Perfect Boss

by Penny Wylder

  I can’t help but laugh. My car really was a piece of shit. But it was all I could afford. “I’m not really your wife. You didn’t have to do that.”

  He shrugs. That’s it. No explanation.

  “How about dinner and we get to bed early. It’s a long flight,” he suggests.

  “That sounds good.”

  That night I can’t sleep. I stay awake, pacing. I’m reading a book I found in the living room, hoping the stress on my eyes from reading in dim light will force them closed for the rest of the night. Around midnight, there’s a light tap on the door. I put the book aside and say, “Come in.”

  “I got up to get a glass of water and saw your light on. Can’t sleep?”

  I shake my head. “I’m terrified of flying. I’ve never actually been on a plane before.”

  He doesn’t look surprised. “I figured as much when you told me your parents died in one. You were visibly shaken when I told you we would be flying to Paris.”

  “I didn’t realize I’m that transparent,” I say with a shy grin.

  “You wear your heart on your sleeve,” he says pointedly.

  Shit. Does this mean it’s obvious that I’m falling for him?

  “Come on,” he says and reaches for my hand. He pulls me off the bed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get you to relax a bit.”

  He takes me to the kitchen and pours me a glass of wine. I gulp it down. I’ve never had good wine before and find it easy to drink. Nothing like the bitterness of cheap wine that has always made drinking wine so unappealing to me.

  After my glass of wine, I follow him to his room. My stomach jolts with excitement and nervousness. Sex is definitely a good way to relieve some tension. I wait for him to make a move, to start taking off my clothes or start taking off his. But he does neither. Instead he instructs me to lie on my stomach.

  Okay, I like it from behind. I settle into position and wait for my panties to come off. They don’t. Only the back of my t-shirt comes up and he starts to massage my shoulders. Oh, God, yes. He has incredibly strong hands that dig deep into my muscles, relaxing every part of me. This massage is almost better than sex—actually, it’s nowhere near as good as sex with Marcus, but it’s far better than the sex I’ve had with other men.

  I keep waiting for more to happen, but all he seems concerned with is working the knots out of my muscles. When he’s done, he kisses the back of my neck. “Feel better?”

  “I feel amazing.”

  And I do. I feel so relaxed that I might actually be able to get some sleep. I start to wonder if I should go back to my room, but then he turns the lamp off beside his bed and pulls me into a spoon position and keeps his arm around my waist.

  “Goodnight, Wife,” he whispers in my ear.

  I giggle and play along. “Goodnight, Husband.”

  Though I’m playing along, it feels good to say that. It feels right in every way.

  5

  We board the private jet first thing in the morning. I’m groggy and yet, at the same time, I’m a nervous wreck. Marcus holds my hand the entire time as we walk out onto the tarmac. He pulls me close to him as we board the plane.

  The plane looks like a mix between Airforce One and Marcus’s fancy high-rise. Nothing about it looks like what I thought the inside of a plane would look like. That doesn’t help the nerves, though. I know once that door closes, there’s no opening it again until we land. We are up in the air and at the mercy of the elements and the crew who put the plane together. What if someone on the assembly line was being lazy and decided he could skip a bolt or two, or what if someone wasn’t paying attention and put a damaged part in? There are so many things that could go wrong. You could have perfect weather and a skilled pilot, but all it takes is one little thing to go wrong to send this bird straight into the ground.

  I shudder at the thought and feel like I’m going to throw up. Tears stream down my cheeks. I want to be brave in front of Marcus, but as soon as those engines come on, I lose it.

  He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look in his eyes. “You’re going to be fine,” he says in a soothing voice. “I made sure to have my crew check every part of this plane three times before we took off. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here.”

  I nod and bury my face into the crook of his arm as we lift into the air. Surprisingly, being close to him, I really do feel like everything is going to be okay.

  “I have something for you,” he says. “I was going to wait to give it to you when we got to Paris, but I can’t wait any longer.”

  He pulls out a velvet box. I sit back, staring at it. I know what comes in boxes like that. When he opens it, there’s a hulking diamond inside with a platinum band and a delicate braided design engraved in the metal.

  I know I shouldn’t get this excited over a ring that doesn’t really mean anything, but I can’t help the pitter-pat of my heart when I see it. He pulls the ring out of the box and places it on my ring finger. It’s heavy and shiny and fits perfectly, just like the clothes had, just like he fit perfectly inside of me. Everything about us together just fits.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  I’m crying again, but luckily I had already been crying because of my fear of flying so he wouldn’t know the difference. He has another box, and in it is a thick platinum band with the same intricate design to match my own. He puts it on, then strokes my hand with the tips of his fingers.

  “It looks good on you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I look up into his eyes and there is so much affection there. That’s when I know that I’ve really and truly fallen in love with him. When we get back from Paris, all of this will be over. He won’t be mine any longer and the thought is so unbearable it feels as though my heart will shatter into a thousand pieces.

  He wipes my tears away with his thumb. “What can I do to make this easier for you?”

  I take him by the hand and lead him to the bathroom. He follows without question. I close the door once we’re both inside and push him up against the wall. “Distract me,” I say, putting my hands up under his shirt and caressing the hard chest beneath.

  A hungry grin spreads across his face. “Gladly.”

  We slough our clothes off in a flurry of movement. Once we’re both naked, he spins me around so that my back is up against the wall, then gets down on his knees in front of me as though he were about to worship me.

  He props my foot up on the top of the toilet, spreading my legs. His fingers run a simmering trail from my knee, along my inner thigh, toward my dripping wet sex. A soft moan escapes my lips. The anticipation of what’s coming has my legs shaking and I’m barely able to keep my balance. His smile widens knowing the kind of effect he has on me.

  He kisses my thigh, his lips like hot coals against my skin. My entire body breaks out in goosebumps. I’m so wet that my pussy drips onto floor beneath me, leaving a dark spot on the gray carpet. He sees it then looks up at me, his eyes full of pure lust.

  He runs a finger along my slit. My back arches in response. When the pad of his thumb touches my clit, I whimper.

  He leans in and kisses the rounded curve of my pussy. Gentle, sweet, teasing kisses. It’s torture, waiting, but I know whatever comes next will be worth the wait.

  “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says, his words muffled against my skin. He breathes in deep, savoring my scent. He continues to kiss me. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

  His words make no sense to me. He’s in the fashion industry. He sees models all the time. How could I possibly be the most beautiful woman he’s ever met? And yet when he says it, I believe it. There’s so much truth to his words that I can’t help but feel them.

  His lips remain touching my skin, but he looks up with his eyes. “You’ve ruined me, Ruby Steere. No one else will ever be good enough.”

  Why is he calling me Ruby Steere? I wish he knew how much that hurts me. How bad
ly I want his name to be my own. I want to tell him, but I’m afraid if I do, it will ruin everything. Right now I just want to be with him.

  His mouth engulfs my pussy, tongue darting in between my folds.

  “Oh, God, yes,” I cry out, taking handfuls of his hair.

  His tongue does all kinds of magic tricks, plunging inside of me, disappearing. I roll my hips, humping his face. He’s making wonderful, deep sounds of approval as I force myself onto his eager mouth. Every nerve in my body screams for more.

  I beg him, pleading for him not to stop. He doesn’t. My desperation just eggs him on further. Each time he comes up for air, his face is even wetter with my arousal. His skin is raw from it, chapped, and yet he continues to dive in for more.

  I roll my head back, looking up at the tiled ceiling of the bathroom, then my eyes flutter closed as he tongue-fucks me.

  “Please, Marcus, don’t stop,” I beg.

  Then he stops.

  I look down at him in surprise. “Call me your husband,” he says. There’s no smile, no teasing this time.

  My brow furrows in confusion. “What?” I say.

  His hands wrap around, massaging my ass cheeks. A finger runs down my crack until it reaches the opening of my pussy from behind. There it lingers, toying with my opening. I pull in a sharp breath, willing his finger to delve deep into me. But it doesn’t. Just lingers there, taunting me with what could be if only I comply with his wishes.

  “Call me husband,” he says again. One of his eyebrows raises high on his forehead and he tilts his head. He starts to back away as if he’s ready to leave any moment if I don’t say what he wants to hear.

  He leans further away and I grab his shoulders to stop him from going. “Please don’t stop, husband,” I say.

  A smile forms on his perfect lips and he presses his finger into me. I gasp as it sinks into me. He takes it out, leaving me with a feeling of emptiness that I desperately want filled.

  “Again,” I beg.

  “Again, what?” he says.

  Is this really turning him on, me calling him my husband? It must be because his cock is raging hard and jerks in response to my voice when I say, “Again, husband.”

  I’m gifted with two fingers this time.

  “Husband,” I say under my breath.

  Three fingers fill me. Can I handle more? It’ll be a tight fit, but I think I can.

  I lean over so I’m close to his ear and whisper, “Husband.”

  A fourth finger enters me and my entire body starts to spasm. When he pulls his hand away, its dripping with my juices. He uses my natural lube to lather his cock before lifting me up and impaling me onto his stiff rod. Wrapping my legs around his waist, he holds me up against the wall, fucking me hard, drilling, pounding. He’s a beast, sweating and grunting, fucking me so hard I start to see stars.

  His lips latch onto mine in a heated, passionate kiss. When he pulls his mouth away, he says, “Tell me you’re mine.”

  “I’m yours,” I tell him desperately. I fought so hard against it, but I’m his. I’m truly, helplessly in love with Marcus Steere. “I’m all yours, every part of me.”

  “No one else can have you,” he demands.

  “I don’t want anyone else.”

  Our bodies continue to slam together, making wet, sweaty, sounds. As his pubic bone continues to rub hard against my clit, I feel myself starting to lose control.

  “I’m about to come, baby, please keep going,” I say.

  At first I think he’s going to stop again because I didn’t call him husband, but he is beyond stopping. The muscles in his back flex and turn to steel beneath my clawing fingers, and he lets out a violent roar at the same time I lose my mind to a blinding orgasm.

  When his breathing finally settles into a steady rhythm, he kisses my neck, leaving a warm trail to my lips. He brushes the sweaty hair away from my forehead, then lands a peck on my nose.

  I smile at him, blissed out and feeling amazing.

  “Still nervous?” he asks.

  That’s when I realize that, no, I’m not. While he was between my legs, I’d forgotten we were even in the air.

  “Not at all.”

  “Good. After that work out I’m starving. You hungry?”

  “I can eat.” I could eat a freaking horse, actually. My body is worn out. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. The energy has been zapped out of me and I could probably sleep the rest of the trip.

  And that’s just what I do. After we eat, I pass out and don’t wake up again until we’ve landed.

  6

  Jet lag is real and I’m living it. I find myself very overwhelmed by everything that is Paris, France. Different language, different everything. Being so far from home and everything I’m familiar with makes things feel incredibly lonely. I’m just glad Marcus is here to stave off some of the strangeness I feel.

  If I’m being honest, part of all the weirdness is knowing I’m about to go meet Marcus’s ex-wife. Undoubtedly she’s far more sophisticated than I am. She knows the fashion lingo. This is her world and Marcus’s world and I don’t belong. She’s going to take one look at me and know that I’ll be gone in a blink of an eye and have no staying power. From the articles I’ve read about her online, she’s a tyrant in the fashion industry and not well-liked. She’s gorgeous. Far more beautiful than I was expecting. But there’s a snake-like quality in her eyes that makes her look too severe, too blood thirsty. I can see why Marcus had been with her, but I can also see why he left her.

  If she’s this terrifying in pictures, I can only imagine what she’s like in person. I wish I didn’t have to find out.

  Another part of me is afraid because what if, when seeing her again, Marcus feels something for her? What if her presence rekindles old feelings and I’m pushed to the side?

  As if sensing my reservations, Marcus comes up behind me where I’m standing in front of the mirror, wearing one of his incredible gowns. He wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles my neck.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go out. Right now, with you in that dress, I … I just want to rip it off of you,” he says.

  I smile at him in the reflection. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

  That is if he still wants me later.

  I hate how insecure I feel. But I’ve never felt like this before with anyone, and never this fast. My feelings for Marcus make my head spin. It didn’t take long at all for me to know that he’s the one. Now I’m desperate to hold onto that even though it’s a real possibility that he’s in it for the moment, for the duration of our agreement, and I will lose him as soon as it’s over. Even though I feel lonely in Paris, part of me wants to stay here forever because I know as soon as we get home, everything is going to change, and maybe not for the better.

  Before we leave, I put on my sweater. He looks at me with a strange grin. “That’s an interesting choice to pair with that dress.” He doesn’t make it sound like a bad thing, even though I know my sweater is tattered and stretched out and doesn’t go with this amazing gown at all.

  “It was my mother’s.” Looking fondly at the sweater, I say, “I know I should get a new one, but the things you love can’t be replace.”

  It’s the only thing I have left of her now.

  “No, don’t get a new one. I like it the way it is.” He stands back and admires me. “You might have even given me an idea for my next design.”

  “Happy to help,” I say.

  We leave for the meeting. It’s taking place at a fashion convention where Marcus’s ex-wife works. When we get there, it’s a red-carpet event and there are far more people here than I expected. My anxiety is on full alert.

  As soon as we get out of the car, cameras are shoved in our faces, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the great Marcus Steere and his mystery date.

  Marcus takes me by the hand and leads me through the crowd. The paparazzi ask me who I’m wearing and who I am. They want to know my name, where I’m from, how w
e met. All of their voices clash together into white noise. I ignore them, fighting back the nerves that make me want to break away and run for the quietest corner I can find. This is his life everyday. I don’t know how he deals with all of these people. It must get tiring being this important.

  Once we’re inside the building and shut away from the reporters, things are less chaotic, but not by much. Marcus seems to know everyone we pass. They shake his hand and compliment his new line of menswear. Then their eyes move down to our hands clutching each other. I’m studied as if I were in a lab under a microscope. They notice everything from my strappy heels, to my glamorous dress, to the ratty sweater that they are all very curious about. They think it’s part of the dress, part of the ensemble and they love it. Marcus gives me a wink and I giggle.

  Some of the crowd look on with curiosity, while others—mostly men and a handful of women—look at me as if I have no clothes on at all. I have to admit, the way this dress shows off the swells of my breasts is quite something to behold. In the fashion industry, surrounded by twiggy girls, they must not see too many bodies like mine.

  Marcus latches on to me as if reading their dirty minds. He’s protective and seems to get a little jealous when handsome men start to pay too much attention.

  He introduces me to all the big-wigs, names I’ve heard roll off celebrity lips on TV when bragging about the clothes they wear. People you always hear about but never see. Most of them are flamboyant and over the top, but I guess in this sort of business where it’s always a struggle to stay on top, you have to stand out. Marcus is so different than his peers. He’s subtle, graceful, elegant, and yet he sticks out far more than the other men wearing loud colors and crazy hair, looking like extras on the set of Hunger Games.

  People respond to me in ways I never imagined. They look at me and then at Marcus and say things like, “If she’s the muse for your women’s clothing line, then I’ll take every piece in the collection.”

  The pride I feel when he introduces me as his wife and looks at me with affection makes me feel radiant. Sometimes, when he’s talking to someone, he absent-mindedly rubs my back or caresses my arm, as if he needs to be constantly touching me. Maybe he’s nervous too and I’m a source of comfort for him, though I doubt it. He always looks so calm and collected. Maybe he just likes touching me. I like that scenario a whole lot better, and yet I can’t let myself get my hopes up.