The Boss Upstairs (Orchard Heights Book 3 (standalone))

by Roya Carmen

  When the meeting is finally over, Samuel and I orbit toward each other as we usually do. If we’re not careful, the other grievers will start to talk. “You want to go for coffee again?” he asks, and I can tell he really wants me to say yes.

  “Sure,” I say casually. I really enjoy chatting with him. He’s my only male friend, and it’s a nice change. I’m so used to chatting with the girls about shows on Netflix, fashion, men and relationships. The dynamic with Samuel is completely different.

  I suppose there’s also Weston, but I consider him my boss and my lover, not really my friend. We chat over lunch, but I can usually only focus on about half of what he says because all I’m thinking about is sex.

  Samuel and I settle down with our coffees and chat about our lives. I don’t talk much about my job, preferring to chat about Ethan. He regales me with funny anecdotes about his dating life, and I’m glad I’m not part of that whole scene.

  “I was wondering…” he says suddenly. “If you’d like to go to dinner sometime.”

  Oh, damn, there it is. This isn’t just coffee. This is a date. He wants more than this, more than friendship. I can’t offer him more. Yes, he’s attractive, but I’m not drawn to him the way I am to Weston. “Uh… sure, I’d like to have dinner sometime, but as friends,” I clarify. “I’m just not ready for another relationship yet.” Or ever.

  His face falls. “Sure… I get it. We can just go as friends. I understand.”

  I feel bad, but I don’t want to lead the man on. He’s a nice guy, and I don’t want to waste his time.

  “You like Mexican?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He smiles. “Mexican, it is then.”

  I smile back, and I have the nagging feeling that he hasn’t quite listened.

  I feel like I’m being unfaithful to Claudia and Mischa. Abigail and I have met in secret twice now.

  Her hands are wrapped around a cup of hot cocoa, and mine cradle a Chai tea.

  She scoops a spoonful of whipped cream into her mouth and moans. “Okay… so you don’t have to tell me anything,” she says, “but just know that I’m dying of curiosity. The next time you see me, I might be in a coffin. Imagine my obituary: ‘Abigail Cooper, died of intense curiosity at the young age of thirty-seven.’”

  I smile. “Actually, I want to tell you everything.”

  A huge grin practically splits her face in two.

  I tell her all about playtime, and I don’t spare on the details. If Mr. Boss Man could hear me, I’d certainly be in for a hard spanking.

  “Wow. Who knew you were so naughty, little Gretchen. You look so innocent,” she says. “It’s obviously all an act.”

  I laugh. “He’s the one who makes me naughty. I didn’t even know I liked that kind of stuff.”

  She sips her cocoa. “It sounds fun. It’s typical Girl-Daddy stuff.”

  “What stuff?” I ask, confused.

  “Girl-Daddy stuff,” she says again. “It’s what they call it in the BDSM community.”

  “What?”

  She smiles. “He’s the Daddy, and you’re his little girl. He coddles you, pleases you, calls you sweetie, or good girl, you know?”

  It does sound familiar.

  “He’s the one in control, the Boss Man, and he dominates, but also takes care of you, makes sure you’re enjoying the experience, makes sure he pleases you.”

  I’m speechless.

  “Daddies are controlling, but very giving. They’re all about pleasuring their woman. I mean… you and Boss Man have the whole Boss-Secretary thing going, but it’s essentially the same thing.”

  I smile. “How do you know all this?”

  “I was in a relationship like that, just before Daniel,” she tells me. “It was fun. He called me his sweet girl, and I called him Daddy. He loved to spank me when I was bad.”

  I shake my head, speechless.

  “Lord knows I have Daddy issues with everything I went through when I was young,” she goes on. “And you probably do too.”

  I think about my absent father. He left when I was twelve and I barely ever saw him after that. I haven’t spoken to him in over two years, not since Ethan’s birth.

  I’d never thought about the dynamic I share with Weston, but she might definitely be on to something. Perhaps I secretly crave being cared for. In my every-day life, I’m the one who needs to take care of Ethan and handle everything. And I do it all by myself. It’s exhausting. And with Weston, I can just let go and be taken care of.

  “Well, I don’t know about all that,” I say, “but we’re certainly having fun.”

  “Just be careful,” she warns me. “Men like him usually have a lot of baggage.”

  When I arrive at my desk on Thursday, I’m surprised to see another bouquet, a dozen white roses. I inhale their scent, giddy. I know they’re from him of course, and I’m thankful for his kindness. But it’s all getting kind of silly.

  I walk down the small hall and knock lightly on his wall before I round the corner of his office.

  “Come in,” he calls out.

  He’s leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk. He’s flipping through a magazine. He takes his feet off his desk and puts down the magazine when I approach.

  “Thanks for the flowers. You shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “But this is getting kind of silly, Weston,” I say. “I know it was in the agreement that you could get me gifts but—”

  “They’re just flowers, Grasshopper.” He stands and walks toward me. My whole body turns on every time he’s within five feet of me. I love it, but I also kind of hate it. No man has ever had this effect on me. Not even Donovan.

  He takes my hand. “They were offered in apology. I’m not quite sure what I’m apologizing for, but last time we played, I upset you.”

  I shake my head. “No, you didn’t.”

  His brows furrow. “Don’t lie to me. I study people, Gretchen, and I’m very good at reading them. I knew you wanted me the first time I looked into your eyes, and I also know I upset you. You need to tell me what the matter is because I don’t want any secrets between us.”

  I blow out a breath. I’m clearly not getting out of this.

  “You’ve disappointed me.”

  “How so?” he asks with wide eyes.

  “I didn’t realize you were the kind of man who could be unfaithful.”

  He shakes his head. “How do you mean?”

  “The woman you mentioned…” I clarify. “The one you’re trying not to think about. Is she the reason you divorced your wife?”

  He hesitates a long beat before speaking, and I wonder if I’ve just hit the nail on the head.

  “Kind of… she had a lot to do with our separation,” he confesses. “Quite a lot in fact.”

  “Were you having an affair with her?” I ask, desperate to know.

  “No,” he says. “Not really. Not in the traditional sense.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  He blows out a huge breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  I don’t hesitate to answer. “Positive.”

  He pulls me to the sitting area in front of the cozy fireplace. We both settle on the loveseat.

  He rubs at his pant leg, clearly not wanting to get into this. But he can’t back down now. There’s no way he’s not telling me everything.

  “Bridget and I… my ex-wife,” he clarifies. “We… we were polyamorous.”

  I cock a brow, confused. “What?”

  “It wasn’t what you might think. We weren’t swingers, sleeping around. No, we found couples we enjoyed, and we participated in couple exchanges.”

  I’m almost speechless, but not quite. I’m too curious to be speechless. “Couple swapping?”

  He smiles. “Yes… You make it sound so tawdry.”

  “It is tawdry.” I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. “How many times? How many couples?”

  “Three times,” he
tells me. “The third time was not the charm, it was rather problematic.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He dips his head and stares at the area rug under our feet. “Mirella, the woman I mentioned… she and I fell in love,” he confesses. “Love was never meant to be part of the equation.”

  “Do you still love her?” I ask him, desperately wanting to know.

  He stares at his feet for the longest time, and finally says, “I loved her for years.”

  “But you don’t anymore?”

  He turns to me. “I don’t think so.” He smiles. “All I can think about these days is a certain frisky blue haired beauty.”

  I blush. I love his answer. I adore his answer. I want to marry his answer.

  But I still have so many questions.

  “So did you all have sex in the same room? Like an orgy? What were they like? Did you all get jealous?”

  He laughs. “Settle down, little grasshopper.”

  “What? I wanna know. This is fascinating.”

  “No, we didn’t have sex in the same room. We went on separate dates, usually to dinner and our hotel suites. Details were kept confidential. And no, generally, we weren’t jealous, until things with Mirella and I got out of control. Her husband got violently jealous.”

  “Violently jealous?”

  “Yes… I ended up in the hospital.”

  Jesus.

  “Oh my God,” I blurt. “Where are they now?” I ask, hoping they’re very, very far away.

  “They’re in Phoenix, and I haven’t talked to them in four years.”

  I’m relieved by his answer. So this mysterious woman is no longer part of his life, and hasn’t been for the last four years. Why is he still thinking about her? “You haven’t spoken to her in four years, yet you still think about her,” I say. “That seems crazy.”

  He smiles. “It is crazy. I am a little crazy,” he admits. “I told you this. I tend to obsess and I haven’t been able to keep away.”

  “Keep away from what?”

  “Keep away from her Instagram feed,” he confesses. “It’s where I get to see her every day. Her and her beautiful girls, and occasionally even him. I get to see how happy she is, how her girls are looking more like her every day.”

  This breaks my heart. My heart bleeds for him, and for me. But it’s not that much different than what I’m doing. Almost every day, I still look at old photos of Donovan and I. I even look at his old Facebook profile, never taken down.

  “Was she beautiful?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Of course she was.

  He smiles. “Yes, I certainly thought so.”

  I’m curious. “Do you have a photo of her?”

  He turns to me. “You want to see?”

  Of course I want to see. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. “Yes.”

  15

  He takes my hand. “Come with me.”

  I follow him out of his office and toward the far end of his penthouse. We walk into his bedroom and make our way to the built-in bookcase lining the entire width of one wall. There is a collection of photos; mostly family and friends and work events. He reaches for a small framed photo of a woman and hands it to me.

  A pang of jealousy stabs me. She’s not what I imagined at all. Her nose is wide, her smile is unconventional; a wide gap separates her two front teeth. A splattering of freckles dot her cheeks and nose. Yet, her brown eyes are dark and huge, almost exotic looking, and her long dark hair is full and gorgeous. She seems kind and charismatic. She is stunning in a very unconventional way.

  “She’s beautiful,” I tell him. “I definitely understand the attraction.”

  He takes the photo from me, and puts her back where she has lived for who knows how long. I know I shouldn’t have asked to see her, but curiosity got the best of me.

  “What about Donovan?” he asks. “I’ve seen a photo of him on your desk. Good looking man.”

  I smile. “He’s also in my wallet… and on my phone. Would you like to see my favorite picture of us?”

  “I would love to see.”

  We make the short trek back to my desk, and I fish my wallet from my purse. I pull out the photo, my favorite shot of the two of us, a candid picture his mother took a few years back. I study the photo once again; his dark eyes, playful smile, and dirty blond locks, always kept short. He wore a checkered button shirt, his favorite one. I still have all his clothes. I haven’t had the courage to donate them yet, and want to keep some items for Ethan. They still hang in our closet, a painful reminder I see every day.

  Weston smiles. “Your son looks a lot like him.”

  I smile. “He does, doesn’t he? I feel like I still have a small part of him with me.”

  “You do,” Weston tells me. “That’s the beauty of children.”

  Suddenly, I want to cry on his shoulder. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. “Uh… I should get back to work.”

  He grins. “If you must.” He inches closer. “When do we get to play again?”

  Damn.

  “Soon,” I reply, very eager. “After lunch?”

  “Two o’clock in my office.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  He grins playfully. “I’d rather you with nothing on at all.”

  “Sorry, no can do, Sir. This is a professional work environment.”

  He shakes his head. “You are going to be the end of me, Grasshopper.”

  I laugh, and he disappears.

  It’s five minutes past two o’clock, and I’m sitting on the loveseat in Mr. Boss Man’s office, waiting for him. I check the clock on the wall, and wonder what’s keeping him. He’s late and I’m annoyed. So rude.

  Finally, he comes barging in. “So sorry,” he says. “I had an errand to do.”

  I forgive him instantly, eager for his touch. “What have you got in there, Mr. Boss Man?” I ask, eyeing the red nylon bag he’s toting.

  His grin is mischievous. “Something you’ll like. I got it for you.”

  “Not another gift,” I scoff. “I told you not to—”

  He takes a seat across from me. “It’s not a gift. It’s something that stays in this office.” He pulls out a large red paddle hairbrush out of the bag. “I like to be prepared.”

  I smile. “Are you going to brush my hair, Mr. Hanson?”

  “If you’d like.”

  My body shivers in anticipation. “You bet.”

  “Come and sit next to me.”

  I practically hop over, and bounce down right next to him. He laughs and slides a hand down my hair. It’s heavenly. He twists it up in a loose bun on top of my head. He leans down and drops a soft kiss on the nape of my neck. “Sorry, I just had to do that,” he says softly. “You like that?”

  I feel like I’m on drugs. I can hardly speak. “Yes,” I say, the word barely spoken.

  He kisses me again. “You like when I kiss you right here, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It arouses you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  His kiss lingers this time. “It arouses me too… very much.”

  I’m held captive under his touch, under his kiss.

  He lets my hair fall down my shoulders. “You have such beautiful hair.”

  “Do you like the blue ends?” I ask, curious. “Or are they too wild for you?”

  He slides the brush gently down my hair, and a shiver travels from the base of my neck to the bottom of my spine. “I love them. They’re very you. You’re unique.”

  “It feels so good.”

  He repeats the process once more. “Say ‘Thank you, Sir.’”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You are very welcome, Grasshopper.”

  I close my eyes, wanting this moment to never end.

  He brushes my hair for a long time, the both of us quiet, enjoying the silence. I wonder what he’s thinking about. Finally, he presses his mouth against the shell of my ear. “How was that?”

  “Ama
zing,” I tell him. “Are we done?”

  “No… I’m not quite done with you, sweetie.”

  I turn to him, wondering what he has in mind.

  “This brush is good for more than brushing hair,” he tells me. “Lay down on my lap.”

  I smile. He can’t be serious.

  But he is. Very serious. I can see it in the line of his brow, in the curve of his lips. The expression on his face is quite peculiar, both playful and predatory.

  I obey immediately and stretch my behind across his lap. My feet are kicking up and my arms are extended in front of me.

  “Perfect.” He slowly slides the hem of my skirt up, over my rear. He toys with my panties. “I like these. Very cute. I like flowers.”

  I groan out loud.

  He pulls the silky fabric back as much as he can, fully exposing my ass. “Patience, Grasshopper.” He strokes gently, his fingers dangerously close to my most forbidden spot. I want him to explore me further, but he doesn’t. I curse my undies rule.

  And just when I least expect it, a sharp sting jolts me right out of my thoughts. The paddle brush is not as soft as his hands, yet I still love it. I moan when he does it again. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Oh my… what have I done to deserve these spankings, Sir?” I ask playfully.

  “Absolutely nothing,” he says. “Mr. Boss Man reserves the right to spank you anytime he wishes, no justification needed.”

  I smile. “Are you done now?”

  He strokes my ass softly. “Yes, your sweet bum is very red. I think you’ve suffered enough.” He gently readjusts my panties, pulls my skirt back over my rear, and smooths it down very gallantly.

  I reluctantly peel myself from his lap. “That was fun.”

  “Yes, but enough playtime for today,” he scoffs with feigned anger. “You need to get back to work, Miss Morris.”

  I smile and stand. I press the folds of my skirts, and steal one last glance. He’s absolutely gorgeous, leaning back on his orange loveseat. I don’t want to leave, but I know I need to. It’s the way his game is played, slowly and leisurely. Grasshopper must be very patient. I turn on my heel and scurry away.