Bought by the Boss

by Valentine, Layla

  “You do,” I assure him.

  “Prove it,” he says. “Reach down, now. Touch yourself. Tell me what you’re doing.”

  He can’t be serious.

  “I’m waiting,” he says.

  He is. He is serious.

  Cautiously, nervously, I reach my fingers beneath the covers. I’m wearing a tattered pair of pajama shorts that I’ve had since college and no underwear. My hand slips easily beneath the worn elastic band.

  “Speak,” Hunter says.

  I’ve never done this before. My tongue feels heavy in my throat. What am I supposed to say? I close my eyes and feel my lashes flutter against my cheek as my fingers begin to move between my legs. I’m a nervous wreck.

  “I—I’m touching myself now,” I say. My voice is shaking, barely a whisper.

  “Speak louder,” Hunter says. “Are you stroking yourself gently? Or is it a firm touch? What do you like, Maria?”

  “It’s soft,” I say. My fingers begin moving in small, short motions against my clit. I feel heat starting to build, despite my nerves. I squeeze my eyes shut firmer and force myself to speak. “Soft, gentle movements. It feels good. My pussy is starting to get wet now.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Hunter says. “I’ve felt that before. You become wet so easily, Maria. You’re always ready. Keep moving your hand like that. But no more. Even when you want to, no more.”

  “Okay,” I say, shuddering slightly as my arousal grows. “I’m moving my fingers up and down my clit. It feels… oh, it feels harder now. It feels good.”

  “Stop,” Hunter commands.

  My fingers stop moving. I inhale.

  “Start again now,” Hunter says.

  I continue.

  “Little strokes,” he says. “I know you want more. Up and down, Maria. Be gentle.”

  “Mmm,” I say, melting into the movement of my fingers. I know my own pussy so well. It feels good to touch myself in exactly the way I like.

  “Stop,” Hunter says.

  I do as he says. My whole body seems to ground into my mounting excitement.

  “Now begin again,” Hunter says. “Small movements, Maria. A very light touch.”

  “Mmmm,” I moan, louder. I intend to speak, but forming words is impossible at this moment.

  I’ve never lasted this long. Usually, I would have brought myself over the edge by now. If it wasn’t for Hunter on the phone, listening to every breath, I would let my hand move wildly at this point, faster and harder. But then he would know I am disobeying him.

  Pressure is mounting between my legs. My clit throbs with intense pleasure. It’s excruciatingly hard to stop my hand from making harder, faster strokes. Hunter dictates my rhythm.

  “Up and down, up and down, up and down,” he says. Every few moments, he makes me stop and bear down, grounding my energy.

  Oh. My. God.

  I never knew. I never, never knew that I could hold this much energy inside of me. I had no idea this could feel so good, for so long.

  Twenty minutes pass in this manner, and each time I think I can’t possibly bear one more fraction of excitement before splitting in half, Hunter guides me into new territory.

  Finally, finally, he says, “Now come, baby. Come for me. Faster, harder, come baby. Come now.”

  I let my fingers dive into myself. My chin tilts up to the ceiling as my hand moves faster, faster, faster. And then I’m coming, calling out as I drop the phone from my hand. I convulse on the bed as though I’m being electrocuted. The blankets are damp and tangled around me. I see stars in my mind’s eye as fireworks explode through my body.

  When it passes, I’m breathing hard. Slowly, through my haze, I remember the phone. When did I drop it? I search for it, in the tangle of covers. I find it and bring it to my ear.

  The line has gone dead.

  Hunter hung up.

  I glance at the clock on my phone’s screen.

  It’s now almost four in the morning.

  In three hours, I’ll be leaving for Brazil. I set my alarm for six before falling into a hazy, exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 14

  Hunter

  “Time to get dressed,” I say, rolling playfully on top of her.

  Her arm is up, over her head. Her bare breasts point upward, pulled by the reach of her arms. The nipples are red, swollen—I’ve just removed her nipple clamps moments before. She smiles at me as I press my weight into her.

  “What if I don’t want to?” she asks languidly.

  Soft white covers pool around her. Her raven black hair lays on top of the mess of pure white, tousled by our morning’s activities. We’ve only just checked into the hotel, and already we’ve taken the large, four-poster bed for a test drive.

  I look up, through the gauzy white canopy and out toward the Rio de Janeiro surf beyond.

  “You naughty thing,” I say. I playfully spank her, and then roll back, off her, so I can get off of the bed. I feel her eyes on me as I stretch, reaching my arms high above my head.

  Behind me, she stirs.

  “What now?” she asks.

  “I want to show you the city,” I say.

  “I’m tired, Hunter. Someone had me up—in the middle of the night.”

  I turn and look at her. Her tone is warm, relaxed. The rough sex gave way to a powerful orgasm for each of us, and a blissful post-sex high has settled over the room like a tropical cloud.

  I’m too content to argue. I move to the edge of the bed and sit. My hand strays to her hair, strewn across the puffy pillow, tangle of sheets and light covers. “Mi pequeño amor,” I say gently. It’s one of the few Spanish phrases that I know.

  She’s quiet.

  I keep talking. “When I was a child, I had several nannies. One of my favorites called me that,” I say softly, recalling the elderly woman who spoke mostly Spanish to me.

  “My little love,” Maria says lazily.

  “She was from Spain,” I recall, picturing the elderly woman with the grey hair, black eyes, and wise smile.

  Maria shifts to her side and props her head up on her elbow. She’s gazing up at me. I lie back and readjust my hand so that I can keep smoothing her hair. It feels nice against my fingertips.

  “You said your father raised you?” Maria asks.

  At first, I’m surprised that she knows this about me. But then I remember that we talked about our pasts on our very first night together.

  I nod. “He was a very busy man. A very busy businessman… Don’t you think it’s perfect, how language gives us clues? Busy and busi-ness. He traveled a lot, managing several production companies internationally.”

  “He didn’t remarry?” Maria guesses. “After your mother passed?”

  “No. He was too fond of women to choose just one.” I hear the bitterness in my own voice.

  “That must have been hard for you, as a child,” Maria says, reading into my tone.

  I don’t want to go into it. I don’t want to tell her that every time my father started seeing a woman, I would imagine that I had a new mother. Each time he ended things, I felt the loss of my mother all over again. Add to that a revolving series of nannies, whom my father always eventually fired, one after another, and you have one fucked up child.

  Me.

  I sit up abruptly.

  “Get dressed,” I say again. It’s not a demand—I’m not role-playing now. Our play session for the morning has ended. Our conversation has left me raw. I’m asking her—begging her—to get dressed.

  “Okay, Hunter,” she says.

  I turn my back to her, and hear her shifting amongst the covers, untangling herself. To my surprise, before she gets out of bed, she crawls over to me. I feel her bare skin against my back. Her soft, round breasts press into me as she wraps her arms around my neck. She’s on her knees behind me, and for a blissful moment, she holds me—not saying a word, just holding me.

  I close my eyes.

  She kisses my temple softly; just a peck, and then smooths my ha
ir, as I’ve been doing to hers.

  Then, too soon, she retreats. I don’t look at her as she stirs on the other side of the bed, gathering her clothing up off the floor.

  It’s been one week since our arrangement began. I have one more week with her.

  “Maria,” I say, with my back still turned to her. “My meetings don’t start until tomorrow. I’d like to show you around the city today.”

  She doesn’t answer me, so finally, curious, I turn and look at her.

  I can only see a slight crescent of her profile. She’s turned away from me, bending down to retrieve a shoe off the floor. But I swear, she’s smiling.

  “Would you like that?” I ask.

  “I’ve never been to Rio,” she says. “I was hoping to see some of the sights.”

  I feel warmth spreading through my chest. She’s never seen this city! I feel a sense of pride at the thought of showing it to her as if it was my creation.

  I shower and dress, and then, while Maria is taking her turn in the shower, I place a quick phone call. This is her first time in the city, and I want it to be memorable. There’s something I want to show her, and I want it to be a surprise.

  I make the arrangements quickly and am just hanging up the phone as she steps out of the shower. I feel sure that she hasn’t heard a word of my phone conversation, and I’m glad.

  Soon we’re walking through she sun-soaked city streets. It feels natural to reach for Maria’s hand. The feel of her palm against mine is comforting. Here in this city, she’s the only familiar face I’ve seen all day.

  And it’s a face I never tire of looking at.

  She seems energized by the colorful, bustling city streets. A childlike sense of excitement overtakes any fatigue from her late night and our journey in my private jet.

  “I was here last winter,” I say, arching my neck as I read the street signs. “I found the best little cafe. I think it’s right around the corner here.”

  I tug on her hand, and she skips a step to keep up with me. I’m starving—the activities of the hotel room have left me with quite an appetite.

  “Mi pequeño amor…” Maria says dreamily as she follows me down the wide sidewalk.

  Ancient trees stand as sentinels on many street corners, defying the confines of cement sidewalks and bursting upward in a show of nature’s strength. When I look down at Maria, her face is dappled with shadow from the tree leaves.

  “I think it’s sweet that she called you that, your nanny. My mother had nicknames for us, too—my sister and I.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Camila.”

  She looks surprised that I remembered her sister’s name.

  I laugh. “I’m a businessman. It’s part of my job to remember names. Networking is no use if you forget names—you can actually end up doing more harm than good.”

  “Oh. Is that why you’re so charming sometimes? So easy to like? It’s a business skill?”

  “I learned it from my father,” I say.

  “You’re good at schmoozing the clients,” she says giggling.

  “I better be. That’s how I make a living.”

  “Oh please! Hunter, you do more than make a living. You make enough of a ‘living’ for a thousand lives!”

  There’s a break in the traffic, and I tug Maria’s hand, guiding her forward with me.

  “How is Camila?” I ask. “She’s going through a divorce, right?”

  “The divorce is final now,” Maria says.

  Her demeanor has changed. I feel her mood plummeting. I want to cheer her up. I squeeze her hand.

  “She’ll get through it,” I say. “And weren’t you saying that the guy was a real loser? She’s better off without him.”

  This seems to cheer her up, and I’m glad. I spot the restaurant I was thinking of. “There,” I say, pointing. “That’s the cafe. The food is so fresh. They have delicious breakfast burritos wrapped in handmade tortillas, and some of the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. The coffee beans are probably fresh from the rainforest right outside of the city.”

  We duck into the quaint restaurant. Bright aquamarine walls speckled with beautiful artwork in a rainbow of colors cocoon us. Maria is still at my side, and I release her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulder instead.

  Once we order and are seated, she says, “It’s beautiful here. Thank you.”

  Her sincere thanks catches me off guard.

  “Places seem to have a specific energy about them, don’t they?” I ask. “I mean, sometimes in San Bravado I get so caught up in newness. Everything around us has just been built—it’s all so cutting edge. A place like this…” I look around at the worn, history-soaked walls. “This place has a completely different vibe about it. So old. Almost wise.”

  “Mr. Philosopher,” Maria says. She smiles radiantly, and I want to kiss her then and there.

  “What do you think?” I ask. “Don’t you ever feel like that about places?”

  “Hunter, I’ve never had time for deep thinking. My life—my life before this, I mean—has been so much about survival. I think about practical things. My family, my mother, while she was alive—she passed away two years ago—my sister, my nephews. Rent, work… My mind is full. Constantly full.”

  “What about now?” I ask. “You have time now.”

  She looks into my eyes, smiles again. “Yes,” she says thoughtfully. “I guess I do. Well, then, since you’re asking, what do I think?”

  She sits for a moment in silence and then speaks softly. “I think that the energy we feel in a place says more about what’s going on inside of us than out. I think that our environments are a reflection of our inner world.”

  I’m truly stunned. “Maria!” I say.

  She laughs self-consciously.

  I grin. “I had to take sixteen philosophy credits at Harvard. I’ve read all of the greats—Plato, Aristotle, Descartes. What you just said is as deep as anything I’ve ever read in one of those books.”

  She blushes. “I didn’t go to Harvard, like you,” she says humbly.

  “You think that matters?” I ask. “Half of the kids I was at school with cared more about the next frat party than the classes they were taking.” I shake my head and lean forward. “Okay, then, Ms. Philosopher. What does this place say about what is happening inside of us?” I motion to the serene cafe: the handcrafted, detailed artwork, the bursting colors.

  She blushes again.

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “You do,” I press.

  “I don’t.”

  “I really think you do.” I won’t let her off the hook that easily.

  “Okay, Hunter. I think we’re here—I think maybe you invited me here—because there’s more to you than the cold shark that navigates business deals and relationships looking for prey. I think there’s another side of you…” Her voice drifts off momentarily as her eyes wander our setting. She speaks again, carefully. “Your other side is warmer, softer. Wise, vulnerable…sweet. Maybe you wanted to show me that side of you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. I wasn’t expecting that. I feel a twinge in my gut. Is that why I invited her here?

  “What do you think?” she asks. “Why did you want me to come with you?”

  “Well,” I say, drawing the word out as I try to formulate my emotions into words. Is there a part of me, that I’ve hidden away, which longs to come out?

  Her arms felt so comforting, soft, and warm, wrapped around me. The way she kissed me on the temple was so sweet. Do I deserve her tenderness?

  I look away from her. “It’s been one week, Maria. Do you realize that? We started our arrangement last Wednesday. It will last until this upcoming Wednesday. Let’s not confuse things now. As for me…I hate to disappoint you, but I’m a businessman, through and through. Like my father, and his father before him, I’m sure. I think I invited you here because I wanted to get my money’s worth.”

  As if on cue, the waitress approaches with a tray of food. Ceramic mugs filled
with coffee emit ropes of steam into the air; two plates piled high with an assortment of vegetables, meats, pastries, and fruit.

  As I eye the food, my appetite—which quieted during our conversation—returns to me, even stronger than before.

  “Perfect,” I say. “Let’s eat. After this, we’ll go to Sugarloaf Mountain. There’s a tram you can ride up, and the view from the top is wonderful. Then the beach. I want to get some surfing in.”

  And after that, I think to myself, the surprise I have planned. If I focus on the activities of the afternoon ahead of us, I don’t have to dwell on our conversation. Maria has surprised me with the depth of her awareness. Does she know me better than I know myself—after just one short week? Impossible.

  The reason she’s here is because I bought her. That’s it. Right?

  Chapter 15

  Maria

  Something’s changed in Hunter. He’s doing odd things, like looking at me with softness—instead of hard, hungry lust—in his eyes. It’s an expression of caring.

  He’s making all these little gestures too, and I don’t even know if he realizes it.

  For starters, there’s the way he holds my hand as we walk the streets, ride up the tram on Sugarloaf, and then walk across the sightseeing boardwalk. Then there’s the way he loops his arm casually around my shoulder when we stop to rest—first at the cafe this morning, again looking out from on top of the mountain, and a third time while we chose rental surfboards from the surf shack at the beach.

  And finally, there’s the way he acts so protective of me, while we lie on the beach, lazy under the afternoon sun. When men look at me, he always does something to show that we’re together. When we played in the surf on rented surfboards, he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me, showing anyone nearby that we were together.

  Now, as we towel off for a final time and I pull my jean cut-offs up over the bikini he bought me, I wonder if he notices how he’s acting. Does he feel the difference in our interactions, like I do?

  “I’ll take care of that,” he says, reaching for the towel that I’ve just shaken out and folded up. “We won’t need them again.”