Python: A Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Slowly.

  I consider throwing a shoe at him to hurry things along, but then decide to hold back.

  For the moment. I’m not above chucking the shoe if need be. A nice stiletto would get his attention, right?

  I finally settle on my low-cut lilac silk shirt and black pencil skirt, ‘cause I know it’ll emphasize my curves just right. My immediate boss, Dick Henningford, is a lecherous old man who forgives his female employees almost anything, as long as they wear the right clothing. I’m not above using this to my advantage.

  And anyway, I have a feeling that this morning, I’ll need his forgiveness because I check my iPhone and see that I only have 65 minutes to get to work, and it takes 60 minutes to get there.

  On a good day.

  Oh yeah, I’m fucked-not-actually-fucked this beautiful Monday morning. Ugh.

  I stick my head around the corner again and spot Dave-Mike-Troy sprawled out on the bed, snoring.

  Stiletto time!

  I pick up my red patent leather pair—my favs—and chuck them across the room, one after another.

  “WHAT THE HELL?” Dave-Mike-Troy roars, jackknifing into a sitting position.

  “Awww…you’re awake. How sweet,” I purr sarcastically. “Now will you get the fuck out of my house?”

  Dave-Mike-Troy mumbles a string of swear words under his breath as he shoves his arms back into his shirt and begins buttoning it up—using words that even I don’t use very often—but I don’t care. He can call me a cunt all day long if he wants, as long as he’s leaving as he does it. Now I'm kinda glad I didn't fuck him last night.

  I pull the closet door shut and begin stripping and dressing in the confined space, and not for the first time. I struggle to zip up my skirt as I bat hanging clothes out of my face; I make the resolution to clear out my closet of everything I don’t absolutely love and give it away to Goodwill or whatever.

  The problem is, I love it all. I don’t work at a fashion magazine for nothing. It’s my life.

  Finally dressed, only makeup and hair left, I exit my overstuffed closet to find an empty apartment. Dave-Mike-Troy has exited the building. Or, at least my part of it, and really, that’s all that matters.

  After only 30 minutes in front of the mirror, which I consider to be nothing short of supersonic speed, I tap on my iPhone and check the time.

  Fuccckkkkk…I only have 35 minutes left until I’m officially late to work, so by time I get downstairs, down the block, take the next train, and run down the two blocks from the subway station to Blush Magazine…

  Well, I’m not sure even my push-up bra can save me today.

  As I begin my hike down the three flights of stairs, I pull my iPhone out of my Kate Spade purse. Fuck this. Yeah, rent is stupidly expensive in Manhattan and I probs shouldn’t be spending money on a cab to get to work, but sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I don’t take a cab, I may not have a job to get to. I may as well have stayed in bed and taken Dave-Mike-Troy up on his morning fuck. At least then I wouldn’t be as horny as hell right now.

  I debate between a yellow taxi cab and an Uber as I push open the front door to my apartment complex. A cab will be faster but more expensive. An Uber may not be close by. I should probably—

  “Taxi! Hey, taxi!”

  Some oh-my-god hot guy is flagging down a passing yellow cab. His suit is delish and his ass even better. I almost forget what I’m supposed to be doing as I take a moment to appreciate the fine specimen in front of me, but at the last moment, I remember:

  I need a ride to work. Like, right now.

  So I do something I’m not exactly proud of, okay? I’m not gonna write home and be all, “Hey Mom, guess what I did today? Yeah, that’s right, I fucked a guy over and stole his cab.” As I slither in past the oh-my-god hot guy and into the backseat of the cab, I even make myself the promise that I’ll post a “Sorry to the universe” apology on Instagram tonight. Complete with a sexy sad face. I can’t have karma completely biting me in the ass, right?

  I slam the door close, just missing oh-my-god hot guy’s fingers and yell to the driver, “Go, go, go!” He slams on the gas and we take off, swerving into traffic, just missing a hot pink Toyota Prius.

  I can’t help myself. I’m sorry, universe, but sometimes, you just have to.

  I roll down the passenger side window and hang my head out of it, looking back at the guy and waving madly at him, a Cheshire grin on my face.

  “Sorry!” I holler, my hair whipping around my face.

  Sorry not sorry, but we can leave that part out, right?

  Besides, the guy is just…uhhmm…..hot?

  Like seriously, my thong would be wet if I were looking at him for another few minutes.

  He had piercing blue eyes and a rugged looking face. Dark wavy hair. You could tell under that suit that fit his frame so well was a body that you probs would spend time licking over. And not one of those courtesy licks to get him to finally go down on you. No, like licking the ridges of his abs kinda body. A hard body.

  Ripped and muscled and tan, oh my.

  I settle back into my seat, ignoring the protestations of the Prius driver over me hanging out the window—take a chill pill, dude—and give the address for Blush.

  I’m going to make it to work on time after all! Congratulatory pats on the back for me are in order.

  I spend the rest of the ride just looking out the window, daydreaming about the guy. How he’d just walk over and pick me up and throw me on my desk and rip off my panties and bury his face into my cooch and just shoot me into orbit. Then just push his fat cock into me and make me yell and…

  Okay, seriously, I need to chill out. This not having sex thing is just getting outta hand.

  Besides, the guy seems sort of familiar. Where have I seen him before?

  I walk into work after paying the cabbie (no drinks out on the town for me tonight, not with that bill) and realize, fuuuccckkkkk…something isn’t right. Like, usually on a Monday morning, people are a little slow to get to work ‘cause everyone’s hung over, but there’s slow to work and then there’s just not fucking working at all. The reporters and editors and photographers are milling around aimlessly instead of, like, doing something. Like, their jobs.

  Panic grips me. I know two things off the bat, and I’ll give ‘em to you as they occurred to me:

  1)No one’s gonna notice I’m (discretely checking iPhone) five minutes late. Yippee! I got away with it again. I am a rockstar.

  2)No one’s gonna notice I’m late ‘cause something much worse than Ashley being late to work is going down. Much, much worse.

  Damn.

  My best friend, Natalie, spots me and rushes right over.

  “Ashley, there you are!” she hisses. “They’re going to do the announcement in like two minutes!”

  “Announcement? What announcement?”

  “Oh my god, girl, you really don’t read work emails outside of work, do you? They sent it at 5:30 this morning. There’s some big announcement happening this morning, and, like, everyone thinks they know what it is. But for reals, no one knows. It’s all just gossip.”

  She’s pulling me toward the back of the room, which is where everyone just shoves the shit they don’t know what to do with—it’s basically our communal shit storage area. Old copies of our magazines, props for photo shoots, Christmas decorations—all that crap that no one knows what to do with and no one cares enough to organize.

  But today, they had cleared all of that out, and put a dais up in the middle of it, with a microphone planted right up front.

  You know, like what they’d do if they were planning on making a big announcement.

  Like we don’t have jobs anymore.

  Fuuuuuccccckkkkkkk…

  Suddenly, not getting laid this weekend doesn't seem so important to me. I could be fired. In like three minutes, my fucking job could be gone.

  I feel panic thrumming through my veins.

  “Natalie,�
� I say, my voice rising in pitch. “Are we getting fired?” I may or may not have ended that question in a high-pitched squeak.

  She whips around and grabs my arms, shaking me. “Don’t you freak the fuck out on me, Ash!” she commands, staring me in the eyes as she does it. She could be scary when she wants to be, and she wants to be right now. “Let’s hear what they say, and then freak out. For all we know, they’ve gathered us together to tell us that we’re getting extra large Christmas bonuses this year.”

  “Extra large” would imply that we've received Christmas bonuses previously, but before I can point out how we’ve never gotten a penny as any kind of bonus, Mr. Isaouk steps up to the microphone.

  This is a really bad sign, ‘cause he is a class A dickwad who’d fuck over his own mother for an extra $50. He also happens to own Blush.

  No, seeing him definitely does not give me the warm and fuzzies.

  “Hello?” he says, the mic screeching with feedback. Everyone groans with pain as the sound reverberates through their heads, but it does the trick; everyone in the room turns to stare at him.

  Mr. Dickwad Boss Man begins droning on about how we’re a family and he cares about all of us, which could not be farther from the truth, and even he didn’t seem convinced by his speech when I glanced to the side.

  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.

  32

  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.

  33

  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—

&n
bsp; 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.