by Penny Wylder
Marcus looks at me and smiles. “She’ll do all the work for me,” he says, satisfied with himself.
Now that Fiona is gone, my mind travels back to that kiss and the memory of his soft, warm lips consumes me all over again.
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing, because his gaze travels back to my lips and a muscle in his jaw ripples. “We should get to my apartment so I can show you the guest room,” he says.
“Thank you again for letting me stay with you.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
I really can’t wait for a shower. I bet his apartment has amazing water pressure, unlike my house. There were a lot of things that made my house inferior to most: its small size, its one bedroom, its leaky roof, and terrible water pressure that was more of a fast drip than an actual flow. But it was all mine and I could forgive all those things.
I just wish I had clean clothes to change into once I’m done with my shower. Hopefully he has a washer and dryer and isn’t one of those people who hires a service instead.
We get to the high rise, and it’s definitely not at all like the apartments I’m used to seeing where I come from. It’s not a cluster of eight-hundred square-foot, two-bedrooms where everyone has their designated parking space with a shared pool in back. This is where rich people cluster together when they want to live downtown and are too busy to bother with lawns and housing staff—though I’m sure they have cleaners and maids here too.
We’re met by a valet who takes the car to a garage somewhere nearby. Then we’re greeted by a front desk clerk. I’m not sure why there’s a front desk clerk since these are apartments and not a hotel. You literally have to ask permission to go to someone’s apartment. They obviously pride themselves on safety because we pass several security guards along the way.
We get into an elevator and there is an elevator operator wearing a fancy uniform, pressed and meticulous. This is crazy. It’s like something out of a movie. I can’t imagine living like this—or having the kind of money it takes to live like this. I’d be too afraid of losing it all. I bet if I were rich I’d still live in a tiny one-bedroom house and save every penny—just in case. When you’ve been poor for so long and have had to count every penny you’ve ever earned, it’s hard to let go of old habits. Marcus obviously doesn’t have that issue.
I start to wonder about his life growing up. Was he born rich, or is he just so confident in his abilities as a designer and businessman that he lives freely no matter what the future holds. That confidence is evident in his stride, the way he holds himself, the way he is still friendly to those beneath his station. He doesn’t have to pretend to be better than everyone else. Everyone he sees he greets with a smile, even the janitor who is cleaning up a broken vase on the carpeted hall floor. As I watch him interact with these people in such a respectful way, I can’t help but think a girl like me might actually stand a chance with a guy like him. Even though he so very clearly loves his material things, he doesn’t come off as materialistic.
He glances at me so suddenly I don’t have time to avert my gaze and I’m caught staring at him. An eyebrow lifts high on his forehead. God, he’s sexy. Everything about him just does it for me.
“Ready?” he says. That’s when I notice the elevator door is open and he’s been waiting for me to walk out of it. I was so busy watching him that I didn’t even realize that we’d stopped.
My cheeks flush and the elevator clerk gives me a playful wink.
Inside the apartment opens up into a grand, elegant room with heather-gray furniture, crystal accents, and one of the biggest chandeliers that I’ve ever seen in a house. It’s like a dream, a beautiful, shiny dream. When the sun comes in through the massive east-facing windows, it hits the crystals in the chandelier, spilling rainbows across the room.
“This is incredible,” I say in a breath of awe.
“I’m glad you like it. I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
This doesn’t look like a place where one gets comfortable. It is a place of fear and constant worry that something is going to break or get stained. Either way, I’m happy to be here, even just to experience being in a place like this.
“Do you have a washing machine by chance?” I ask.
He gives me a wry smile and I think maybe I said something to embarrass myself, but I’m not sure yet what it was. Then I realize I’m talking to a men’s clothing mogul, someone whose fashion lines don’t makes anything under one hundred dollars—which is a pair of ankle socks. Not a package. Just one pair. Even those have to be washed a certain way and it definitely isn’t in a washing machine.
“No, but I have something you can wear while I send your clothes out to the cleaner,” he says.
“Great, thank you. I’m going to get in the shower.”
“I’ll pick up a few personal items you might need.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say out of politeness because it’s not his responsibility to do anything for me.
“I insist.”
Our eyes lock for a moment and I can’t seem to look away. Neither can he, it would seem, though he’s the first to break eye contact. He clears his throat and says, “Well, I better get to it. Towels are in the hall closet. If you can’t find any in there, I should have some in the closet in my room.” He points to a door on the left. “Help yourself. When you’re out of your clothes, just toss them into the hallway and I’ll take them to the cleaner while I’m out.”
I cringe at the thought of him handling my dirty clothes—especially my underwear. But they need to be washed. What choice do I have?
“I’ll have something for you to wear laid out on your bed when you’re done. Your room is right next to mine. The linens are fresh and there’s a shower in the adjoining washroom. If you want to use the tub, you’ll have to use the main bathroom down the hall.”
“Thank you so much.”
He nods and heads for the kitchen. The tub sounds fantastic, actually, so that’s where I head. I can’t wait to get these clothes off. Inside the bathroom with the tub, I pause and take everything in. If there were such thing as an Olympic sized tub, this thing would be it. More like a Jacuzzi than a tub, really. There are even jets. Everything is stone and natural materials, the sinks (all three of them) are made of copper.
I could live in this bathroom. In fact, this bathroom might have more square footage than my house that recently burned down. I turn on the water. Steam fogs the mirrors and warms my skin. I shed my clothes and toss them to the side. Takes a while, but once the tub is full, I climb in and turn on the jets. I rest my back against them, letting the bubbles massage my aching muscles. They unwind all the tension and knots from sleeping in my car. I realize just how exhausted I am. I could probably fall asleep in here.
I lean back, using all the fancy soaps and shampoos Marcus has on display in here. Are these things he uses or that he keeps for guests? I smell the body wash and it’s definitely him. I’m going to smell like him too, and I’m okay with that. Falling asleep to his scent will probably give me all kinds of fun dreams. I’m okay with that too.
The scent instantly brings me back to our kiss in the restaurant, and his hand on my thigh. I close my eyes, and touch the same place he had touched, a poor substitute for his own hand, but it does the trick for my fantasy in the moment. I glide my hand along my skin, pretending it’s his, and touch the growing urge between my legs. Letting out a slow moan, I insert a finger, feeling the slickness of arousal.
The jets massaging my back give me a good idea and I rise up out of the water and position myself in front of one. Spreading my legs in front of the jet, it hits just the right spot and I’m thrown into pulsating pleasure that has my eyes rolling in the back of my head.
Masturbating in Marcus’s house, imagining that it’s his hands groping my breasts and not my own, that he’s the one pinching my nipples, has me on the edge of a quaking orgasm. My body starts to shake.
I hear a faint sound. Was that a knock or somet
hing falling off the side of the tub? The jets are loud and muffle sound. Probably just something falling. I’d set out all the shampoos and body washes on the edge. More than likely, I put them too close to the edge. I don’t hear the sound again so ignore it and go back to pleasuring myself. The incident is all but forgotten as I’m reunited with the incredible pleasure the jets give me. But then I hear the same sound. I open my eyes just in time to watch the door swing open.
I startle and let out a yelp of embarrassment when I see Marcus in the doorway. His eyes go wide as he takes it all in. There’s really no denying what I’m doing. I mean, my legs are stretched and propped up in front of the jet.
I quickly dip my body back into the water up to my neck, but what I really want to do is drown right now.
“I’m …” he starts to say, fighting back shock and then laughter. “I apologize. You hadn’t put your dirty clothes out so I assumed you were still dressed.”
SHIT.
I forgot all about putting my clothes out in the hall. I’d been too consumed with thought of a long, hot soak. I’m so stupid.
He looks away and finally lets out the chuckle he’s been holding in as he picks my dirty clothes off the floor into a ball in his arms. “Go back to … whatever you were doing.” He glances at me and gives me a half-cocked grin. There’s something playful and yet still kind of sexy about the look he gives me. Despite my horrific embarrassment, I’m still really turned on. “Please don’t let me stop you.”
He closes the door and I’m left reeling in embarrassment. My boss just caught me masturbating with the jets in his tub. My God, how the hell am I supposed to face him after this? Is it too late to go live in my car? I’ll just stay in my room from now on and never leave.
Shit. I’m his personal assistant. I’m going to have to see this man all day, every day and then come home to him every night until this trip is over and I get my bonus.
I stay in the tub far longer than I should. As much as I would kill for some release, I’m not about to go for another round with the jet. The water is cold by the time I get out. I’m going to have to face him at some point.
I wring the water out of my hair and reach for the towel, but then I realize, I never got a towel out of the hall closet.
Double shit.
I have no clothes to put on, no towel to wrap around me, nothing. Not even a bath mat to hide my parts. I try to squeegee as much water off my body with my hands as I can, then slowly and quietly look out the door into the hallway. I don’t hear or see anything. He must still be out running errands.
I creep out into the hallway, naked and exposed. Opening the hall closet I see no towels and my heart sinks. Marcus said there were some in the closet in his room. If I can just get there without getting caught, then I can run back to my room and stay there the rest of the night and pretend everything that just happened was all a nightmare.
Creeping further down the hall, I peer around the corner into the living room. I don’t see him. From here I have a pretty good angle of the kitchen. I don’t see him there either. I let out a sigh of relief.
I tip-toe to his room. My hair is still dripping, and I slip a little as I cross the wet tiled floor. Letting out a slow breath, I try to calm myself. I can only imagine my utter humiliation if I slipped and broke something, unable to move, just lying on the ground injured and naked when he comes home from his errands.
I put all my attention into watching my step and keeping my balance, so when I go into Marcus’s room, I don’t notice until it’s too late that he’s standing in front of the mirror, removing his tie.
We lock eyes in the mirror and I see the horrified look on my face in my reflection, and the amusement on his.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” The words just fall from my mouth, untamed, and as uncouth as one might imagine.
I turn to flee out the door, but I somehow manage to lock it in my haste. And now I’m fumbling with the knob and so panicked that I can’t get the damn thing unlocked! My back is to him, my ass exposed in all its splendor. I’m totally freaking out.
Suddenly I feel warmth at my back. Something brushes against my skin and I suck in a quick breath. That’s when I realize Marcus has wrapped a towel around me. I tighten it and tuck it in so it won’t budge, then I turn to face him. He still wears that beautiful smirk he seems to get on his face whenever I’m around.
“You forgot your towel,” he says.
“I know. I thought you had left …”
“I did. You were in there a long time.” He reaches for another towel draped across his bed and starts to dry my hair with it. It feels amazing to have someone attend to me this way. My eyes grow heavy and turn to slits as he dries my hair with the softest terrycloth I’ve ever felt.
“I’m sorry you had to see that … when I was—you know,” I finally say. I want to continue, to throw myself on his mercy. He probably thinks I’m a complete perv and an idiot for forgetting my towel.
“I’m definitely not,” he says.
My eyes spring open. He laughs at the shocked look on my face. Though he’s finding plenty of humor in the situation, there’s more there. His hooded gaze travels the length of my body, causing my breath to come faster. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me like that, with open, unabashed lust. He does a decent job of hiding it by letting out another chuckle, but I saw it. That lust, that flirtation, it was there.
And my body was definitely affected by it.
I would love nothing more than to toss this towel aside and kiss him. I want him in the worst way, my body is screaming for him to take me now. But my mind is still in control of the wheel. If I have sex with my boss, I might find myself out of a job. It all seems like a good idea now, but what happens after, when the hormones settle, and the frenzy to get off seeps away. He would regret it. Maybe I would too, and we would be stuck with each other in an office, unable to escape.
No, I can’t let this happen.
Though it pains me to do so, I step away from him. “Could I get those clothes now?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says and goes to his massive walk-in closet where he comes back out with a t-shirt and pair of boxer shorts for me to lounge around in. “There are more clothes for you to wear, but I figured you could wear these around the house.”
Why is the thought of walking around his house wearing his boxers turning me on right now?
STOP thinking like that, I scold myself.
“Thank you,” I say, and manage to slip them on without exposing myself. I wrap the towel around my head. The way he looks at me right now is not much different from the way he looked at me without any clothes on. Maybe he also finds it kind of hot, me wearing his boxers.
“Come on, I’ll make us some popcorn and we can watch a movie,” he says as he strides past me.
Popcorn and a movie? That’s the most normal, mundane thing I can think of two people doing together. I’ve always thought of Marcus being on a pedestal, bigger and better than everyone else around him. Not once had I ever imagined him just sitting around, watching movies and eating popcorn. When would he have the time? Fashion is an ever evolving business. So far I’ve been completely wrong about him. I have a feeling that when it comes to Marcus Steere, I will never stop being surprised.
I leave his room and he hands me his tablet and asks me to pick out a movie. Going through his collection, I see that we have the same taste in movies. The list is an eclectic mix of foreign films, obscure dark comedies, and sprinkled with action, horror, and romantic comedies. I see the icon for his e-book collection on the tablet as well and decide to snoop. To my surprise, we share very similar tastes in books as well. Like his movie collection, he reads a lot of different genres. I’ve read nearly every single book on this list. I make a mental note to read the ones I haven’t. Clearly if he likes them, I probably will too. How could it possibly be that he and I are more alike than I thought?
He comes back into the room with a bowl of popcorn. No surprise that�
�s its gourmet popcorn and not the normal kind loaded with salt and butter-flavored grease. This stuff is sprinkled with different spices and parmesan cheese. I don’t think I’m going to like it at first, but when I try it, I don’t think I’ll go back to boring old popcorn again.
I choose a light-hearted romantic comedy from the list of movies and settle in next to him. The couch is extremely comfortable despite its looks. But I’m still terrified by how white it is. I suppose I can’t stain it too badly with popcorn. I’m careful not to drop any kernels.
As we settle into watch the movie, we’re suddenly joined by someone else. I’m surprised when a big fluffy white Persian cat jumps onto my lap. It looks at me with bright eyes and a flat, almost angry-looking face.
“That’s my roommate, Bitters,” Marcus says.
“His name is Bitters?”
He nods.
I laugh as I run my fingers through his thick coat. The name certainly fits. The cat looks as though he bit down on something bitter. Despite the disapproving face, Bitter purrs and nuzzles against my hand as I pet him. Like his owner, he’s gentle and sweet and completely defies appearances.
“I love cats,” I say.
“He seems to like you too. He hated my ex.”
With that statement, I find myself curious about his life and start bombarding him with questions. He doesn’t seem to mind, and answers everything freely. He tells me that his wife was introduced to him by his business partner at the time. They hadn’t been madly in love, but they were both very ambitious and looking to make names for themselves in the fashion industry. His rise to fame made her resentful of him and eventually led to their divorce—which I find sad, because when you love someone you want the best for them and you want them to succeed. Their success is ultimately your success. When I tell him this, he gives me the oddest look. Almost like he’d never thought of it that way.
He tells me now that they’ve been divorced for quite some time, she seems to have forgotten how terrible they were together and wants him back. He thinks the reason she wants him back is because of changes he’s making to the business that might very well put him right up there with Gucci and Versace.
