by Mona Cox
The right side.
The side where, right at this very moment, the guy I stole the cab from not even 40 minutes ago is standing.
And he’s staring right at me.
And … oh god, it dawns on me … he's the Wolf of New York.
I
am
so
fucked.
112
Apollo
“…Apollo Kane is going to continue this tradition of treating each and every employee as if they matter, because you do, of course, and so right now, you should give him a big round of applause!”
My eyes shoot back to Mr. Isaouk, the utter banality of his speech managing to tear my attention away from the hot brunette in the crowd who’d stolen my cab this morning and caused me to be ten minutes late to this farce of an announcement.
The random smattering of applause at Mr. Isaouk’s final sentence makes it clear that my future employees don't believe his bullshit any more than I do. I stride up onto the dais and face the crowd of mostly hostile employees.
And one extremely fuckable brunette.
Who is also one of your employees now, I tell myself.
I ignore that thought and dive into my speech about how much I admire Blush magazine for being a leader and a trendsetter in the magazine world, which was true 15 years ago but isn’t now, and how things will stay mostly the same, which is only a partial lie, really and focus on keeping my eyes away from that girl because if I let my eyes drift back to her, I might begin to remember the shape of her ass as she climbed into the cab this morning.
She’s just some hottie who knows it and flaunts it. I don’t need that bullshit in my life.
I have enough women who come when I snap my fingers. I don’t need someone who expects me to come when she snaps hers. Oh hell no. Girls crawl all over each other to get a piece of me and my bank account, and my cock. I don’t bend to them.
She tosses her hair and leans over to whisper something in the ear of the woman standing next to her, and then they both smirk and laugh quietly.
Now, I want to be her boss, just so I can give her the nastiest job in the joint. I’m sure someone here has to scrub the floorboards with a toothbrush, right? Might as well be her.
I finally wind down my rehearsed speech, only having to refer to my cards occasionally as I talk. I can talk convincingly and plan strategies to take down my enemies at the same time.
And that brunette? She has it coming. She won’t know what hit her.
The employees applaud as unconvincingly for my speech as they did for Mr. Isaouk’s but I don’t care. Fuck ‘em. I own their asses now. I signed the paperwork last night, and then celebrated with three gorgeous women in my private Jacuzzi.
Which is why I was late waking up this morning—fucking three women and bringing them all to orgasm takes a lot of skill and stamina, you know, and so when my private limo got a fucking flat tire on the way to Blush, I had no choice. I had to jump out and try to flag a taxi cab. I mean, I’ve been in a taxi before, sure. It’s been a while; I don’t slum it just to try to keep some street cred or something. I’ve worked hard to be worth billions and I don’t have to justify my lifestyle to anyone, but I’ve been in one before.
I can’t say that I’ve had one stolen from me before, though. Not many people dare to stand up to me, and they sure as fuck don’t laugh at me and hang their heads out of the window of a cab, waving gleefully at me as they do it.
Mr. Isaouk walks me to my temporary office—just this small, piece of shit office with only two windows in it and not a decent stick of furniture to be found—and apologizes for the humbleness of the office as he backs out, bowing as he goes, promising I’ll be able to move into my real office tomorrow.
Fucking right I will, whether its current occupant wants me to or not.
I stride over to the floor-to-ceiling window by the cheap oak desk and stare out over the city.
I need to get myself under control. I can’t have that little slip of a girl fucking me around like this. I spent the last hour thinking-not-thinking about how much I’d like to spank that round ass of hers and really, I can’t let her control that much of my focus. I should probably call up Tiffani tonight and see if she’d be wiling to do a round—or three—of some nasty BDSM games. Tying her up and—
The knocking on the door interrupts my thoughts. Cursing under my breath, I turn and call out, “Come.”
I don’t want to sit on that nasty leatherette chair at that piece of shit oak desk, so I stay standing instead, arms folded across my chest. Whoever it is, they damn well better have a good reason for ruining my daydream about spanking Tiffani like the slut she is.
The door slowly opens and around the corner, in peeks her.
The taxi thief.
The fuckable brunette.
The one I’m going to make clean the baseboards of the building with a toothbrush.
I instantly feel myself grow hard as she slips into the office and closes the door behind her quietly, her tits shoved up underneath her chin, her skirt hugging every curve she has, and I don’t know why she’s in my office, but I do know I need to get my cock under control.
Because the other option, the option that my cock is pushing for real hard? It’s to bend her over the desk and fuck her from behind.
And I’m not going to do that, I don’t care how much my cock begs me to.
I stare at her, and wait for her to speak.
113
Ashley
You heard when I said Wolf of New York, right?
Like, you were paying attention and remember that, right?
This guy is a major player in EVERYTHING.
He owns the Biltmore Hotel in Soho. The Susan Duran fashion line. I think he bought the football team, New York Nailers too.
I mean, you see him on newspapers. You see him on TV.
Duh, no wonder he seemed kinda familiar.
So, I’m like fucked. No, actually, I think I’m dying. Like, really dying. I’m thinking that my heart is gonna jump right out of my chest, it’s pounding so hard and I can’t breathe right and—
I straighten my back, which incidentally pushes out my chest, which can never hurt, right? And I push back my hair.
I can do this. I may die before I get everything out, but I can do this.
“IjustcametoapologizeforstealingyourcabthismorningandI’mreallysorryaboutit.”
Whoosh. Okay, so he may not have understood anything I just said, but I said it and so that’s what counts, right? I have a clean conscience now. I’m good to go. I can—
I start backing slowly toward the door, feeling for the knob with my hand outstretched. It has to be here somewh—
He’s striding toward me, long, distance-eating strides and he’s pissed as fuck and I’m searching more frantically now because goddammit, I need that doorknob like yesterday and then whack! Something goes tumbling to the floor and glass shards are everywhere and this really embarrassing high-pitched squeak comes out me. You know, like a chew toy for a dog? Oh yeah, I just did that.
Oh my god, I seriously want to die now.
He reaches me and instead of strangling me or picking me up and turning me over his knee to spank me—my panties instantly moisten at the thought, traitorous body—he grabs the doorknob and opens it.
There it is. Dammit. I’d been creeping down the wall, searching for it, and had moved the wrong damn direction.
“Someone, get me a dustpan and broom!” he barks out the door and then slams it shut. I look down at my feet, giant purple shards of glass everywhere, and I’m trying to find the least shard-strewn path out of my predicament when he barks, “Don’t move!”
I pause, one foot slightly raised in the air, like a runner in a photograph, and then I just stand there, unsure if I should put my foot down or continue to try to balance on one foot for the foreseeable future.
I bite my lower lip in hesitation, and a smirk crosses his face. He knows what I’m debating, and instead of telling me how to get out of
this mess—literally—he decides to laugh at me.
All desire to apologize to him flees instantly. I mean sure, I stole his cab and then broke his precious purple vase—what guy owns a purple vase?—but him smirking at me?
Fuck him.
I glare at him, my leg wobbling as my calf muscles get tired of trying to hold me up, and then a knock on the door breaks our standoff.
“Here sir—Apollo—Mr. Kane,” Fredrick stutters and then backs out of the room and closes the door, casting me a quizzical look as he goes. I ignore him. He’s been trying to get in my skirt for months now, but groveling, panty-waisted wimps just don’t do it for me.
“Hold still!” Apollo barks as my right foot starts to inch back toward the floor. I jerk it back up high in the air and huff out a breath. He doesn’t need to yell at me. He sweeps up the glass shards awkwardly, as if he’s never held a broom and dustpan before—he probably hasn’t—and then looks around the office in search of a trashcan.
“Probably behind the desk,” I point out helpfully. He tosses me a glare—obviously men don’t like asking for directions even indoors, but heads that direction, pan and broom in hand. I start to put my right foot down, aching for this torture to end and he barks, back turned, “Don’t even think about it!”
I huff out another breath, louder this time, but he ignores me, dumps the shards, and then advances on me again.
He’s getting awfully close now. He’s—
Squeak!
I have got to stop sounding like I swallowed a dog chew toy.
He carries me over to the window and sets me down, sliding me down his front as I go.
Oh my god, was that bulge for me? My eyes shoot up to his as I wobble on my high heels in front of him, my hip wedged against his cock.
His ever-growing-bigger cock, swelling larger by the moment.
He has a fucking monster in his pants.
And he’s staring down at me like I’m his next meal.
I think I’ve figured out where his nickname, Wolf of New York, came from…
114
Apollo
So remember how 15 minutes ago, I was going to tell Tiffani to come over to my place tonight so I can beat her ass cherry red and she can cum all over me as I do it? Well, as I’m staring down into this girl’s eyes, I realize a little frantically that I’m going to need to call Tiffani and three of her closest friends just to try to get this fuckable brunette out of my head.
“What’s your name?” I bark, because I realize that Fuckable Brunette, although totally accurate, isn’t going to help me in my quest to keep my cock under control.
“Ashley Miller,” she barks back, lifting her chin defiantly.
Despite myself, I like that. Usually, I like pliant women who do my bidding and suck my cock and orgasm as I fuck ‘em, because I work hard enough in the business world. I don’t need to work hard to get a woman into my bed too. The only games I play are ones that involve handcuffs and ball gags.
But there’s something about Ashley Miller that is turning me on, despite my rules to never date employees, and never date women who want to be chased.
So yeah, she’s breaking all the rules, but instead of dismissing her, I’m pushing my cock against her hip harder, rotating my hips in the smallest of circles, and her breath is getting shorter as we continue to stare at each other.
“Well, Ashley Miller, what were you trying to say before you broke my precious purple vase?”
“Oh, I'm sorry about that,” she said, babbling. “I really didn’t—”
“I was being sarcastic. I’d never seen it before today, and it was the ugliest thing I’d ever laid eyes on.”
She bites her lip and moves her hip ever so slightly against mine. If my entire body didn't feel like it was on fire, I probably would’ve missed it.
“So you’re not going to spank me as a punishment?” she asks breathlessly and rubs her hip just a little harder against me.
My nostrils flare as I suck in my breath and stare down at her. I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t even be thinking about doing this, but having her right here…
My hips begin grinding harder against her, almost against my will, but I can’t fucking stop. Not now.
“Oh, I’m going to spank you,” I rumble, my cock so hard I could sledgehammer through walls with it if I wanted to. “I’m going to tie you up,” I pull at my tie, whipping it out of my collar, “and turn you over my knee and fuck you so hard, you’re going to beg me to stop. And then you’re going to beg me to cont—”
“Mr. Kane,” the intercom blares, an old, crotchety voice coming through it, sounding eerily reminiscent of my third grader teacher. “You have a meeting in 15 minutes with the board, to decide which departments to cut. If you need me to walk you to the meeting, I—”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I grind out as Ashley backs up, her eyes huge, her shock palpable. “I can find it on my own.” The damn building is only four stories tall. It isn't like I can get lost in it.
“As you wish, sir,” the cigarette-roughened voice says and then she's gone.
“You asshole,” Ashley breathes out. “How could you? How could you decide who to fire, just like that?” She snaps her fingers in the air, glaring daggers at me as she does. “Fuck you. I hope you step on a Lego in the dark.” And then Ashley's gone too, the door slamming behind her as she goes, but I can’t help the smile curling the corner of my mouth at her curse. I’d been told many nasty things in my lifetime, but I had never been told to step on a Lego in the dark. That was a new one, even to me, and I would've sworn I’d heard it all.
I fall into the nasty-ass leatherette chair behind the nasty-ass cheap oak desk, my cock begging for release, and my mind whirling.
I pull out my red, swollen cock, pre-cum already leaking from the tip. I have to stroke one out before the meeting or I’ll never be able to focus on a damn thing anyone says.
And I have to forget Ashley Miller, starting now.
115
Ashley
Yeah, I’m supposed to be working, I know. Don’t get all Mr. Henningford on my ass. If you’d just had Apollo—Mr. Kane—feeling you up like he’d just been doing to me, you wouldn’t be working either. Just sayin’.
I’m pacing in circles around my desk, like this lion I once saw stuck in an enclosure at the zoo. He just walked the same path over and over again, wearing it down to dirt, ignoring the rest of his enclosure as he went. At the time, I felt sorry for him.
Right now, I feel too…I don’t know what I feel. But something. Something very mixed up and twisted and worried and horny as fuck and—
“Ashley, are you okay?”
Oh thank god, Natalie is coming to my rescue.
“Yes! No! Yes? I don’t know.”
She’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, to be fair, I kinda feel like I have.
“What’s going on?” she asks slowly, as if talking to a small child, or a deranged adult.
Okay, I deserved that. I mean, I don’t like it, but I deserve it.
“Apollo—” I hiss a little too loudly and everyone in a ten-foot radius turns to hear, no doubt because he’s, like, the only topic of conversation this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if we end up doing a ten-page spread on him in the magazine this month, if only because no reporter is going to want to focus on anything else.
Natalie tilts her head and stares at me for a moment, and then nods knowingly. “We need to have a little chat,” she says, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the smaller conference room on the main floor. A handful of men are streaming out—the hoity-toity upper management guys who rarely deign to mix with us lowly reporters—so we stand off to the side until they all leave, and then dart into the darkened room and close the door.
“What is going on between you and Mr. Kane?” Natalie demands, propping her hip against the boardroom table, crossing her arms and glaring at me. “Have you been holding out? Do you know him? Is he as good in bed as he
is hot?”
“Natalie!” I hiss indignantly. “I have not slept with Apo—Mr. Kane.”
I can feel my fucking ears turning red, a sure sign that I’m lying, and Natalie, being Best Friend Extraordinaire that she is, definitely doesn’t overlook this fact.
“Wanna try that again?” she asks, cocking one eyebrow expectantly.
“Well, I haven’t,” I insist, crossing my arms stubbornly across my chest. But I can’t just stand there; I have too much energy in me to just stand and talk to her. I start pacing the room, the image of the trapped lion in the zoo crossing my mind, but I shove it away.
“I stole his cab this morning—”
“You what?”
“I didn’t know it was him!” I say plaintively. “I was late and I stole his cab and—”
“What was Apollo Kane doing riding in a fucking cab?” Natalie explodes, cutting me off.
I stop.
I stare at Natalie, confusion writ large all over my face.
“I have no idea,” I say slowly. “That’s weird.”
“Yeah, that’s like fucking weird,” Natalie says sarcastically. “The man could afford to be flown to work every morning in a private helicopter. He’s not exactly the kind of guy to slum it in a yellow cab.”
“Well, that part doesn’t matter,” I say, waving my hand in the air dismissively, although I’ll be honest, my brain is going a hundred miles an hour. I really have no explanation for why I was fighting Mr. Apollo Kane, the richest man in New York City—the richest man on the East Coast—for a fucking cab. I file it away under Shit I’ll Never Know And It’ll Drive Me Crazy Until The Day I Die file, along with Why The Hell Is Kanye West Popular and Who Thought Crimped Hair Was Sexy.
1982, I’m looking at you.
“Well, so anyway, I jump in his cab and I might have waved out the window at him and sort of made fun of him and…” I can feel myself withering under Natalie’s glare. “He didn’t exactly have a name tag on!” I say defensively, my cheeks a brilliant red. Perfect, now they can match my brilliant red ears.
