by Alexis Angel
Now that the last of the paperwork is signed, I thank Cheryl again for walking me through it all, and I think of a pretext to go find Walter. "I need to make a call," I say, and I excuse myself from the room.
I quickly walk down the hall, peering into offices in the hopes that I'll see Walter. After walking around for a few minutes, I finally see him rounding the corner and we nearly bump into each other.
"Where have you been?"
"Where have I been?" he asks. "You know I've been taking a look around this place, but you nearly blew our cover. I walked back into Cheryl's office to find you and she gave me a confused look. She said you had left a while ago," Walter complains.
"Well, I'm here now. Let's finish scoping this place out," I say. You go left and I'll go right.
We need to find out as much as we can about this place. He agrees and I continue down the hall, walking as quietly as I can against the hard floor, until I find a corner office that catches my attention.
It has large windows that overlook the city. The lights are on but no one is inside. I notice that the walls and desk are adorned with what appears to be family photos. There's a large mahogany desk with a dark-brown leather chair. I walk over to one of the walls and peer closely at the photos.
This must be Ethan Kane's office. One photo looks like it's from the early 80s—grainy with age. It shows a young blonde-haired boy flanked by what appears to be his mother and father. When I look closely, I realize that the little boy in the picture is Ethan.
My eyes travel further across the wall and I see a picture of a man in a military dress uniform. It's an even older picture, and given the family resemblance, I figure this must be Ethan's father.
In another photo, I see a woman. She's sitting in a wicker chair—she must be in a backyard because the backdrop is a sprawling lawn with the hint of a flower garden in the far distance. I lean in closer, squinting to make out the details. What kinds of flowers are those? I figure this must be his mother. There's certainly a resemblance. I wonder if she's sitting in her family's yard in this picture, or—
"Looks like you're already making yourself at home," a voice says, breaking my thoughts.
My heart nearly leaps through my throat as I hear a voice coming from directly behind me. I look up and whip my head around to see who it is, and I come face to face with him.
It's Ethan Kane.
Ethan
She's up to something. You don't stay in someone's office uninvited, and look through their things unless you have a reason.
Look at her. Standing there nose deep in my family pictures. What's she looking for, and what was she expecting? I'm sure she's guessed those are my parents. Women always want me to bring them home—to meet mom, and maybe shake hands with dad. Maybe that's what Brittney was hoping for too. What she doesn't fucking know is that they died years ago.
I can't help but notice the angle of her body. She's bent over ever so slightly, her firm and fuckable heart-shaped ass taunting me in that dress. My eyes travel further down to her legs, toned and slender, they seem to go forever. I definitely have a thing for heels, and hers seem to be a solid five inches.
For some fucking reason the fact that she's here doesn't even bother me. If I had caught any other person snooping around my office uninvited, I would've thrown them out—in fact, no one at this company would've been caught dead doing that.
But Brittney is different.
There's something about her that draws me in and keeps me there. I swear I'm like a paperclip flying into a magnet when I'm around this woman.
What the fuck is wrong me? I'm Ethan fucking Kane, and I definitely don't keep women. I fuck 'em. Move on. Repeat. So what is it about this one that keeps me coming back?
"Looks like you're already making yourself at home," I say, breaking her concentration. She's so into these pictures that she doesn't even realize that I'm standing directly behind her.
I swear she jumps about six fucking inches in the air. I'm pretty sure I saw her heels lift up off the floor. She whips her head back to see me and she stumbles into my chest. A tinge of embarrassment flushes across her cheeks.
By instinct, I reach out to steady her and my hands rest on her waist. Why is it that's the first thing I grab on a woman? There's a thrill of electricity that goes through me when I realize I'm touching her. I'm literally holding her in my hands. It takes me right back to her audition—her on my lap—my hands on her hips, her ass, her breasts.
I'm so distracted by the fact that I have her hips in each of my hands that I forget what I even wanted to say. My mind's erased everything prior to this moment.
"I—uh—I was hoping to find you," she says. "These are great photos."
"Those are my parents. They're dead."
"I'm so sorry," she says.
"Don't be. It happened years ago."
The way she's looking at me right now makes me want to press my lips to hers. I want to take her over my shoulder in animalistic lust. I'm already mentally undressing her. Can you blame me?
It takes me a moment to remember that we're both standing here in my office. Her hand is on my chest, and she keeps it there. My heartbeat increases with anticipation.
I should let go of her hips—I should walk away—maybe help her out of the building and into her car or something. I'm now her employer. This should be the one woman I don't go for—she's an Illicit Entertainment employee now. I have enough of those women around here. And yet …
But I don't move. For some reason, I remain in that position. I can't seem to help myself. There's a moment of silence before I speak.
"I see you like the parents, but what about this mug shot?" I ask with a smile, pointing to my face.
"Not bad, I suppose," she says with a smirk. "Those lips of yours are looking especially delicious right now." As she says this, she brings one hand up to my face and brushes her fingers across my bottom lip, tracing its edges. My cock twitches at her advancement. I'm already growing hard under her slight touches.
"You'd be surprised what these lips can do," I say.
"You think so?"
"I know so," I reply, my eyes locked on hers. Our gaze intensifies, and I'm not sure what's going to happen next. The room feels at least ten degrees hotter.
"Are you flirting with me?" she asks. It's a loaded question. I can tell by the smile on her face.
"If I were flirting with you," I say, "I would reach into my desk over there, pull out the bottle of rare top-shelf bourbon that I've hidden, buried underneath a stack of files—a bottle that I've been saving for a woman like you—and I would drizzle it down your chest."
"What else would you do?" she asks, her eyes smoldering with desire. She's breathing heavier now. The air around us is thick with longing.
"If I were actually flirting, I'd reach down and place my lips and tongue on your breasts, licking the bourbon off of your bare nipples before traveling down the rest of your body."
Her lips part into a smile. "I like a man with a plan," she says, ginning. She's raking her nails through my hair and when they touch my scalp, an electric current runs down my spine. "That's a map I can follow."
I lean in, bringing my lips an inch from her ear and whisper, "What I'd like to do to you right now is anything but professional. And given my position in the company, I'm not sure that's wise."
She doesn't move; her one hand is still on my chest. There's an electric current binding us together, and it's palpable. It's like someone has flipped a switch and it's an unbreakable circuit. I almost detect a moan from her lips, but it's so soft that I can't be certain.
I lean in again, my breath on her neck, and I move my mouth down to her exposed shoulders, dragging my lips across her bare skin. This time her moan is audible and loaded with an insatiable craving.
As soon as my breath hits her neck, and my mouth touches her shoulder, her lips part. I want to grab her hair and bring her mouth to mine.
Instead, I slide my right hand around to the small of
her lower back. She doesn't resist my touch. I feel her moving in closer, and I take that as my cue to move my hand from her back, even lower. I move below her waist now, and cup her ass cheek in my firm palm.
"Ethan Kane," she whispers. "I guess what they say about you is true."
"And what's that?" I ask.
"That you're larger than life," she says. "And you're hotter than a lightening rod."
"I'm seconds away from picking you up, placing you over one shoulder, and carrying you out of this place—caveman style—and show you exactly what kind of fucking rod I'm packing"
"Now, that wouldn't be very professional," she grins. I read her grin like a dare.
"I'm not done," I say. "And you know what I'd do next? I'd take you back to my place, bend you over, and run my lips all over the secret fucking corners of your body, head to toe. Where do you want my lips, Brittney?"
I watch as she looks up at me, her blue eyes flashing with desire and her cheeks growing a deeper shade of pink.
"But what about all of this?" she asks, pointing around my office. "I'm pretty sure we'd be violating all of those code of conduct papers I just signed."
"To hell with those papers. This is my fucking company."
She smiles. "I suppose that's true," she says.
My eyes have moved down from her face to the deep crevice between her breasts. It's taking everything in me to not reach down and grab them. To slide my hands under their warmth and take them into my mouth.
"Dinner. Tonight. I'll pick the place," I whisper into her ear. "All you have to do is say yes."
She looks up at me, and for a moment I don't know how she's going to answer, or what's going through her mind. Finally she grins.
"Okay then," she says. "My answer is yes."
I smile.
This is going to be an interesting night.
Brittney
I look out my apartment window and see a black limo pull up to the curb. The limo's windows are deeply tinted, so I can't see who's inside, but I know it's Ethan Kane.
He's right on time.
I check myself for the last time in a full-length mirror turning around in a full circle to consider how this dress looks from all angles. I smooth the fabric with my hands.
Based on our last encounter where he nearly made my heart leap through my throat by sneaking up behind me—I wasn't expecting him to find me like that, but I guess I should've been more careful—I knew I needed to gain his trust and attention tonight.
I bought this dress specifically for tonight's dinner. The goal was to find a dress that would stop traffic. I don't want him to be able to take his eyes off of me.
On the tag for this dress, the color was listed as Russian Roulette Red.
I figured that's exactly the kind of high-octane stakes I'm faced with, and I bought it.
This was a good purchase, I say to myself, after coming to the conclusion that it's going to be a good fit. I'll admit that it fits me better than a glove.
It's an iconic cocktail dress—the kind of dress that hugs your every curve like a second skin. The neckline is built to plunge deeply between my breasts and is held up with a single halter-top that clasps with a gold buckle. My back is exposed, and the dress's hemline ends well before my knees.
I think this dress will do the trick tonight.
I've added an extra wave to my hair with a curling iron, and I carefully applied a smoky eye shadow with a healthy layer of mascara. And this look wouldn't be complete without a classic red lipstick, so I add that too at the last minute.
I hear another knock at the door, and I open it.
Standing outside is Ethan. He's wearing a suit that looks like something out of a James Bond movie. My god he's hot… so clean cut and … chiseled under that form-fitting suit.
"You look beautiful," he says, extending me his hand. He carefully walks me to street.
"I'd say you clean up nicely as well," I grin. Together we walk to the limo where his driver is holding a door open for us. We slide into the cold leather seats, and I scoot close to him, inhaling his masculinity.
"Where are we headed?" I ask.
"Are you ready for amazing views of the city?" he asks.
"I'm intrigued," I say. "And I do love a good view."
"Rockefeller Center," he replies. "We're going to the very top."
"You certainly have good taste," I purr, running my hand across his chest. I lean in and bring my lips to his, pressing against him softly—just enough to give him a taste—and I pull away. He gives me a devilish grin, but before he can say anything, the limo stops and the driver opens our door, ushering us out.
That was a quick ride. Time flies when you're with a hot man.
We walk into Rockefeller Center, and once we take an elevator up to the restaurant, I find myself with a world-class view of New York City. Thousands of lights glitter and dance across the landscape as if a diamond necklace has been draped across the skyline.
I don't care how many times I've seen this view. It never gets old.
The waiter approaches and offers us a wine from their extensive wine list. Ethan orders us a Pinot Noir. I watch as it's carefully poured into an oversized wine glass and the deep aroma fills my head before the alcohol does. I take a sip and feel myself floating on its rich, velvet blanket of earth and berries.
I extend my foot under our table until my heel reaches Ethan's leg. I slowly drag it upwards until I know that I'm inches from his cock.
He shifts in his chair and we lock eyes. He reaches toward me with his own leg, but I move just out of reach. He seems disappointed, but the waiter interrupts and brings us a dazzling plate of oysters on ice, which momentarily diverts our focus.
"These are deep, cold-water oysters," Ethan says after the waiter walks away. "They're saltier than the other varieties. Eating one of these is like being slapped by an ocean wave."
"Hmm… a salty slap. I like the sound of that," I wink.
I reach over and grab a wedge of lemon and squeeze it on top of one. I watch as the oyster seems to shiver and recoil under the acidity.
"I think it just moved," I say.
"It should. The best way to eat an oyster is to eat a live one. Don't settle for anything less."
"I never knew you were such an authority on this subject."
"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," he grins. He reaches over to touch my arm. I let him for a moment, but pull away. I can see the confusion on his face.
But I know I need to gain his trust, so I grab another oyster, squeeze lemon on it and bring it to my lips.
I tilt my head back, exposing my neck to Ethan, and I part my lips just enough to take the oyster in and allow it to slide down my throat. He watches me, never lifting his gaze.
I smile and grab his hand. Placing one of his fingers between my lips, I suck on it. "I don't know what's tastier, you or this oyster," I purr.
"I like that sound of that," he smiles. He reaches up to stroke my cheek, but again, I pull away.
This game of back and forth is driving him crazy.
By the time our waiter brings out the final course—a decadent serving of chocolate lava cake, I've already been teasing Ethan for the entire night. In one sense, I feel bad. I honestly do.
I find myself feeling wildly excited by his advances; I'm like those oysters every time he responds with my skin rippling in anticipation. I want his touch so bad. I crave his touch. But this is supposed to be a job. I have to keep that in perspective.
But if this is just a job, why am I feeling this way? Why am I desiring his touch? Normally, I do my job. I seduce men. I follow through, and that's it. I don't feel anything inside. But this is so different. My mind is reeling.
I push my spoon into the crust of the dark chocolate cake. The warm, gooey liquid leaks over the spoon, and I bring it to my mouth, extending my tongue and carefully licking off every warm drop.
Ethan is entranced.
"I didn't realize how hungry you were," h
e says with a grin.
"This is just the beginning," I purr. "My hunger goes beyond the food on this table."
When the meal is finished, I bring my hand softly on top of his. "Thank you, that was one of the best meals I've ever had," I say.
"There's a lot more where that came from," he smiles. "I can show you a good meal at my apartment—maybe satisfy your real hunger?"
His leg is pressed up against mine, and he has his hand on my arm. I know where he's going with this, but I can't. I can't go back to his apartment. Do I want to?
Yes, of course! My body is practically screaming out for him. But I really can't. Because if I go back to his apartment, you know what's going to happen, don't you? And I can't sleep with him. Not tonight. That's definitely not part of the formula for this evening.
"Not tonight," I say, pulling my arm back. "I can't."
He looks frustrated. There's something in his eyes that says he's not going to give up that easily. He's not going to take no for an answer. He stands up from the table and clears his throat.
"Everyone, can I have your attention?" his voice booms across the private dining room. The wait staff all stop and stare at him.
He now has a captive audience and he continues, "I need everyone to leave."
There are some low murmurs as people decide if he's serious. When he doesn't sit back down, and instead looks across the room to ensure people are following orders, they begin to file out—waiters, bussers, and other diners.
When the last person leaves, the room is silent and Ethan looks at me.
"What is it that you just said?" he asks me.
I don't immediately respond and he continues.
"Did you say you can't? Because it looks to me like you can."
