by Jordan Bell
Breakfast With Mia
By Jordan Bell
Copyright © 2012 Jordan Bell
All Rights Reserved.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Please note: This erotic story contains scenes of a very graphic and adult nature which some may find offensive. This story is for sale to adults only. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental. Please engage in safe, consensual sexual practices only. Remember, this is a work of imagination and fantasy. All sexual activities described herein are between characters 18 years old or older and are always consensual.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six, Damian’s Turn.
One
District Grounds was known for its pastries even though it tried very hard to be a hip coffee shop. Free Trade signs and green energy commandments plastered the walls, and true, the coffee was just what a girl needed at oh-my-god-o’clock in the morning, but it was the pastries that brought people from across the city to line up and beg to gain ten pounds.
This morning’s special was a puff pastry with delicate, golden filo layers splitting from its center to rise at an apex of buttery pleasure. Warmth rose from its center, steam colored when the door jingled open to let in a cool blast of morning air. Drizzled at the convex center was homemade white icing like snow, dusted with dried strawberry dust and white chocolate shavings. The fine strawberry particles rose on the steam and when I inhaled I could taste them dissolve at the back of my mouth.
This was going to be a delicious morning. The only x-factor was the filling, which District Grounds head pastry girl had wisely left unlabeled. A mystery wrapped in confectioner’s sugar. I turned the little white plate 90 degrees, rested my chin in my hand, and tried to discover the secrets of the universe hidden within the core of my breakfast pastry.
The jingle bells trilled and another blast of morning city air rushed into the coffee house and he entered, looking all CEO-like and well groomed. He had a casual way about him, like it hadn’t occurred to him he was wearing a $2000 suit and there wasn’t a Lincoln Town Car idling at the curb for him. He was just an average Joe in a perfectly average coffee shop with the best pastries in town.
When Damian Vaughn took a seat at my table, I nudged the plain black coffee with two creams and half a packet of fake sugar in front of him, except I’d used a full packet of real sugar because my boss really needed to live it up a little bit.
“How much do I owe you?” He actually went for his wallet like he might actually be carrying a buck twenty five in there. I turned my plate again, eyeballing the edges of my breakfast dessert for telltale signs of its melty middle.
“I got it, boss. And your bear claw.” I nodded at the white bag between us. He dove in like a man possessed. “For someone who could have anything he wanted for breakfast, you’re sadly disappointing. How am I ever going to sell your secrets to the tabloids if you don’t go a little crazy from time-to-time? Tomorrow I’m sneaking a double chocolate chip fudge muffin in there instead.”
“You do and you’re fired.” His first bite was messy. The hard frosting cracked and crumbled, sprinkled his burgundy satin tie. Pastry flakes clung to his goatee. Really, he was like a six foot child some days. “You do realize I make ten times in a day as you do in a month? Twenty times. I can afford my own bear claw and coffee.”
Damian leaned back in the wobbly wooden chair, hand-crafted by artisans in the Catskills, according to an advertisement on the wall, and took another a deep, uninhibited bite.
“Really? Twenty times? Guess that’s why you’re name’s on the building. Since coffee and pastries are all I can afford, indulge me. You can buy me an excessively expensive car as a Christmas bonus, which I will never drive, but I’ll show off to all my girlfriends.”
“Deal.” Damian waved at the pastry I still hadn’t started eating yet. “What’s today’s chef-d’oeuvre?”
“Not sure. I’m guessing something nutty and savory. Want to take a guess before I begin my sinful affair with its fragile crust?”
“You know nothing about the world, Mia. It’ll be something thick, like pudding, delicately sweet to pair with the topping. They wouldn’t waste strawberry dust and white chocolate on something savory. Go on, life’s short and you’re wasting it on your breakfast.”
I watched my boss wax poetic about life being short then inhale the last of his bear claw without savoring a single bite of it. That’s how it was, I guessed, when one could afford a do-over.
It was now or never then, and I carefully took the square of dough in one hand and lifted it to my mouth. Crust bits broke apart at my touch and when I took one slow, perfect bite, a wave of sweet white chocolate cream, more decadent than I could have imagined, swept through me. It was orgasmic. I closed my eyes, ran my tongue through the sweet cream, felt the tiny bursts of strawberry as the dust ignited on my tongue.
It took five bites to finish and with each, the pastry dissolved its shape until I was licking white chocolate and filo crumbs from my fingertips. With the last bite, I glanced at my boss who stared like he’d caught me photocopying my ass in his office. I licked the sticky residue from my lips and he handed me a napkin. Both of us looked a little guilty about the whole thing.
“That was inspired,” he mumbled. “Feel better?”
I blushed, feeling strangely like some kind of foodie exhibitionist. “Much. And you were right. The inside was white chocolate cream.”
Damien stood suddenly, inspected his shirt and I handed him a napkin from the ones he’d given me and he dusted himself off. He looked good as new, like a million bucks.
“I am always right, Mia. That’s why my name is on the building.”
I gathered the remains of our breakfast, tucked my coffee in the crook of my elbow and followed him to the door. I tossed the evidence of our breakfast into the trash, he held the jingle bell door open for me, and followed me out onto the sidewalk. The Town Car revved to life and inched forward to meet us because it was insane to make Damian Vaughn walk two feet. I opened the door for him so he could slide in first. I followed.
“Well Mr. Vaughn,” I said when he was comfortable. “Let’s go make you a million dollars. What do you think?”
Two
The partners called her “The Dragon” because she walked into a meeting in her two inch stilettos and every man before her fell defeated at her knees. She took companies over like they were the nerdy kids on the playground and she was the bully who’d hit puberty early. She made Vaughn & Marley a disgusting amount of money.
The staff called her “The Dragon” because her face was shaped like a snout, all points and bones, because she never ate anything and spent four hours a day on a stairmaster. She lashed her staff with a wicked, ungrateful tongue and when she was feeling particularly spunky, ripped their souls out with her bare hands and ate them. Corrine Aquirre was a predator and everyone on the flowchart beneath her was simply the bones she cleaned her teeth with.
The Dragon was in particularly good form that morning, snapping insults at me like I’d just tried to sleep with her husband. I hustled in late behind Mr. Vaughn even though it was his fault he’d forgotten his smart phone at home and we had to go
practically around the city like tourists to get it and come back. It wasn’t even kind of my fault, but the sting of The Dragon’s whip left welts and set the day on the wrong foot entirely.
The Dragon followed Mr. Vaughn into his office, harping and tossing off threats before he took off his coat.
“Shrew.” I unloaded my crap onto my desk when the door shut behind them. Across from me, my admin twins, Bethany and Laura, made dagger slices across their throats in solidarity.
The Dragon unleashed a fireball in Damien’s office, a barbarian scream preceded the breaking of something expensive, and then the door flew open with Corrine Aguirre, blonde and tucked and pulled to pinching, filling the doorway. Everyone in the office turned to stare while pretending not to stare.
“You’ve a lot of nerve, Damien. You can call my secretary to reschedule. Do this to me again and you’ll be sorry you’ve ever wasted my time.” The Dragon pointed a red manicured nail at my boss, stabbed the air with the tip, then abandoned him. I wondered if she actually asked for virgin’s blood red when she went in to get her nails done.
We all stared, how could we not?
I turned and gave Damien a what-the-hell-did-you-do look and he shot back an equally impatient mind-your-own-business glare and shut his office door.
“Oooh, girlfriend, one of these days that woman is going to burn this building to the ground. You just wait. It’s a whole new brand of crazy when she starts attacking a Vaughn.” Bethany stood like she was stretching and bobbed her head in the direction of the corner closet. “Copy room?”
I nodded. “Give me five.”
The copy room was the co-ed women’s bathroom sanctuary for gossip and conspiracy theorizing. We used the noisy copier to hide our voices.
Laura had a comforting arm around Cara when I finally eased into the supply closet. Poor Cara had the unfortunate job title of The Dragon’s Bitch.
“It’s the shoes, that’s what’s got her panties all bunched up. She accidentally put on her last season’s Minolo Blahniks and it’s been hell since. How that monster doesn’t get fired is beyond me,” Cara sniffed.
“She’s putting out to the partners,” Luke suggested, but I jumped in quick.
“No, she’s not.”
“And you know every little thing going on behind Vaughn’s door, do you?” Bethany hooked her hip against the copy machine and crossed her arms in a gossip showdown.
“No.” I thought for a moment. That wasn’t true at all. “Well, yes, actually, but that’s beside the point. The Dragon likes women.”
The four of them gasped in stereo. Bethany swatted my shoulder, Cara crossed herself, Laura giggled nervously, and Luke grabbed his heart and fell into the paperclips
“You dirty little liar!” Bethany swatted me again and I swatted back. She spun her hand in the space between us. “This is sanctuary and you’ve never said! How do you know this, you backstabbing gossip hoarder?”
I hopped up onto the stack of paper boxes and kicked my toes at the ground. They waited expectantly, salivating over such tender, juicy gossip. “Because she’s practically a partner, right? She’ll be there as soon as Georges retires in the fall. That woman is already bending over for those old men and taking it like a champ. But she can’t be a lady with them; she’s got to be a weapon they can use against corporate lawyers during their violent take-overs. She’s got to be like them, so she never gets to be an actual woman. She won’t want to go home to another man bending her over. She’ll want to go home to someone who lets her be a girl, and she’ll want the painted toes and smooth legs and stockings, not more stilettos and handcuffs.”
Luke made a little sound at the back of his throat. Bethany fanned herself.
“Mia, you’re like a sexy magic-8 ball, you know that?” Laura gave a little whistle. “Tell us more. What about that hot boss of yours? What’s he into?”
“Damian? Nothing special. Vanilla with a cherry on top. It’s not that he’s boring, he’s just an indecisive work-aholic. He goes on dates sometimes and has me send flowers to them the next day. Never calls again. Kind of tragic, really.”
Cara tsked. “Now that’s just a shame. He’s what, about thirty five?” I nodded. “He needs to find himself an eighteen year old girl to loosen him up. Someone who he can take for a ride in his sports car, if you know what I mean.”
We laughed and the conversation dissolved into naughty speculation about some of the new interns who couldn’t be a day over nineteen. I couldn’t imagine Damian in a sports car with an eighteen year old girl. She’d wear his patience too quickly.
The afternoon wrapped up at five and I was shimmying into my ugly boots for clomping through street muck on my way home. Damian’s ride only went one way and that was mostly due to his love of bear claws. I was lacing up when he leaned across my desk and brought with him the scent of aspen and evergreens, ski lifts and icicles.
“Mia?”
“Yes, boss. What can I do for you? You’ve got thirty-two, no wait, thirty-one seconds.”
“I can afford overtime. I need a personal favor from you.”
“We’ve talked about this, Mr. Vaughn. I won’t pick up your dry cleaning. You have a car. Three cars. With drivers. I have a subway pass. It’s got my name on it and it’s laminated.” I pulled the laces tight and swiveled to look him in the eye. The usually neat part in his dark hair was messed up, pieces sticking up at odd angles. Sex hair, except that it wasn’t. Damian was too distracted for something so exciting.
“You’re awfully punchy tonight. No, I need you to pick up a friend of mine from the airport on Sunday. You can use one of my cars.”
“High school or college friend?”
“College. He owns his own private courier service for high end international packages.”
“Interesting. I had no idea such a category even existed. You want me to do it so he sees you employ a pretty, young assistant with a quick wit who is willing to drop everything on a Sunday to fetch your friends from the airport and deliver them to their hotel for you?”
Damien touched his chin and actually gave it some thought. His deadpan seriousness made me grin.
“Yes, something like that.”
“Well I’m flattered, seriously, I am, but I can’t. There are powers-that-be even higher than yours, Mr. Vaughn, and we all must answer to them.”
His face fell in disappointment. “I didn’t know there were any powers higher than mine.”
“My sister is having her last dress fitting on Sunday and both mother and mother-in-law will be in attendance. You stand up to the mother-in-law and win, Mr. Vaughn. I dare you.”
Damian sighed and plucked a stress ball off my desk which I took from him immediately. “You’re the maid-of-honor for your sister’s wedding. I forgot it was coming up. I got an invitation, right?”
“Right, and I RSVPed for you and picked out the gift you are giving her. She’ll love it, Mr. Vaughn, it was very generous of you. All you have to do is find your own date because that’s where I draw the line. I suppose you’ve also forgotten I’m off next Friday because I will be getting my sister a spa treatment then taking her and her friends out to get them incredibly drunk?”
He picked up my Blackberry, absently started scrolling through it. “Did I approve that?”
“A year ago. Honestly, do you even read the things I put in front of you?”
“No. I trust you would point something out to me you didn’t think I should sign.”
“If that were the case, I would be the one making gobs of money,” I wrestled my phone from his sticky fingers and grabbed my paperweight before he could manhandle it, “and you would be the one sharing a studio apartment with Omar the Transvestite and eating leftover take-out every night for dinner. You won’t miss me and you will not, under any circumstances, call me.”
He gazed down at me hording my toys from him with great amusement. I noticed his tie was loose at the collar and he’d wrangled a single button open. If he were any more starched h
e’d be two-dimensional.
“You have a roommate named Omar the Transvestite?”
I considered this. “Well, most people just call him Omar.”
“How did I not know that?”
“You don’t ask.”
“Oh, well that’s true. Omar doesn’t exactly rank on my need-to-know list. What are you going to be doing Friday night with your sister and her friends?”
“Unless you’d like to give me a raise tomorrow, I’ll be plying drinks from men using my clichéd but effective feminine wiles.”
He smirked and slid off my desk, although for all intents and purposes it was his desk. Everything belonged to him. He was the Vaughn of Vaughn & Marley. “I’ll think about the raise if you’ll arrange a car for him. His name is Stanley Beeber.”
“Limo or taxi?” I put my stuff back neatly from where he’d stolen them.
“Not a limo. Something foreign and reliable. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard to brag.”
“A Honda then.”
“You know what I like, Mia. See you tomorrow.” With that, he closed his office door and I was free to leave.
It was depressing, really. The most stable relationship I had was with my boss and it wasn’t even the sort I could gossip about.
Three
Few things are less enjoyable than a bridal store on a Sunday afternoon, but there I was anyway in a burgundy strapless number with enough folds and layers to make it weigh more than I did and cost as much as I make in a week. My sister had once been my favorite person in the world, but standing there amongst all the cupcake layers of tulle and lace, I thought about choking her to death with her pearls.
The mothers were arguing over modesty panels when my phone started playing an angry Beastie Boys’ song. A summons from Damian.
I snuck out of the cat fight, grateful and annoyed at the same time. Stanley Beeber should have been delivered wrapped in a bow to his hotel by now. It was all kinds of wrong for him to be calling me on a Sunday, though it wouldn’t be the first time.
