by Maggie Way
Fuck you, Perry, I thought.
Say hello to my little friend.
Chapter Four
Alexandra
I slept like a rock. Maybe it was the fact that my subconscious knew that I didn’t have to get to class today (or ever again).
Or that I wasn’t due back at my job waiting tables until Monday night.
Or that I spent two hours watching dirty movies and diddling myself crazy before going to sleep.
I can’t explain it, but exposing myself to Perry like that just got me horny as hell. It was probably a good thing he left because as horny as I was, I probably would have embarrassed us both. Like I said, I’m not a sex-crazed slut. I’ve just been holding these desires inside for so long that now it feels like my body will burst if I don’t set them free.
In fact, since I was already naked and had nowhere I had to be and nothing I had to do, I might as well just rub my tits a little bit and…
Just as my hand was sliding from my tits to my clit my cellphone on the nightstand buzzed.
“Shit.” I rolled toward the edge of the bed and picked up the phone and looked at the screen. The caller ID read “Shaw Investments”. My heart literally stopped in my chest. Shaw Investments was a huge New York City investment firm, one of dozens I had sent my resume to months before graduating.
I pushed the hair out of my eyes as I sat up in bed. I cleared the sleep from my throat and in the most profession voice I could muster, said, “Alexandra Hart.”
I’d learned in B-school to never answer the phone with “hello” or “hey” or “what”. Be professional, the professor said. You never know who is calling. This was the same professor that warned against posting drunk pictures on Facebook because that shit follows you forever.
“Miss Shaw, this is Betty Garrett, I’m the assistant HR director for Shaw Investments, Limited in New York City. How are you today?”
I almost said I’m exhausted from diddling myself. My brain kicked in at the last moment and I replied, “I’m excellent, Ms. Garrett. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. The reason I’m calling is, you submitted a resume a few months ago and met with one of our campus recruiters at Wharton.”
“Yes, yes, I did.” I bit my tongue and tried to breathe. This phone call could change my life. I didn’t need to screw things up by sounding like an eager country bumpkin.
“And I believe you just graduated from Wharton with honors. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said with a sigh. “It’s a relief to—“
“I’m happy to tell you, Miss Shaw, that based on that interview and your near-perfect grade point, we’d like to offer you a position here at Shaw.”
“You would?”
“We would.”
I silently thrust my hands in the air and screamed at the top of my lungs. When I brought the phone back to my ear, she was still talking.
“The position is as a Junior Analyst in our New York City office,” she was saying. “The starting salary is $85,000 with performance bonuses and the opportunity for advancement.”
I silently mouthed the words, holy shit…
“You’d need to report for a work a week from today if possible. If that works for you, I’ll email you the offer letter and other paperwork to get the process started.”
“Um, yes, of course, that would be awesome.” Shit, professional people don’t say awesome. She droned on for a few minutes about their 401k, the vacation and sick leave, and other benefits that I didn’t give a crap about at that moment.
I had been offered a job at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. I would have paid them to work there. Of course, I didn’t tell the HR lady that.
I gave her my email address, thanked her profusely, and hung up the phone. I fell back on the pillows with a goofy smile on my face. I was a Wharton MBA and in a week, I’d be a Junior Analyst at Shaw Investments, Limited in fucking New York City.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I was being offered the chance of a lifetime.
I would do my best to not fuck it up.
When I called Mom to tell her that I had gotten the job at Shaw Investments, she congratulated me, then asked where I’d be living in New York City.
Holy shit. I hadn’t even thought about that. I’d just accepted my dream job in the most crowded, expensive city in the country, and I had no idea where I would live. Not a small problem to have…
Nearly in a panic, I called the HR lady at Shaw and learned that they had an in-house roommate-matching service and could help me find a place to live for the first six months. Obviously, they knew how difficult it was to find housing in New York, so they set up the service primarily to assist their new recruits.
She called me back with good news. She had found a place for me to live, in a building owned by Shaw, in a two-bedroom apartment with a second-year Junior Analyst named Veronica Rodriguez.
Halleluiah!
The planets aligned and a few days later, I was on my way to the Big Apple and the next leg of my journey to… wherever!
Woohoo!!!!
Look our world, here I come!
Chapter Five
Alex
I arrived in New York City on Saturday afternoon and took an expensive cab ride from the airport to the little apartment in the West Village that I would be sharing with my new roommate, Veronica, whom I knew absolutely nothing about.
The HR lady at Shaw had hooked us up and we’d had a brief phone conversation, but other than that, I knew nothing about her.
She sounded nice, was very chatty and promised to dish up all the dirt on Shaw. She told me to call her “Vee” and she would call me “Alex”.
Veronica met me at the door with a smile on her face and little else on. She was wearing a black lacy bra and matching thong. She was holding a makeup brush in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
“You must be Alex,” she said with a smile. “I thought you were my date. Come on in.”
“You always meet your date at the door dressed like that?” I asked with a grin.
“Depends on the date,” she said, laughing. Veronica was beautiful, with dark Latino skin, coal black hair, and big boobs that bounced in the bra as she waved me inside. I couldn’t help but stare. Vee was hot! I’m sorry, I know that makes me sound like a lesbian, but there was no other word for it. H. O. T. Hot!
She was short, but super-curvy with a big butt, like a Kardashian. She had big cat eyes and plump lips and perfect teeth. I was immediately jealous. Standing next to Vee, I looked like a twelve-year-old Irish boy.
I dragged my two suitcases inside and Vee shut the door and twisted the three padlocks that kept the world at bay. I looked around the tiny apartment.
The living room and tiny kitchen were all one area. There was just enough room for a couch and chair, a coffee table, and a stand that held a small television.
The kitchen was barely big enough for one person to move around in. I saw a refrigerator, coffee pot, and microwave, my three favorite appliances, so all was good.
Vee used both hands to pick up one of the suitcases and started lugging it toward the bedroom.
“I’m running really late,” she said with the makeup brush between her teeth. “I’ll show you your room and you can settle in. We can get better acquainted tomorrow night when I get home.”
“You won’t be home until tomorrow?” I asked.
She gave me a sly grin. “Like I said, depends on the date.”
I smiled at her. She seemed so free-spirited, so open about things. I could learn a lot living with a girl like Vee, I thought. She’d not only bring me out of my shell. She’d crack that sucker open and drag me out.
“The bathroom is at the end,” she said, nodding down the short hallway that had three doors. “My room is on the left and yours is on the right.”
She kicked open the door with her bare toe and dragged the suitcase inside. She stood aside to give me room to enter.
My bedroom was just large enough for the bed and a small dresser. There was a closet with no door, and wire hangers dangling from a rod. It wouldn’t hold half of my clothes, but I’d make due.
Vee turned and gave me a hug. “Welcome to the big city, girlfriend. You’re gonna fucking love it here.”
True to her word, Vee didn’t get home until late Sunday night. I was already in bed by the time she came in. She stuck her head in the bedroom door and apologized for being late.
“Tomorrow’s your first day,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “Are you nervous?”
“I’m a wreck,” I said, leaning up on my elbows.
“You’ll be fine,” she said with a nod. “We’ll ride in together and I’ll show you around. We need to leave her by seven to catch the subway downtown, so get some sleep and get up in plenty of time.”
“I will, thanks.” I eased back down on the pillow. She teetered in the doorway as she left. I could tell that she was a little drunk and couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been up to all weekend. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d left the apartment in the night before. Her makeup was smudged and her hair disheveled. I was dying to hear the details of her date because I had a feeling it would be great fodder for my dirty dreams.
She said good night and stumbled into her room across the hall. I tossed and turned for a while, and then finally fell asleep around two or three.
I was a nervous wreck, knowing that I would start my career at Shaw Investments in just a few hours.
Chapter Six
Cameron
One of the few people who could burst into my office unannounced without the fear of getting their head ripped off was Monique Ells. Monique was the former Victoria’s Secret runway model and New York socialite who also happened to be my fiancé.
Her father was Sebastian Ells, head of one of the largest hedge fund firms on Wall Street. I was worth around five billion dollars. Sebastian was worth fifty billion, which was one reason why I had agreed to marry his daughter. I was marrying the king’s daughter. It was my way into becoming the head of the Ells empire.
I was marrying Monique was because her old man agreed to turn the hedge fund over to me on our one year anniversary. Ours was strictly a business arrangement. Monique knew it, I knew it, and her father knew it. It was just business.
It helped that Monique was drop-dead gorgeous and had a body to die for; not to mention that she was a freaking acrobat in bed. Great sex was a perk of the package, though, if truth be told, I was getting a little tired of Monique.
She was the most-narcissistic person I’d ever met; even more narcissistic than me, if you can imagine that. Monique believes that the known universe revolves around her and in many ways, it does.
People have fawned over, and given over, to Monique her entire life. Especially men, who would give their last dime just to touch the soft skin that I regularly shot loads on. Monique was like the sun that warmed you and made you feel all good inside until her rays started to sear your skin.
On this Monday morning, she breezed through the office door with one of the security guards behind her, lugging a stack of thick books of some kind. Considering we were on the fiftieth floor, it was no wonder the guy was red-faced and sweating.
“Just put them on the coffee table,” Monique ordered with the wave of her hand. She came around the desk and kissed me on the cheek. She smelled like the perfume that carried her name; a mix of orange blossoms and arrogance.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
“We have to look at place settings and swatches,” Monique said with a sigh, as if the task of planning our wedding was as exhausting as digging ditched. She noticed the guard was standing next to the heavy books he’d just set down with his hands at his sides and fingers wiggling. Monique frowned at him as if he were a pack mule that had the nerve to ask for water after lugging her goods up the side of the mountain.
“What?” she snapped at the man. “You can go.”
“Hang on,” I said, giving her a frown that made her roll her eyes. I came around the desk and fished a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket. I gave it to the guard and ushered him out.
“Do you have to tip your own employees?” she asked.
“Do you have to be so nasty?” I asked, closing the door.
She scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from the nastiest man on Wall Street.”
“Your father holds that title,” I said. “Though I run a close second.”
I smiled as I went to the wet bar and poured myself a cup of coffee. I knew better than to offer Monique a cup. She was a health nut and wouldn’t let anything with caffeine enter her pristine body. Yet she drank like a fish and probably had a bag of pot and pills in her purse.
That was Monique; a beautiful mystery wrapped in a sexy conundrum, always on the verge of a temper tantrum that would instill fear into the hearts of even the strongest of men.
She was a sexy bitch. And she knew it. We were well-matched in that regard.
Sometimes I wondered if I could really spend my life with such a woman. Then I remembered that I only had to spend one year pretending to be her husband, then my lawyers would unravel the deal and the Ells empire would be mine with no strings or commitments.
Monique sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. I sat down and sipped my coffee while she rambled on about our wedding in two months. I did my best to seem interested. It was hard. I’d told her over and over, just give me the time and location and I’ll be there. She did not find my lack of interest in our impending nuptials amusing.
She talked for nearly half an hour about the one-of-a-kind gown that Vera Wang was designing for her. She talked about the thousand people on the guest list and how difficult it was trying to figure out who to sit next to whom. She talked about the food and the cake and the décor and blah, blah, blah.
Finally, she looked at me with her beautiful eyebrows lifted and asked, “Well? What do you think?”
I had finished my coffee, so I returned the cup to the wet bar and moved to sit behind the desk. “I think you have everything well in hand, and since my opinion has never counted before and I don’t expect it to now, I think whatever you want is fine.”
She glared at me, her green eyes like fiery emeralds. “Did you even hear a word I said?”
“Of course,” I said with a shrug. I opened my laptop and tapped the spacebar to wake it up. “I heard every word. It’s going to be the wedding of the century. A thousand guests. Selling the photos to People Magazine. No expense spared. I’m sure your father wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She stood across the desk with her hands on her hips and a pout on her face. Even at nine on Monday morning, she looked like she’d just come from a fashion shoot.
Here long black hair draped across her shoulders so perfectly you would have thought a stylist had carefully put every hair in place. She was one of the most beautiful women on the planet, with big green eyes and plump lips and a body that would have made the Kardashians jealous.
She was wearing a skintight black mini-dress that zipped up the front. Her perfect, perky boobs pressed against the fabric. I could see the outline of her nipples. Dammit. She caught me looking. It was like locking eyes with a pit bull. She smelled the fear. She knew she was in control. Shit.
“Why are you in such a foul mood?” she asked, batting her long lashes at me. “I thought you took the weekend off to go sailing with Mitchell in the Hamptons.”
“I did,” I sighed. “It was very relaxing.”
“So why are you so tense this morning? What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on with me,” I said. “I just don’t see the need for me to be involved in your wedding plans.”
“Our wedding plans,” she said, putting a hurt face on. I say that because Monique seemed to have a collection of masks she used as facial expressions. Perhaps it came from being a model all those years. Okay, frown! Smile! Pout! Let’s see anger! I get
that one a lot.
I thought that if I looked like I had things to do, Monique would just go away. I was in no mood to argue with her. I turned to the laptop and clicked to log on to the company network and pulled up my calendar for the day. I had a new employee orientation in twenty minutes. Thank god, a reason to escape.
“Cameron, look at me.”
“Monique, really, I have a million things to do.”
“Cameron. Look at me.” Her voice was soft, inviting, like the low hiss of a cobra hypnotizing its prey. I knew what was coming next. Resistance was futile. There were worse ways to begin the week, I supposed, than by having sex with a Victoria’s Secret model in my office.
I leaned back in the chair and swiveled to face her. She was standing on the other side of the desk smiling at me. She put her fingers on the zipper and slowly tugged it down until her perfect breasts popped free. They were beautiful. Full, round, perky, with dark areolas and thick nipples that made me subconsciously lick my lips.
The zipper came down past her belly button. She paused there for a moment. I looked up into her eyes. She knew she had me. She smiled and pulled the zipper down until the dress came free. Her pussy was shaved clean. Her clit was large, like my little finger. She pressed it to the edge of the desk and moaned at me.
“You just need to relax,” she said, letting the dress slide down her arms to the floor. She sauntered to the door and twisted the lock, then came around the desk and pushed me back.
“Monique, really…” I don’t know why I tried to resist as she tugged loose my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. My cock was throbbing in my pants for her. I didn’t love Monique any more than she loved me, but our relationship wasn’t about love. It was about money and power and control. And sex. Amazing, out of this world, great fucking sex.
I started breathing heavy. Monique was licking her lips. She pressed her mouth to mine as she tore open my shirt. Her hands squeezed my chest. Her fingers found my nipples and she tweaked them hard. I moaned at the wonderful pain.
