Gentry’s voice suddenly fills my office. “I’ll expect you to take the wardrobe home and dress in appropriate attire from now on.”
I spin around. He’s still sitting in the chair in his office, not even looking my direction. My gaze goes back to my desk. There’s a small one of those sleek mini triangle tripod thingies I’ve seen on TV that must be the intercom and maybe even phone system.
But yeah. As if the glass wall didn’t give it away, it’s clear there’s never going to be any privacy. Ever.
“And I believe I said that the bra needs to go as well, Miss Cruise.”
Fucker.
I turn my back to him and force myself not to visibly react. He might be putting me in this position but really, it’s my circumstances that have me between a rock and a hard place. I smirk. No pun intended. Christ. Maybe it’s not so bad after all if I’m still making jokes.
I breathe out a long breath, then take off my bra and hang it along with my shirt and jacket on some empty hangers. I take another quick moment to flip through the rack of clothing. It feels expensive. Silks and fine thread-count wools. All skirts and low cut blouses. Shocker.
At least Gentry’s predictable. He thinks he holds the power but apparently all straight males can be moved by the influence of a big rack and a swaying ass. I can use that. I turn around and sit down at my desk without glancing his way. If this is a game to him, I’ve just been tossed in the deep end. Now I only have to learn how to swim, and fast, or else be swallowed by sharks.
* * *
At four-thirty, I’m constantly staring at the little clock at the bottom of my computer screen. I’ve almost survived my first day of work. And it’s been, well… exceedingly normal. Except for the not wearing a shirt for the first half of a day.
But ever since we left for the meeting, Gentry was a perfect gentleman. A charismatic employer.
We greeted several of his research and development team department heads in the conference room and they talked about ongoing projects as Gentry got status updates. It was overwhelming as I tried to follow what the hell was going on and take even semi-competent notes. Yeah, I studied coding and robotics in college, but not even remotely at the level of the stuff they were talking about at that meeting. Gentry understood it, or seemed to, though a lot of what he does as the CEO is delegation at this point.
Meanwhile, I realized I’m in over my head, and way more than I thought this morning. Ever since we got back from the meeting, I’ve been googling note-taking strategies, because I’ve got to come up with something faster than trying to write down every word. That wasn’t cutting it. Writing up the notes was probably supposed to take half an hour but it took me almost two. And I still only caught maybe half of everything that was said. I need to read up more on the Gentry Tech products in general so I can keep afloat of what’s going on. They’re most famous for their drone research, but they also work in all kinds of surveillance technology. Gentry’s famously (or infamously, depending on who you ask) quoted as saying that Gentry Tech products will be the “eyes on the globe.” Whether you consider his company big brother or not, he’s doing massively ambitious work here.
And shit, am I going to lose this job because I can’t do the actual work involved? Would that make me feel better or worse than if I lost it because of taking the moral high ground?
“Miss Cruise?” Gentry’s voice comes over the intercom.
Double shit. I look over at him. I emailed him the notes document half an hour ago after lunch, but that was probably way after he expected them. He’s not looking at me. Is he going to fire me over the intercom?
“Roll your chair over to the window.”
Wait. My brain can’t follow for a second. What?
“Don’t keep me waiting.” He sounds impatient, so I do what he says even though it doesn’t make any sense. How can I finish working through the emails he sent me to answer if I’m not at my computer? I roll my chair over close to the window anyway.
“Pull your skirt up to your thighs and take off your panties.”
I blink.
“Miss Cruise?”
Right. Sex job. I follow the instructions, but simultaneously feel like I want to both laugh and cry. I can’t believe I got so caught up for the last few hours thinking about this like a real job.
It’s just, it felt real for a little while there. In front of his colleagues, he treated me like I was a real Personal Assistant. He introduced me as if I was. I let myself forget. Because I’m a stupid girl.
But I won’t be. Not anymore. I stiffen my back as I kick off my panties and push up my skirt. It bunches uncomfortably at my waist and I sit back on the chair. The smooth leather feels strange against my ass.
Gentry keeps working without looking up. I just sit there. He still doesn’t look up.
“Um,” I finally say. “I’m here. In position.”
“I know,” is all he says.
I can’t help the breath of air that huffs out. Bastard. God, what does he want from me? To just sit here like some pornographic statue for the last hour of the day while he finishes up?
He lets me sit there another good long while. Five minutes. Ten?
Finally, he decides to grace me with his attention.
He stands up and pulls his chair to roll with him as he walks over to the glass. He pauses on the other side of the glass right in front of me. He sits down with that charming smile firmly in place.
“Open your legs, Callie.” His voice isn’t muted at all even though the door between the rooms is still closed. It’s coming through the intercom. Handy trick. “Spread them wide. I want to see your cunt.”
I sit perfectly straight and do as I’m told. Last night, this is how I determined I’d approach everything he requests of me. Do it without thinking. Be a robot. He wants a monkey on a string, fine. That’s what I’ll be.
“Wider.”
I stretch my legs open wider, eyes focused on the outside wall where I can look out on the city. I’ll pretend I’m in one of those cars on the bridge, driving far, far away from here.
“Put your fingers on your pussy lips and open so I can see.”
I do.
He makes a tutting noise. “Ah ah ah, Callie, you’re being a naughty girl. You aren’t even a little bit wet. I want to look at a pretty, juicy, wet cunny. And you’re going to give me want I want, aren’t you, my pretty little slut?” His voice deepens. “Look at me. Callie.” His voice is sharp as he calls my name. “Calliope. Eyes on me.”
My eyes snap to his. His brown eyes are so dark they seem to bleed into the pupils.
“That’s right,” he croons. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare take them away. You signed the contracts this morning. You’re mine. Stick a finger in your mouth.”
My anger flares before I shut it down. Robot, Cals, you’re a robot.
I pop my forefinger in my mouth and pull it out again, but he’s quick to stop me. “Suck on it,” he hisses.
Reluctantly, I stick it back in my mouth.
“That’s right,” he says with a lazy smile. He leans back in his chair. In the bottom of my periphery, I can see his hands are going to his pants. He unbuckles them and pulls his cock out. He’s uncut and he pulls the skin back—
I snap my eyes back up to his. Shit. Why did I let my eyes go there?
“It’s okay my pet. I want you to look. Look at my hard cock and suck harder on your finger.” And, a second later. “You’re not sucking hard enough.” The hard edge to his voice. “And look.”
I suck, and I look.
His cock is big. Not gigantic or anything, but bigger than the couple I’ve ever encountered before—and only one of those was a man I actually slept with. Mr. McIntyre never actually went that far.
Isn’t that the irony?
Here I am. The whore who’s only slept with one man in her twenty-two years.
Gentry doesn’t jerk at it frantically like I’ve seen other guys do. No, Gentry just rolls his hand lazily, up and down, up and down with a lit
tle twist when he reaches the head. A wet drop slips out the slit and then he rubs that all around the head so that it glistens a little in the well-lit room.
I swallow.
Gentry laughs. “Now stick that finger in your cunt. I can see I’m starting to make you wet. That’s right, whore, stick it up in there.”
A rush of mortification swarms me. I want to turn away from him. But no. This is what I signed up for.
Just do what he says. Be a robot. Be a fucking robot. I jam my forefinger up in my vagina, a little harder than necessary. He can get off. That’s what this is about. But I don’t have to. I can still walk out of here with my dignity.
But it’s like the fucker can read my thoughts. “Aw, did I hurt my precious slut’s feelings? I’m sorry, baby.” His voice is soft. Like he genuinely cares, in spite of calling me a slut. “You need to learn when I say these things, it’s because you’re mine. I like that pretty pussy of yours. You don’t have to come today. But you’re still going to touch yourself. Put your thumb on your clit and stick two fingers in your pretty pussy. Stretch yourself while you rub and look in my eyes.”
I do what he says and look at him. That’s the most difficult part, I swear. Because his words are one thing. They’re crass. They’re dirty. Sometimes they’re even mean. But he looks at me with this intensity. A sort of want that borders on craving.
And he’s touching himself. “That’s right. That’s riiiiiiiight. You know how hard you’re making me right now? All I can think about is ramming into that dirty little pussy of yours. Stretching you open so fucking wide.” He only breaks gazes with me enough to look down at me touching myself. Unwittingly, I do the same. I look down at him pulling on his cock. He’s rougher now. He’s still not quick about it, though. Like he’s not letting himself rush the experience.
In spite of my determination not to let myself be affected, it’s absurdly hot. This attractive, put-together and powerful man, in his suit and tie but with that most intimate part of himself out on display… When I look at his face, I can see his teeth are gritted and his jaw is tensed. And those eyes. They’re heated, every ounce of his energy and power directed at me and his pleasure.
His eyes look back down at what I’m doing between my legs. And fuck it, I’m grinding into my hand. My back bows against the leather chair because Christ, it feels good. I’ve never felt things like this fucking bastard pulls out from me. I glare at him because I can see the satisfaction in his face. He knows what he’s doing to me. He can probably see how engorged I’m getting. How wet he’s making me.
I arch again in spite of myself.
“You’re fucking juicing for me now, aren’t you?”
He stands up and presses one hand to the glass, leaning over with his cock in his other hand. I bet it’s the same posture as when he’s jacking off in the shower. Christ, I can’t believe I’m getting to see this. Something so intimate. Yes, I’m touching myself in front of him, but he’s doing the same. Just the thought and the sight of him so hard right in front of my face sends another wave of heat between my legs. Anyone else and I’d be grossed out, but it’s not a dirty old man or some disgusting pageant judge. It’s Bryce Gentry. He’s gorgeous. He’s watching and waiting for my pleasure. Oh God, but this is still wrong. My back arches again as the pleasure rises higher inside me.
His cock seems like it’s even bigger now, and I don’t think it’s just because it’s closer with him standing near the glass like that. I can’t stop staring. It’s long, with a thick vein running up along the underside and a pink mushroom head that he squeezes and twists every time he gets to it before pulling back down along the shaft.
“Your cunt is fucking squelching over there, isn’t it? Just from looking at my cock. You wish I had you up against this glass, don’t you?” He pounds at the glass wall with his hand and I look back up toward his eyes. They’re so hot with want. Is he going to open up the door and come around and fuck me? Surely that’s what all this has been leading up toward. I keep touching myself, having no idea what I’d do if he did.
“You’re creaming yourself just at the sight of me,” he says, voice elevated. “Tell me the truth,” he slams at the glass again. “Come, you fucking slut! Do it now!” He hammers again at the glass, looking wild as he pumps so hard at his dick it looks almost painful.
Oh Christ, we’re losing control together.
I’m panting so hard I can barely breathe and rub at my clit while pumping fingers from my other hand in and out of myself, imagining it’s his cock and I come and I come and I come—
A high-pitched squeal that barely has sound eeks out of me as my vision goes white.
I feel it to the crown of my scalp and beyond to the end of each follicle of hair. I feel it to the tips of my fingernails. I feel it to the edges of my toes.
When I come back into my body, I feel like a woman reborn.
I open my eyes, ready to see the shared experience on Bryce’s face, but he’s sitting back down in his chair.
Still rubbing his dick back and forth.
He didn’t come with me.
Instead, he pulls a cloth out of his suit pocket and lays it on his lap. Then, while he’s looking at something on his phone, he keeps jerking at his cock. A few seconds later, he spews cum onto the cloth. Without another glance my way.
He cleans up his cock with the cloth, then drops it in a bin in one of his cupboards. He whistles while he packs his laptop in a briefcase and saunters toward the door of his office. Before he leaves, his voice comes through the intercom one more time—he must have it wired through his damn phone or Bluetooth or something, because I can’t see him pressing anything, “Oh, and Miss Cruise, tomorrow I’ll need you to take out my dry-cleaning.” With that, he’s gone.
CHAPTER 4
I choke back the sob that’s trying to come up my throat and spin my chair away from his office. I stand up just enough to yank my skirt back down, sweat mixing with my makeup and running into my eyes until they sting.
It’s just from the sweat and the makeup in my eyes. That’s all. That’s the only reason I’m crying. Not because of him. I find the small container of tissues I keep in my purse and tug several free. I swipe angrily at my eyes until I can see again.
God. Is letting myself be humiliated like this worth it? But what the hell else am I going to do? I slink to the ground with my back to the desk and bang my head against it. Then I grab my purse and frantically reach for my phone.
I log into my banking app. Instead of the $64.53 that was my entire balance yesterday, there’s now a balance of $6583.76.
I sit up straighter and immediately wipe again at my eyes.
Holy shit. It’s real.
I lean back against the desk and breathe out. Holy shit. I mean, I believed the bastard when he told me the salary earlier, but seeing the number in my bank account. Sixty-five hundred dollars. Every month.
I let out a little laugh. That’s my paycheck after tax… holy shit.
The three-thousand-dollar retainer fee for my dream lawyer is suddenly… totally doable. As in, I can pay for the attorney and make rent. Or well, pay off some back rent, and be current within a couple months.
Oh my God. My chest feels like it’s filled with helium. When I laugh this time, it’s genuine.
And then I’m just shaking my head, because what the fuck? I haven’t been wrung through so many emotions in such a short amount of time since… well, since I told David I was pregnant with Charlie.
I take in a deep breath and hold it as I get shakily to my feet.
Buck up, Cals. This is your life. I drag myself off the office floor. Yes, my life might be a string of one fucked up thing after another right now. Yes, I might be getting myself in what I’ll just sweep under the rug and refer to once I’m old and wise as ‘youthful indiscretions.’ But I’ll get through this. I’ll be able to fight whatever super-attorneys David and his wife throw at me.
One day at a time, one foot in front of another.
&n
bsp; I throw my mascara covered tissues in the trash and open up the clothes cabinet at the back of my office. I fix my makeup in the cabinet mirror and smile at my reflection. It looks more like a grimace. I roll my eyes, grab an outfit for tomorrow, and shut the door tight.
* * *
The rest of the week, nothing happens.
Well, I mean, a lot of things happen. I’m thrown in the deep end as far as figuring out what the fuck a personal assistant does.
Some of it is what you see on TV and the movies—getting coffee and the boss’s dry cleaning, but the rest of it is just mundane office stuff. Learning how to deal with Gentry’s personal and business email correspondence, i.e., copying and pasting similar polite responses with brief personalizations at the start and end, mostly saying thank you for contacting me but I’m very busy, blah, blah, blah. Or fielding requests for meetings, personal appearances, interviews, and managing his very hectic calendar. Along with the emails of the female variety wanting a follow- up encounter for a rendezvous. When I ask Gentry about them, he only dismissively rolls his eyes and asks how they got his email in the first place. I very diplomatically do not mention that I can see from the email history that he and whichever woman have emailed back and forth several times—often with him initiating contact after he’s met the woman at some social event or other. At his bidding, I write a quick response requesting no further communication and then block their emails. I try to use the nicest language I can. But really, is there a nice way to tell someone you’ve been intimate with to fuck off and never contact you again? I’ve been on the other side of that and I know that no, there’s not.
But apart from the never-ending task of keeping up with his email, taking notes whenever he has meetings, ordering his schedule, and keeping him in hot, caffeinated beverages, Gentry doesn’t request any extras outside the scope of a normal PA’s duties. I’m both relieved and on edge every second waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At home each night I’ve started taking the hottest baths I can stand to loosen the muscles in my back and neck. I’m sore from being so tense all day, just waiting for the next crass demand from my boss.
Crush Me Page 4
