy mattress, I drift into a sleep that’s more peaceful than any I’ve had prior. I know in my heart—somehow, someway—that this love we share will withstand the ages.

  What good is money, without love in your heart? It seems that neither of us will ever have to ponder that question again.

  Want to find out what the future holds for Aimee and Carson?

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  Triplets For The Billionaire

  Ana Sparks & Layla Valentine

  Fancy something that’s sweet, cute, and steamy?

  Here is a special teaser of mine and Ana’s previous book, Triplets For The Billionaire

  I hope you enjoy!

  Copyright 2017 by Ana Sparks and Layla Valentine

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Charlotte

  The steady clacking of the keyboard is soothing as I sit alone in my apartment, searching for a job to replace the temporary position I was let go from a week ago. The job pool is as sparse as always; finding decent work seems to be harder than ever.

  Since being made redundant two years ago—when the company I worked for was taken over by the unstoppable juggernaut that is SharkTEC Financial—it’s been an agonizing and unending search, trying to find a position I can settle into. Jobs for temp agencies have reigned supreme, with small jobs in between that I’m almost always overqualified for, such as cleaning rich assholes’ penthouse apartments.

  I worked for years to get my bachelor’s in business and finance, and when I started working for Stratton and Company, I thought I had my whole life figured out. I thought all the hard work had paid off, and I would be set for life.

  I realize now how naïve I was, but when Dillon Bradshaw decided to sink his claws into the struggling company, no one expected just how many employees he would actually lay off. Even though I’d worked hard and made a name for myself at Stratton and Company, that didn’t save me from the dreaded ‘restructuring’ that CEO Dillon Bradshaw insisted upon. I was booted just like the rest.

  I would be lying if I said I don’t hold some bitterness, but I can’t exactly blame the Stratton family for selling up. With such stiff competition, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find loyal, reliable clients. SharkTEC Financial yanked the few clients we managed to snag right out from under us with the ease of taking candy from a baby.

  Ultimately, Bradshaw is to blame. The rich pretty boy is famous in business circles for his ‘talent’—though I’d say he’s just had a lot of dumb luck. He got a pretty big check from his folks when he turned 21, and unlike any normal guy in his early twenties, he decided to stick the cash into some investments.

  Now, eleven years later, he’s one of the richest men in the country. As much as I hate to admit it, the guy does have some entrepreneurial skills. He was able to start up and successfully run a multibillion-dollar company before 25, an achievement not many can ever dream of.

  Of course, that doesn’t mean I have to like the man. He’s number one on America’s Top Ten Hottest and Richest Bachelors, meaning thousands of women fawn over him, but I’m not exactly considering throwing myself at the man who ruined my life—absurdly good-looking as he may be. He doesn’t even know I exist, but his large presence in the world of finance continues to haunt me, even to this day.

  Realizing I’m a month late on my rent, my search for a job is admittedly growing a bit desperate. I scour the local job boards every day, longing to find someplace I can settle in, at least for more than a few weeks. Someone with my resume shouldn’t be struggling this much; the unfairness of it all makes me want to scream.

  Realizing I’ve spent far too much time dwelling on the past, as well as that bastard Dillon Bradshaw, I refocus my attention on the screen in front of me. I’ve entered several key phrases to narrow down the already lacking job selection. In spite of myself, and the feeling that I deserve better, I decide to click off all the filters and check sections that had previously gone ignored.

  One listing catches my attention almost immediately, having been posted half an hour ago. A click to the link takes me to a short and succinct job description.

  Apparently, whoever posted the ad is looking for a ‘discreet’ maid. I’m not quite sure what they mean by that, but the payout on offer is enough to put that thought on the back-burner. No real details or clues give me an idea of who posed this ad—even the email address given was clearly made specifically for this listing. I scan the requirements briefly, humming under my breath as I read them.

  Truthfully, it seems a little bit on the sketchy side. I like to think of myself as a tenacious and well-rounded woman, though, and in the worst case scenario, I’m sure I could defend myself. Best case scenario, this job could end up being long-term, or at least tide me over until I can find something a bit more professional.

  It’s not like this stranger is asking for a hooker; all they seem to want is someone to clean their house. In all likelihood, it’s just some guy with more money than sense. You can’t expect everyone to know how to make a good listing.

  Filling in my information, I attach a photo of myself to the email as the post specified. Another bit of information that seems a little odd, but as I hit send, I’m past the point of return. From here, I can only fill in a few additional applications before going about my day as best as I am able. I skipped breakfast, and my stomach isn’t letting me forget it’s almost lunchtime.

  Though I have very little cash left in the bank, I hope it’s enough to grab a chicken sandwich from the fast food chain down the road; I’m not often one to indulge in fast food offerings, but you get a lot more bang for your buck from a burger joint than any of the health-conscious cafés in the city.

  Perhaps the calories will do me a bit
of good. I’ve been skipping meals more than ever, lately. When you’re not even positive you’ll have a home at the week’s end, things like eating regularly seem less important, and anxiety has been making it all the more difficult to stomach three meals a day.

  Closing my laptop with a sigh, I grab my phone and purse before heading out. As I walk outside, I muse that it might seem an altogether pleasant day in other circumstances. I’ve been reluctant to acknowledge good days, as of late. Nothing seems particularly good when you’re struggling to get by.

  Unable to afford gas most of the time, my mode of transportation around Chicago has mostly become my own two feet. Faced with the choice between gas for my car and internet—with which I could more easily search for a job—there really wasn’t much of a choice at all. At the very least, the walk to the burger place is a good excuse to get out of my apartment for a while and enjoy the sunshine.

  About midway through my walk I feel my phone begin vibrating in my pocket. I fumble around for a moment, grabbing it with a bit more force than necessary and considering the number that is calling. It’s an unfamiliar one, but considering the job applications I’ve been putting in all day, I can’t risk missing a possible lead. I swipe the screen to answer, bringing the phone up to my ear.

  “Hello, this is Charlotte Law speaking,” I answer, as professionally as I can manage.

  There’s a sound of papers shuffling on the other end of the line, and I step off the sidewalk somewhat to allow others to pass me.

  “Yes, Miss Law. This call is regarding your application for job ID 4536, or as listed on the board, a ‘discreet’ maid,” a friendly-sounding woman says. “I know it must seem a rather odd request, but we appreciate your compliance with our requests for a photo and brief description of yourself. From what we can tell, you seem to be a perfect fit for the job.”