Typist #1 - Working for the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance)

by Mimi Strong

  My mind flitted around all the possibilities as I went to the sink and tidied up my hair. I appraised myself in the mirror. The blue blouse was flattering, and the clothes had that crisp look only brand-new things have. My skin really was glowing, and except for my sneakers, I looked like someone who mattered.

  I calmly told myself, “It's just two weeks. Have some fun, earn some money, and make a few great memories. That's it. Two weeks.”

  I freshened my lipstick, gave myself a winning smile, and left the washroom.

  When I got back to the table, Smith was frowning at his cell phone. He held out his empty palm and said, “Dead battery already. Let me use yours.”

  I handed him my phone from my purse and sat down, looking around at the wild décor. The sun was getting low on the horizon, making all the shadows long.

  “I trust you found what you were looking for,” Smith said, and then he read out a few lines from the newspaper article I'd been reading about him.

  “How dare you!”

  I grabbed for my phone, but he pulled it out of reach. “Naughty girl. I'm confiscating this.”

  “It's my damn phone, I'll look up whatever I want.”

  He dropped my phone into a full glass of drinking water, spilling water over the edges of the glass.

  I swore and grabbed it from the water.

  “I'll buy you a new one,” he said. “I'll add the equivalent to your check. No, I'll double the replacement value, so you can't complain.”

  I practically growled at him. “That was my phone. How dare you?”

  Nonchalantly, he said, “It's in the contract. No accessing the internet for the duration of the contract. For my privacy and protection. It's a standard typist thing.”

  “More like a power trip thing.” I shook the excess water out of the phone, wrapped it in my cloth napkin, and stuck the bundle in my purse. The poor thing seemed to be fried, but perhaps it would turn on once it dried out, or so I hoped.

  “You agreed to the contract,” he said.

  “You're an asshole.”

  He shrugged. “That's like calling a woman a bitch. It's meaningless. Yes, I'm a man. I do man things. Does that make me an asshole, just because I'm not a woman?”

  “Unbelievable.” I pushed back my chair. What could I do? Storm out? And then what? Sleep in the bus station that night until I could find a way out of town? No. Sleeping on a bench would only be punishing myself.

  I'd return to the cabin that night and leave first thing in the morning.

  Smith stood and walked out, not even waiting for me. I had to scurry to catch up with him.

  Smith Fucking Wittingham, Asshole Novelist, kept up the brisk pace all the way back to the cabin. The sun was setting, and the last half mile was difficult to traverse in the dark. I kept stumbling, but refused to take his hand when offered.

  “Fine, be that way,” he said with a chuckle.

  Those were the only words exchanged the whole walk.

  Back in the cabin, he put on water for tea and made himself comfortable on one of the three ample sofas in front of the large television. He started watching a new James Bond movie, and I was interested in watching the film, but couldn't bear sitting in the same room as Smith.

  I went to my room, turned on my small television, and watched the cooking channel as I fumed.

  In the morning, my rage had dissipated to a dull ache, like the lingering emotional hangover of a bad dream.

  I accepted what I'd known subconsciously the night before: I would not forfeit my pay for the work I'd already done, not by leaving now.

  I would stay the full two weeks and collect my pay. I would type the words, I would kill him with kindness, and I would not allow any further access to my body.

  The day was gorgeous and sunny, just like the previous day. The air was moist, as though it had rained overnight. It was a fresh, new day, just waiting to be ruined.

  Smith sat outside on the veranda, at a table set up with a generous breakfast for two, including the thick slices of ham I'd smelled as I was taking my shower.

  I sat on the Adirondack chair adjacent to Smith and gave him my most sugary smile. “This is lovely,” I said through clenched teeth. “With all this wonderful food, we'll have a very productive day.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Decided the money was too good to pass up, did you?”

  I poured a cup of tea from the teapot. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Just surprised you're still around.”

  “Someone has to type your novel. Apparently, you're deficient in some way and cannot type it yourself.”

  He laughed. “Deficient! That's a good one, Sheri.”

  “Tori. My name is Tori.”

  “Whatever.” He scratched his neck and gazed out at the small, tidy lawn and the trees beyond. He hadn't shaved since the first day, and the blond stubble gave him a disheveled, surly look.

  He said, “You know what I'd really like? A Border Collie. They're smart and tenacious.”

  “Do you have any pets back home?”

  “I have no home.” He scratched his neck again. “I'd like a nice little bitch who comes when I call her.”

  I nearly choked on the tea I was sipping. I set down the cup and filled my plate with scrambled eggs and toast, not commenting.

  He continued, “A nice, submissive bitch. She'd roll on her back and show me her tummy like a good girl.”

  “Sounds about your speed,” I said. “It would make you feel like such a big man to be around someone you're smarter than.”

  “Maybe I'll get two, in that case.”

  You're an asshole was what I wanted to say but didn't. I crossed my legs, surprised by the feeling that was happening between my legs. I was actually getting turned on by arguing with Smith, imagining the tickle of his stubbly chin on my body, his face between my legs. Why did he have to be so infuriating and also so sexy?

  He continued, “If I had a Border Collie, I'd treat her like a princess. I'd brush her long hair and stroke her all over. I'd kiss her on the nose and get her to sit on my lap, even though she'd be much too big for a lap dog.”

  I recrossed my legs and crunched on my cold toast.

  He kept talking about his imaginary Border Collie, and how much he'd love looking down at her on the ground as she gazed up at him with absolute adoration in her eyes.

  After breakfast, we went upstairs to the office. The levers on the chair no longer amused me, and I couldn't get the settings quite right. The story was meandering, and I kept typing the word “um” every time he said it, much to his annoyance.

  “The editor can take it out,” I said.

  After an hour of this, and two dozen occurrences of the word um, he leaned over my shoulder and did a quick search-and-replace to remove them.

  “There,” he said proudly.

  After that, I had to get more creative with the vocal ticks, making each one different, such as errr, guhhh, and hrmm.

  Eventually, though, I stopped typing the vocal ticks, as it was no longer annoying him, and I'd started to feel petty.

  At the end of the morning's session, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Good work. Thank you, Tori.”

  His touch and utterance of my name sent shivers down between my legs, and I felt my nipples tightening up within my bra. He squeezed my shoulder and said it again. “Thank you.”

  I turned and looked at his hand on my shoulder. The fingernails were tidy and buffed to a shine—likely a manicure. The upper knuckles had tiny blond hairs, and I wanted to rub my cheek on them. I wanted to suck on his fingers.

  He pulled his hand away and moved to the doorway.

  “I'm going to have a shower and possibly a nap,” he said. “Our afternoon session might be delayed. Feel free to take a few hours for yourself, do whatever it is you like to do.”

  And then he left.

  I went downstairs and poked around in the fridge for lunch.

  The shower went on upstairs, and I imagined him naked, u
nder the water. I didn't want to be alone for a few hours; I wanted to be with him.

  I went to my room and clicked on the television. I kept thinking about Smith Wittingham, up there, naked. My hands wandered down, inside my shorts. I locked my door and took off all my clothes, all the better to touch myself.

  I stood before the mirror over the bureau, noting my hair was messy. I grabbed my hairbrush, and a wicked thought surged through me.

  Once the idea entered my mind, there was no shutting it out. The idea howled at me, a fantasy desperate to happen.

  And so, absolutely naked, I left my room and walked up the stairs with my hairbrush in hand.

  Smith's bedroom door was unlocked, as was his bathroom door.

  His bathroom was much more sumptuous than mine, with a large soaker tub as well as a stand-up shower with a glass door. He was in the shower, and he saw me as soon as I came in, but he didn't say anything. He grabbed a plastic bottle of shampoo and kept going, washing his hair.

  I got down on my hands and knees and put the hairbrush between my teeth.

  “Woof,” I said around the hairbrush.

  Grinning, he rinsed the suds out of his hair and turned off the water. He stepped out, magnificent and naked within a cloud of steam.

  “What have we got here?” he said.

  I wiggled my whole body, simulating a wagging tail.

  “You look like a stray. Did you run away from home?”

  I didn't answer, but gazed up at him, trying my best to put adoration in my expression, though it was a new one for me.

  He grabbed a towel and quickly dried off, rubbing the towel under his balls and around his cock, which was already poking straight out like a towel hanger.

  “I should adopt you,” he said. He patted me on the head and walked along me, running his fingertips down my bare spine. He grabbed my buttocks and pulled them apart, leaning down to inspect me. “Yup, you're a female,” he said.

  I wriggled my body with pleasure. My mouth was watering, drool coming out around the hairbrush in my mouth.

  He stepped past me, out to his bedroom.

  “Here, girl!” he called.

  I padded after him on hands and knees, my head hanging low. Once out on the carpet, I stopped and rolled onto my back, exposing my stomach. I held my hands up as little bowed paws above my chest. I turned my head to the side, away from him, taking only sidelong peeks at him.

  He knelt beside me, breathing heavily with excitement. He took the paddle-shaped brush from my mouth and gently brushed my hair, easing the brush slowly through the knots. I kept gazing at him as he brushed all my hair, fanning it out on the soft carpet around my head. He moved down my body and used the over-sized brush to comb the triangle-shaped thatch of red fur above my pussy, the part I didn't get waxed.

  The plastic-tipped fingers of the brush felt strange and wonderful on that part of me. He set the brush down and stroked my stomach by hand, petting me. He moved so that his folded legs were alongside my body, sharing his body heat with me. He petted up my stomach and sides, fondling my breasts and pinching my pale pink nipples.

  I peeked down at his crotch to see his erection, fully engorged and pointed to the ceiling. As he stroked the sides of my face, my neck, and my body, his touch like velvet, I walked one hand up his thigh to his cock. A gleaming bead lay on the tip, and I touched him there first, with the pad of my thumb.

  He moaned and pushed himself into my hand.

  My fingers feather-light, I caressed the length of him for a moment, then ran my hand up his stomach to his chest. His chest was tanned, much darker than my skin, which looked white as paper by comparison. I pinched one of his tight nipples and then the other.

  His hand on my cheek moved over to my lips and he eased his index finger into my mouth. I sucked on his finger as I moved my hand back down to his cock, gripping it tightly this time. I gave it a squeeze, so hot and solid in my hand. More shining beads were coming from the tip, and I rubbed my slick thumb over the head as I kept sucking the finger in my mouth.

  He pulled his finger from my mouth and made eye contact with me. Those gold-brown eyes were smoldering with desire, but he took his time. His wet finger trailed down my front, over my navel and my triangle, ending its journey at the crevice between my legs. Delicately, he parted my lips with one finger and massaged the lips, his soft fingertip running up and down my opening, getting everything even wetter.

  I kept pumping my fist on his cock, squeezing it firmly for a moment, then loosening my grip and slipping my fingers over the sensitive head.

  His hand between my legs kept up its work, easing inside my opening and then dragging up deliciously over my firm clit. He nudged that hard button, rubbing lengthwise and then swirling around with his fingertip.

  I moved only slightly, to part my legs wider for him. I wanted him to lean down and kiss me, but he just stayed still, watching me. My skin grew hot and I started to sweat, on my forehead and stomach. His probing finger was about to put me over the edge into orgasm, but I didn't want to come just yet.

  I pushed his hand away and rolled over. Still staying low, on my elbows, I positioned my face over the tip of his cock and took him into my mouth.

  He sighed and leaned back, still on his folded knees, his hands behind him for balance.

  He was shower-fresh and smelled faintly of soap. Licorice soap. The smell of it made me crazy, and I licked hungrily at him as I devoured his hot, hard erection.

  He seemed about to come when he pulled me off him and moved me onto the bed.

  I rolled onto my back, my paws up in the air, and waited.

  He circled the bed, stopping to turn on the stereo. The first song had a driving guitar and rock sound, with an angry female singer. Smith climbed on top the bed and dragged me to him. He thrust into me for the first time that day, and I moaned and wrapped my legs around him.

  He pounded into me, to the rhythm of the song. He filled me, covered me, inundated me. I was gasping, panting, coming.

  As I shuddered and groaned underneath him, he also shook, and then he quickly pulled out and came on my stomach, his eyes closed and face twisted.

  We both stopped moving, and I heard the lyrics of the song—an old eighties song by Joan Jett, Now I Wanna Be Your Dog.

  My insides were still shivering, but my feeling of bliss turned to something dark. One last spurt came out of him and landed on my stomach.

  I said, my voice fiery, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Smith opened his eyes and grinned down at the icing he'd left on my bare skin.

  “This song,” I said. “You manipulated me into coming up here, as your dog?”

  “Come on, Tori. Don't pretend you didn't plan this all day.”

  I grabbed his shirt from the chair next to the bed and wiped my stomach as I climbed off the bed.

  “Aw, not the shirt,” he said.

  I gave him an angry look and finished up by wiping the shirt between my legs.

  “Fine, we'll call this one a draw,” he said.

  I stomped to the door. Something smacked into my butt, so I wheeled around. My hairbrush lay at my feet.

  “You forgot your brush,” he said, grinning.

  I picked it up and stomped all the way down to my room. I pulled on my clothes and started packing my things into my backpack. It was mid-afternoon, and if I hiked into town right away, I'd probably be able to catch a bus. I could be home that night, safe in my own bed, away from Smith Fucking Wittingham.

  He knocked on my door.

  I yelled at the locked door, “I quit! You're twisted and you're … old!”

  Something pushed under the door—an envelope.

  “Too late for apologies,” I said as I opened the envelope. Inside was a cashier's check, for the full amount I'd been promised for the typing contract.

  “That's for you,” he said. “You did your job, and there's your pay.”

  “What about the cell phone?”

  He pushed another check unde
r the door, this one hand-written, for another thousand dollars.

  “The phone wasn't that much,” I said.

  “Keep it.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned back against the door.

  “Do you really want me to leave?” I asked. “Who's going to be your typist?”

  “I'm thinking I might scrap the book.”

  I yanked the door open, to find a startled-looking Smith, completely naked.

  “You can't scrap the book,” I said. “It's going to be a great book, maybe your best one.”

  His shoulders slumped and he stared down at the ground. “I think I'll start something else, maybe in a few months.”

  “Don't be stupid. You have to finish this one.”

  “I can't do it without you.”

  I was wary of him, wary of this depressed-author vibe he was giving off. It was probably just another one of his games, but what if it wasn't?

  I grabbed his hand and pulled him into my room to sit down on the bed. I sat next to him, my packed bag waiting on the floor.

  “I'll call the agency,” I said. “They can send someone else. Your new typist will be here in a day or two, and you'll be right back at it.”

  “Nope. I can't stop. Not even for a day. I lose all my momentum. It's only been hours since we were working, and already it's like drying paint. It'll be sticky, even if I start back up tomorrow morning.”

  I tucked the checks into my pocket. “Sorry, Smith. That sounds like a personal problem. In other words, not a Tori problem.” I got up and grabbed my backpack.

  “Stay,” he said.

  My anger had dissipated quickly. He sure had a way of getting me all riled up, and then calmed back down again, which scared me.

  I should leave, I thought. Even my own mother, who was a huge fan of his, would want me to leave. If she ever found out I'd played obedient doggie for him, I'd just die of shame.

  “You've got the check,” he said. “I'm not going to stop you. In fact, there's a motorbike parked in a shed behind the cabin, and I'll give you a ride into town if you want.” He looked up at me, his gold-brown eyes dim, like a campfire the morning after.