As if he’s standing next to me, whispering these commands in my ear, I write, My boss doesn’t like me. I spare him the details. Otherwise we’ll be here all night. Plus I don’t want him to think poorly of me knowing I slept through my alarm because of a massive hangover.
Ah. I know a thing or two about handling bosses. I own my own company.
You own your own pizza parlor? I’m impressed.
No.
Riiight. Lips are sealed, huh?
Yes.
I think I liked you better when you gave more than one-word answers.
How can you like me? You don’t even know me.
He’s right, of course. But what if I want to know him?
Why did you text me?
I type, Because I wanted someone to talk to.
Three pesky dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Don’t you have friends?
I’ve thought the same question myself once or twice—a week. If I did, would I be texting a pizza delivery guy?
No response. He’s gone quiet. I squeeze the phone in my hands, sending telepathic waves to him that he should definitely respond, pronto. I also send telepathic waves letting him think I’m an extremely successful, put-together woman who glides through life rather than trips. Also, my hair is straight, not frizzy. Damn you, genes.
I wonder…
He doesn’t add anything else. With a small frown, I type, Wonder what?
Never mind. I’m probably overstepping anyway.
Now he’s got my attention. Pushing aside the blanket, I sit up and furiously reply, No. I want to know what you were going to say. Why is my heart ramping up?
My eyes remain glued to the screen. Nothing happens. I’m halfway through typing a follow-up when my phone buzzes.
When I read what Pizza Guy wrote, my heart freezes in my chest.
I wonder if what you need isn’t emotional support, but physical. Something to get your mind off the crappy day.
He did not just go there. He didn’t.
But oh, he did.
I’m hyperventilating and laughing at the same time. My imagination springs to life. No way could his voice belong to anyone grossly unattractive. The man has to look like a king. He has to. The way he spoke held such command, such presence. Almost like…
Mr. Billionaire flits into my mind for a second before I kick him out.
Almost like my asshole boss. But this guy, I imagine him to be blond, a tight, fit body rippling with upper body strength, toned legs, and oozing confidence. His eyes are brown... no... green. Light green. His mouth is generous. His jaw is hard as granite with a hint of scruff. I do love me some scruff.
It’s then I realize a few minutes of daydreaming have passed and I haven’t replied to Pizza Guy. Quickly, I type out, Are you offering me sex?
Not in person.
So over the phone?
Yes.
I blow out a slow breath. My face flushes in anticipation. I’ve never sexted anyone before. What do you want me to do?
First I want your name.
That’s when I pause and think about what I’m doing. I’m about to get sexually involved with a stranger. He has my phone number. On one hand, I want to know more about him, but I also want to protect myself.
I may be lonely, but I’m not an idiot. I give him my middle name. Rose. What’s yours?
What are you wearing, Rose? Pants?
It doesn’t escape my notice that he didn’t answer the question, but I’m too wound up to care. Skirt.
Take it off.
Chapter 6
Byron
Take it off.
I stare at the message I sent Rose, and I wait.
I’m not worried she’s abandoned her phone. As a businessman, I have to be able to read people, to understand their deepest desires, their need. When I know their need, I know how to make them mine. It’s exactly how I built Solonay.
It’s early evening. Everyone has gone home, and I’m still at the office. It’s nothing new. If work keeps me late into the night, I’ll simply pull out my cot. There’s a shower in my office bathroom for this very reason, a few changes of clothes in the bathroom closet. My first year in this building, I slept here more than I did my own apartment.
Following an exhausting first day, I called for take-out and stuffed Pad Thai into my mouth to forget about the walking disaster that is Leila Engleton. In the span of eight hours, she not only managed to spill coffee on my shirt, but she deleted whole files, wiped my schedule, made me a reservation at a wrong hotel—in a completely different country—and managed to lock herself into the bathroom. I’m not sure if the woman is truly incompetent or if she’s testing me.
As I looked over some bills, my phone buzzed on the corner of my desk, and I grabbed it, thinking it might be my brother, but it wasn’t. Lo and behold, it was the pizza woman. Rose. The name of someone soft and flowery—not in-your-face like this one seems.
Before I realized it, I was sucked into the conversation. She’d even managed to bring a smile to my face. A rare thing when I’m in a mood. Soon, all thoughts of Disaster Leila were forgotten, and I was wondering what I could do to help brighten her day. And mine.
Finally, she responds.
They’re gone.
Good girl, I type, feeling dirty just looking at the words. I’m hoping she’s feeling dirty too.
I shift in my seat to relieve the pressure of my swelling cock against the fabric of my suit pants. The need to dominate fires through me. Imagination is key.
Now, I say, I want you to tell me what color underwear you’re wearing.
A long pause ensues. As my blood migrates south, I spread my legs, kick off my shoes.
Black lace.
I smirk. You’re lying to me, Rose. What color is your underwear?
The dots appear and disappear about four times. It’s too embarrassing. Let’s just say black and leave it at that.
Hm. Admittedly, I’m curious.
I don’t appreciate dishonesty, Rose. I’m going to let it slide, just this once. But next time I’ll have to punish you.
I’m imagining a stunning woman, breath panting out as she receives my message. The thought makes my cock swell even more. It’s been too damn long since I’ve bedded anyone. Too busy, too wary, too tired. It’s always something. With my reputation, it’s impossible to know if a woman’s interest is genuine. Most of the time, they want the security money brings. They want the billionaire. They don’t actually want me, Byron Schaffer.
I say, Take off your shirt and bra.
My breathing shallows out as the seconds pass.
Done.
You’re just in your underwear, right?
Yes.
Tell me where you’re sitting.
She’s typing. I’m staring at the screen as if I can will her into existence in my office. From what I remember of her voice, she sounded like she was in her twenties, maybe early thirties at most. I’ve slept with plenty of women, some young, some old. Rose’s was throaty, breathless. I image it growing more breathless the more turned on she gets.
I’m sitting on my living room couch. Well, lying down. I have a blanket over my lap.
I can work with that.
I’m nervous. I’ve never done this before.
The intensity swirling inside me softens. Her honesty is compelling. There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’m going to bring pleasure to your body. That’s all. Then I type, You have to follow my rules, however.
What are your rules?
First rule: no coming unless I tell you to. Second rule: only touch where I tell you to touch. Third rule: this is a one-time only deal. After this, I’m blocking her number. I can’t risk this woman finding out my identity. My business means everything to me. Negative backlash would hurt Solonay, in the end.
It seems she’s not a fan of the one-time deal thing. So we won’t be texting anymore after this? What if—
No, I interrupt. If you can’t deal, we stop now.
Okay. Sorry. Sheesh.
Another smile, faint.
Go on, she types.
Then I do laugh. This woman has fire in her. I like a woman with fire.
What’s the most sensitive part of your body? I ask.
My clit. Also my nipples.
I want you to stroke your nipples lightly. Stroke around them, but don’t touch them. Imagine it’s me touching you. We’ll have to build up to the clit. I bet she’s sensitive down there. As soon as Rose touches herself, she won’t be able to hold back.
After a minute passes, I add, Start moving toward your stomach. Again, light touches. My leaking cockhead presses against the zipper of my pants, dampening the surrounding fabric.
When can I touch myself? Rose asks.
Did I say you could touch yourself?
No.
Then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. An instant later, I add, Begin stroking your inner thighs. Imagine it’s my tongue, so close to your core. My mouth waters at the possibility. How would she smell? Musky? What about taste? Would she be tart, or sweet?
I bet your tongue would feel amazing.
A buzzing grows louder in my ears. I’m completely unaware of everything but the conversation unfolding between us. With my office completely enclosed by glass, anyone could see me should I strip and start jerking myself. The thought grows in power as time trickles by. I’m tempted to pull the blinds.
I’m imagining her chest rising and falling, rosy with blood creeping across her skin. Rose. An English Rose, perhaps. Is her skin milk and honey, or is it darker? Suddenly I’m dying to know.
I want a picture of you. You don’t have to include your face. Just your body. Show me that pretty pussy you have open for me.
You’re not going to share this with anyone, are you?
A cocky comment hovers at my fingertips, but I have a feeling she wants a serious answer. Whatever occurs between Rose and I, it stays that way.
No, Rose. The picture is for my eyes only. That’s how I like it.
Thanks. I appreciate it.
She’s stalling.
The picture, Rose.
Um… here’s the thing. I’m not, like, a model or anything. From the speed of which I receive her messages, and the brevity of them, I know she’s typing frantically. I like eating, okay? Well, you know that. Pizza is a staple in my diet. Also doughnuts. Pink frosting with sprinkles. Don’t know why I’m telling you that because you likely don’t care, but I don’t want you to be disappointed when you see I’m not a size two.
My chuckle lifts in my chest. She’s stopped typing.
Is that all? I ask.
Crazy, how I can feel her hesitation. Even over texting, the woman is an open book. Yeah.
Send me the picture, Rose. My throat feels dry. Please, let her not be three hundred pounds.
She sends the pic. I tap it to bring it into focus.
Long, slender legs, pale yet kissed with color, are spread for me on a nondescript beige couch. From this angle, I see her slender waist, her hips swelling out. She’s bare save a small patch of dark hair curling between her thighs. Fuck me, the woman has a rocking body. She’s slender, but there’s enough meat for me to grab onto, fill my hands with. If she were here in person, I’d bend her over my desk, wrap my hands around her waist, and plunder her from behind. I’d stretch her so good.
A bolt of fire spreads between my thighs. My cock is now turgid, throbbing, waiting, waiting, waiting. I touch my length lightly, not wanting to give in just yet. But there’s a woman splayed over her coach somewhere in NYC, quivering with need for me, and I can’t hold back anymore.
With fumbling hands, I attack my belt, the button on my slacks, and tug my zipper down. The rough sound is loud in the quiet office. My breathing grows steadily louder, more erratic. I need to touch myself.
Pulling my cock from my boxer briefs, I give myself a slow tug. I’m imagining it’s Rose’s hand instead: small, slender, feminine. Her fingers almost wrap completely around the shaft, but not quite. The head is furiously red, dripping over my fingers as they make a pass across the sensitive slit and smear the precome down the veiny shaft. I look at her picture again, my focus zeroing in on the place where her neatly trimmed pubic hair conceals the nub I imagine to be wet and swollen with need. Juices drip from her channel down her legs and into her cleft. Moisture glistens there.
At this moment, I want nothing more than to bury my head between her thighs and lap up the taste of her. She’d be mewling in my ear, her hips rising and falling in instinct because she doesn’t know how to control it. That’s how badly she wants my cock.
With my free hand, I type out, Touch your entrance, but lightly. Stroke around the opening.
My eyes remain locked on the phone until she replies.
Oh. That feels good.
Stop.
What?
I didn’t tell you to stick a finger into yourself.
How did you know what I was doing???
I know your body, Rose.
That’s impossible. We’ve never even met.
I shrug, forgetting she can’t see it. These are things I know. I can sense people’s intentions through their actions, what they say and don’t say. I can read between the lines. Regardless, you’re breaking rule number two. Do you want to be punished? You’re not going to like it. I jerk myself harder.
I imagine her legs trembling with the need to move, but I know she’s listening to me. She’s no longer touching herself. She’s too afraid I’ll withhold pleasure from her as punishment. That’s exactly what it would be.
Sorry, Rose says. I’ll listen this time, I swear.
Show me.
She sends me another photo immediately. One hand rests on her stomach. Her legs are still splayed.
How do you like touching yourself, Rose?
Um. The pads of my fingers. Sometimes I use one finger, sometimes two. I like going in a circular motion. There’s a break. I wish I could see her touching her wet flesh, but I’m not going to get into videos. Pictures will have to do for now. I’m close.
Fuck, I’m close too. The world drops away. My grip tightens, and I twist my hand each time I reach the base, the underside of my wrist brushing against my balls, which ache from how tightly they’ve drawn up. The pace increases. Faster, faster, faster. The heat, the agony, the pleasure. I’m jacking myself furiously, barreling toward release, when another message appears, the words yes, please, and that’s all it takes for climax to grip me in the hottest, tightest hand, crushing me in its pleasure. My groan cracks against the silence. I keep fucking my hand as white liquid spurts against my desk, over and over, staining the expensive dark wood.
When it’s over, I slump back in my chair, sucking in air. My body tingles from the aftershocks. Fuck. That was amazing.
I reach for a tissue to wipe away the evidence and toss it into the trash. My heart continues to race minutes later. You there? I ask.
Yeah. That was… wow.
I smirk.
Did you come? Rose asks.
I did. It was amazing, but again, a one-time thing. I’m already regretting cutting her off. It has to be done though.
Have a good night, Rose.
Then I block her number.
Chapter 7
Leila
I feel like a new woman.
Orgasms, let me tell you, are powerful restoratives. Last night I slept like a dead baby. It’s rare for me to sleep through the night, but for once my body was so sated it gave out—caput. Not only did I wake up before my alarm, but I had time to eat a balanced breakfast of three doughnuts (don’t judge), and I didn’t miss my
train. When I arrived to work, dressed in stain-free clothes, I was twenty minutes early. It was kind of weird. No one was at the office yet except Peg and Mr. Billionaire. Or I assumed he was here, since his office door was closed.
My only disappointment is I’m pretty sure Pizza Guy blocked my number. I tried texting him this morning, and instead of a blue text bubble appearing on the screen, it turned green. That’s never happened to me before, so I looked it up. Sure enough, I was blocked. It baffled me. I got off. He got off. I had a good time. I’m pretty sure he did too. Something must have scared him away. Maybe he had enjoyed it too much.
The thought brings a smile to my lips.
As I breeze through the door, feeling fabulous in a navy pencil skirt, off-white blouse, and black pumps, I pause at the front desk to say hello to Peg. “Morning.”
The older woman pauses her typing and stares, head tilted. “You’re in a chipper mood. It’s like you’re an entirely different person.”
The horror of yesterday hangs like a cloud over my head. My smile dims. It wasn’t my brightest hour. “About that. I owe you an apology.”
I’ve gotten her attention. She pushes away from her computer to better face me. Her features scrunch in concern. It’s a motherly look, and one I haven’t seen geared toward me since my mother passed over ten years before. My heart squeezes painfully. I miss that woman.
“Whatever for, dear?”
And there goes the waterworks. I’d put on mascara too. Can’t remember if it’s waterproof or not. Boy, I sure hope so.
“For being a total loser,” I manage on a watery laugh, grabbing a tissue from the tissue box on her desk. “I’m so embarrassed about yesterday. I feel like I let you down, which is crazy, because I don’t even know you. But I know you hired me, not Mr. Bi—um, Schaffer.” Close one. “And I feel like a failure for how poorly my first impression was.”
She nods in sympathy. “I appreciate the apology, Leila, but it’s not needed. You had a bad day. So what? It’s not like that hasn’t happened to all of us.”
Bet it hasn’t happened to Mr. Billionaire. Of course, I don’t say that aloud.
But I swear she knows I’m thinking it, because her lips curve. They’re painted a hot pink. Her dress is a funky combination of cool colors and swirly patterns. Tossed over the dress is a black leather jacket. Peg is like someone’s really cool grandmother, who also happens to ride a Harley. I want to be her when I grow up.
The Billionaire's Assistant Page 4
