Big Bad Boss

by Amy Faye

  Arguing with Jasper is a losing proposition from the start. Arguing with him once he’s made up his mind is pointless. I’m tired, and I’m going to remain tired, and there’s nothing that either of us can do about it, so it’s easier not to fight.

  “So what are we doing tonight?”

  The question comes by surprise. I open my eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are we doing tonight?”

  “We’re not getting pregnant, if that’s what you‘re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything,” he says. “I’m thinking that we’ve got three hours until dark, and another few hours after that before either of us is going to want to actually sleep, and in that time we’d better find some way to pass the time or we’re both going to be miserable. That seems reasonable enough to me.”

  It does sound reasonable, which is one of the reasons I hate it. Jasper has no right to be reasonable, no right to have a point. He’s a complete jackass and the sooner we both recognize that, the better.

  “Whatever you want,” I hear myself saying. “Just as long as it doesn’t involve you thinking that you’re going to get in on my action.”

  I can hear the smugness in his voice, as if he’s trying to spite me with it. “Of course not. That would be crazy.”

  Two hours later, the stuff was unpacked. Jasper’s shoulders slump when he thinks I’m not working, his breaths racking his entire frame with exhaustion. I expected his help to dwindle as he got more tired, but it doesn’t. If anything, he works harder now that he’s at the edge of losing control of himself. Like the whole thing is a dare and he refuses to accept it.

  “You doing okay there?”

  He immediately stiffens, his back suddenly straight as a board.

  “I’m fine,” he growls. I let him believe he’s got me fooled. He certainly doesn’t look fine.

  “Of course you are,” I agree. “You’re a very hard worker, you know.”

  “Oh, fuck off.” But in spite of the fact that he treats the complement as an insult, I can still see the slight change in his posture, the way that he suddenly seems to carry himself differently. He appreciates it even though he thinks I’m faking.

  But in spite of myself, in spite of the fact that I would like nothing more than to be pulling his leg, I’m not. He is a surprisingly hard worker, for a rich boy.

  “Now what?”

  “Did you want something to eat?” I don’t know what there is in the kitchen, but I don’t doubt for a second that he has enough for me to cook something, whatever that might be. I’m not afraid of a challenge, and finding something to cook in a house this size is hardly going to be a real challenge.

  If he’s going to give me a place to stay, and I don’t have to pay any rent, the least I can do is cook a few meals. It’s fun for me, and it makes it look like I’m paying some homage to him. Better than fucking him, anyways.

  “Yeah, sure. You offering to cook, or…”

  “I’ll cook whatever you want,” I say. “As long as I know how, or you’ve got a recipe.”

  “Escargot?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  He doesn’t laugh, not out loud, but I can see the mischievous smile on his face. “Okay. How are you with steaks?”

  “I’m a fucking miracle-worker with steaks.” It’s a boast, and I’ve met enough people who are better than I am that I know there’s a risk that he’s met one too. But I’ve met enough that weren’t better than I am to know that it’s not an idle boast.

  “Well, then, miss miracle worker. Right through here, you’ll find the refrigerator, and inside you’ll find a pair of nice thick steaks. I take mine bloody.”

  “Good to know,” I say. They’re right where he says they are. “Where do you keep your spices?”

  He points over at a cabinet. I open it and on the door is a rack. There are almost two-dozen bottles, most of them everyday stuff. Nothing too expensive, nothing too extravagant. The only thing that I raise my eyebrow at is the bottle of hot sauce that appears to have been used most of the way through.

  If that’s his vice, though, I’m not about to criticize. I pull what I need off the rack. I’m missing a few things from what I would ideally have, but nothing that’s going to ruin the meal, so nothing that demands he goes out and gets them right now.

  “And what on the side,” I ask, my hands already busying themselves preparing the meat and getting it all seasoned. “We’ve got enough time to go get something if you don’t have it in the house.”

  “You know how to make pasta?”

  “I’ve done it once or twice,” I say. “If you mean making the noodles and all.”

  “I wouldn’t complain. Noodle maker under the island there.”

  I wipe my hands off on a towel and check underneath the island. There’s a large metal pasta maker, as sure as anything. I finish the steaks and get to mixing ingredients. They need to warm up a little more. It’ll take almost thirty minutes before they hit room temperature, and that’s more than enough time to get this dough sorted out, and have it run through the machine. I get water going.

  By the time it’s all said and done, my head’s spinning, the same as his must have been. It’s always a photo finish, when you’re trying to juggle three or four balls all at once. Steak is best cooked at high heat, the higher the better, but that means that it’s only a few minutes of cooking. For someone who likes their steak very rare, it’s even shorter. All that means is that I have to work to tight tolerances. The steaks come out. The pasta comes out. The sauce stays on the stove while I let everything else rest, simmering to stay hot.

  Then it’s all onto a plate, and served. The spinning starts to slow, but not fast enough to change it. Not fast enough to make me feel like I’ve got a handle on things.

  But in spite of myself, the look of satisfaction on his face as he receives the plate, and the look of enjoyment as he takes his first bites, actually has an effect. Jasper Blunden is a first-rate son of a bitch, and not a terribly good boss. As a husband or a friend or a companion, I can’t say that I’m impressed.

  But I’m at least glad he appreciates my cooking.

  Eleven

  Jasper

  There are a lot of things that I’m willing to give Cait credit for. Things I was always willing to give her credit for. For example, she’s soft-spoken and obedient, most of the time. When she isn’t, it’s easy to understand why she isn’t.

  For example, I don’t expect just any woman to show me her breasts at the drop of a hat. That was part of the appeal of the whole thing. I expected a little push-back and I got it as sure as anything. Now, of course, that doesn’t mean that I’m perfectly happy to accept not getting what I asked for, but I understood the push-back on it.

  She’s an attractive woman. A smart woman. She’s good at what she does, takes very reasonable notes on her work when that’s what I require of her, and she doesn’t complain much. At least, not to my face. Not usually, mis-sent texts notwithstanding.

  Sometimes, though, I find that there’s trouble where I don’t necessarily expect it. I have to accept that. And this pregnancy thing is one of those places where I really would rather that she thought about it logically. Eventually, she will.

  On the other hand, sometimes I’m pleasantly surprised. This is one of those cases. I’ve always considered myself a decent hand at the stove. I run a pretty clean kitchen and I cook well enough for myself that I’ve never planned on making a woman do it for me, because there’s no need. I can take care of anything that needs doing without the hassle of having to convince a woman that I need her to do it.

  So when she offered, I was surprised; when she was better at it than I was, I was even more surprised still. I can’t help myself. I wasn’t hungry when we started, and now, staring at my clean plate, I’m surprised to find myself wishing that I had space in my belly for seconds.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I say, almost without thinking about it.” You are a
miracle worker.”

  “Damn right,” she says. “You should see what I can do with a few more spices.”

  “You’re telling me that wasn’t your usual recipe?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And, uh… I hope the pasta was okay? I was kind of going from memory, and I don’t have all that much experience with it.”

  I blink. “What do you mean, ‘don’t have all that much?’ Does that mean ‘first time,’ or…”

  “Not quite the first time,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “Why? Was it bad?”

  “If you hadn’t said anything I’d have figured you were an old hand at it. Came out great. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Caitlynn beams. If even I can see how pleased she looks, she’s either warmed up to me unexpectedly, or she’s so pleased that this is just what is managing to seep out around the edges.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? Hell, I’d marry you just for the steak, never mind the inheritance.”

  The beaming doesn’t stop; instead, she adds a blush to the mix now. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not kidding. This is some of the best cooking I’ve ever tasted from anyone. Bar none. You’ve got a real talent. Did you go to school for this or something?”

  “I took a few lessons here and there, but it’s mostly just me.”

  “Well I am damn impressed. You’re a real talent.”

  She nods. “You can stop heaping praise on me now. You’re embarrassing me.”

  I give her a sidelong look. “Who’s to say that wasn’t my intention?”

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  “What, you’ve decided that you’re willing to give it a shot after all?”

  Cait rolls her eyes. “Not quite, Cyrano. You’re very clever, though. Why don’t you try throwing that one at me again and see if this time I get caught on the tide of your romantic personality.”

  “How about something else, then?”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “I was thinking how much I’d like it if you sucked my cock.”

  I can see her expression shift. I don’t know how much she’s really opposed to it, but I know one thing. She’s not exactly super keen on it, either. Well, she’s going to have to get over that at some point, because I’m not going to give up on my money. I worked damn hard to get to where I am, and I’m not going to have it all taken away from me because I didn’t knock some woman up in time.

  To my surprise, though, she doesn’t exactly seem to shy away from the notion.

  “Is that all you wanted?”

  “It’s what I’m willing to accept, at least,” I say. No use in lying to her. Up to this point, the relationship has been transactional. If that’s what it’s going to be then that’s what it’s going to be, there’s no use in beating myself up about it, or lying to her about what I want from her. It’s easier if I just let her know what I expect, and let her try to figure out how to meet those requirements.

  “And that’s all?”

  “I mean, if you want to fuck, I’m more than willing.”

  She wipes her mouth and takes a drink from the open wine bottle in front of her, without bothering to refill her glass first.

  “Alright,” she says finally. “But just a blowjob, and only tonight.”

  “Is there anything you wanted?”

  “More than anything? I just want you to leave it alone.”

  “Alright. You can have at least one night to yourself, if that’s it.”

  “If that’s the best I can get,” she says.

  “I’m not going to stop trying to get my inheritance. Don’t forget, you’re losing out on your money, too.”

  Cait’s expression sours even as she starts to drop to her knees in front of my chair. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Then why not?”

  She looks up at me with a scowl. “Because I’m not going to be your whore, that’s why.”

  “Shut up and suck my cock,” I say. I hope that my tone is playful enough to get across the idea that it’s a joke. Her reaction is calm enough that I think she gets it.

  Her hands find the zipper to my pants and pull it down. I help her out, working the button at the top. A moment later, my cock, only halfway awake from the conversation up to this point, is freed from its confines in my jeans.

  Her hand wraps around it and I feel her pump it tentatively. The simple feeling of her skin touching me in my most sensitive place is enough to send a powerful electric shiver up my spine. Enough that I can feel my cock hardening by the second as she starts to move more confidently.

  “God,” I breathe. “That’s good.”

  I can hear the amusement in her voice. “I haven’t even gotten started yet.”

  “Then get started,” I say. I don’t have the focus to be able to hold back the demanding tone in my voice. There’s more to come, and we both know it, but I can’t help myself. It just feels so god damn good.

  “You’ve got a good cock,” she says. “It doesn’t match your personality at all.”

  Before I can respond, she opens her mouth and takes it between her lips. The warmth engulfing me is maddening, so powerful that I can’t think straight. Her mouth is wet, and I feel something else moving inside it as she takes me deep. Her tongue, working its way left and right under my shaft.

  But it’s not until she takes me deep that I really feel myself starting to lose control. I don’t know when my hands moved from my sides to her head, but the fingers are digging into her hair, pulling her off of my cock and then slamming her back home again. I can hear the sound of my shaft blocking her throat, the gentle choking noises that come with each thrust making me want her more and more.

  “You like that, don’t you,” I growl.

  She says something around my cock. I don’t stop or remove myself from her mouth to give myself a chance to hear. I don’t care what she’s got to say. I care what she’s making me feel, and what I can get out of it.

  “I’m going to cum,” I growl.

  She says something again, pushing back from me. She wants me to pull out, to cum somewhere else. I force her head onto my cock deeper as my orgasm overtakes me, filling her mouth with my seed. She looks up at me with furious eyes, but she doesn’t stop me.

  After a long moment, as the pleasurable high starts to fade, I let my softening cock slip out of her mouth.

  “God,” I growl. “That was good.”

  “Fuck you,” she says. She looks angry. I understand that. But she’s been angry with me from the first day. This really isn’t much of a change, and dear God did I like it.

  Twelve

  Cait

  I don’t know if Jasper cares that I’m not at work. Then again, it’s not a very busy week so far, and there’s no reason that I need to be there. If I’m going to be on the hook for this marriage, even if I’m not going to get pregnant, then I think I deserve the right to take some time off. Apparently he doesn’t entirely disagree, because I haven’t gotten any push-back on it.

  A knock at the door of the house is a surprise. I never took Jasper as the type of man who had guests around. Even less expected is that someone would come around during work hours, expecting to find him there. In fact, it’s almost completely illogical. There’s no reason that he would be here for hours and hours, and yet…

  The knock comes again, more insistent this time. I push myself up from the couch, leaving my book face-down beside myself. The knock comes a third time as I’m reaching the door. I pull it open. A pair of smiling faces are on the other side of the door. I halfway-remember them for an instant, and then recognition dawns.

  “Oh, Arthur. And… uh… was it Katja?”

  Arthur smiles. “Is Jasper around?”

  “No, he’s working. If you need, I can try to find out when he’ll be home, and get back to you?”

  He smiles. “No, that won’t be necessary. I didn’t really want to talk to him anyways.”

  I blink
. “No?”

  “No.” He smiles even wider. “I was hoping to get you on your own, actually. There’s something I need to talk to you about. In private.”

  The woman beside him looks like she’s ready to be done with it all, but she keeps a pretty good handle on it regardless, and that’s good enough, I suppose. There’s no reason for him to be pissed, and there’s no reason for me to be pissed.

  “I don’t know if that’s really a good idea. I mean, this isn’t really my place, after all, and…”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t worry about it. Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

  I don’t trust him, and anyone who says ‘Trust me” is someone I instantly distrust. I keep that to myself.

  “What did you need, anyways?”

  “What did I need? No, no. It’s not about what I need. What can I do for you, that’s what you need to ask yourself. Can I come in? Let’s talk a minute.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, but when he pushes inside I don’t stop him. His wife shrugs as I look at her, though it’s more a matter of her walking into my line of sight. The bewildered look on my face, though, probably communicates enough of what I’m feeling.

  “This is a nice place. How long have you been here?”

  I try to think of the cover story that Jasper and I concocted, but it doesn’t come easily.

  “Uh, just a few weeks.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I felt that before we were married, we shouldn’t cohabitate.”

  “That’s very traditional of you,” Arthur says. There’s a tone in his voice that says that he doesn’t particularly appreciate traditions.

  “Well, it’s how I was raised.”

  “I feel that. My father wasn’t a traditional sort of guy. We’re only half-brothers, you know. Three moms.”

  “I heard that,” I offer. I had heard it. From more than one someone, actually. But I’m not about to get into that with him.

  “Good, so I don’t have to get into it too much. Look, it’s not like I can’t stand my brothers. They’re both good guys. But I can tell that you’re not exactly all lovey-dovey with Jasper, either.”