Knock Me Up, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance

by Juliana Conners

  Cameron bends over to kiss Ruby, and pats her baby bump on his way out.

  “See you two later,” he says, presumably to Ruby and her unborn child.

  “He can’t see yet,” Ruby says, confirming my suspicions. “And you can’t technically see him either. At least not without dragging an ultrasound machine in here.”

  Cameron laughs as he leaves. Those two are sickeningly sweet.

  With that, it’s settled. I’ll be the fourth named partner of the firm— not only because my father insisted but also because I’ve settled and won enough plaintiff’s cases to bring a sizeable contribution to the firm.

  I’ll be a good boy, so that they won’t regret partnering up with me. At least I’ll try to be. I have to admit that all of this is very new to me. But there’s a fucking first time for everything.

  Chapter 2 – Carolina

  Today is the day I’ve decided to start doing something about my mess of a life. Now I just have to keep reminding myself of that, all day long.

  Telling myself to take baby steps, I walk outside to check my mail, squinting into the bright sun. It’s been a couple days since I’ve been outside. Things have seemed a lot easier lately from under my covers. Until they started to seem a lot harder, because I realized I have to start paying bills, coming up with a plan for my future, facing life— little things like that.

  I pull open the little metal door on the front of the mailbox. It catches and I have to tug it open, which serves as a painful reminder that I had always meant to replace this standard issue mailbox with one of those ironic ones I see on Pinterest, which signify a holdover from a more ancient time when people used to count on snail mail rather than messages in their social media feed.

  Mine would be painted like that bird that’s the Twitter logo, if that isn't some kind of copyright or trademark violation. I always meant look it up, but never got around to it before Jake and I fell apart, and then it was the least of my concerns. Leave it to me to painstakingly plan the most minute detail that would never come to be.

  I take out a large stack of mail, which includes an envelope from Georgetown County Courthouse. Divorce papers. This was the reason I’d not been wanting to check my mail. And the reason I’d been hiding under my covers.

  Jake had left me weeks ago, and no longer wanted to be married to me. It was time I start making other plans.

  When people talk about plans and goals, they expect to hear big ones. So, I usually keep mine to myself and spend all my time planning them out only in my head.

  My plans might have seemed small to some people, but to me they used to constitute big dreams. I married Jake right after high school, and I was supposed to be a housewife and eventually a stay-at-home mom. Life would be perfect, with not only a white picket fence but also one of those ironic mailboxes I never got around to making.

  I know that I should be patient and let life’s plans unfold. But Jake’s leaving me seemed to be so outside of my control that I feel the need to make plans that are within my control. In my opinion patience— like ironic mailboxes— is for the birds.

  Jake and I had married young with the specific plan for me to be a housewife. We had been trying for what felt like forever to get pregnant, without success. At first, it was fun. I quit using birth control, and we made love whenever and wherever we could. But as the months wore on with no baby in sight, it stopped being fun.

  We went to a fertility doctor who said the problem was on my end and that we probably would never be able to. And just like that, Jake was gone. He didn't leave so much as a note. When I tried calling him, his number had been changed.

  Thus ensued my hiding under the covers. And now, just a few weeks later, I got divorce papers in the mail. I guess the future children and I were a package deal. Without them, Jake didn't want me. I’d gone from beloved wife to infertile ex in the blink of an eye, and it’s quite a blow to my ego.

  Clearly, there’s nothing in the world I could do to change things. Jake has made that pretty clear with his silence, and now with these papers.

  I head back into the house and then immediately open the envelope so that I can’t put it off any longer. If I do, I know it’s only a matter of time before I end up back under the covers.

  I can see that he is generously offering me some alimony in the divorce, probably to get me to agree to it, which I would do anyway. I don’t see any point in staying married to someone who didn't want to be married to me anymore. Maybe he’s also trying to assuage his guilty conscience.

  I can't say I don't understand why he doesn't want to stay married. I knew how much he’d wanted kids, because I wanted them too. I’m just upset that he didn’t feel that I mattered enough to talk to me about what he was thinking and say a proper goodbye.

  I guess it was just too hard on him, and even though I was mad at him and thought he was chickenshit, I also realize it’s time for a new plan. My plan. But wouldn’t you know it, I had never even thought about what I would do without Jake.

  It’s clear I need to start a career, since the alimony offered is in a lump sum and won’t last forever. I also need some kind of a focus to distract me from my feelings of grief and inadequacy over not being able to have children— or even keep my husband. I know I have to find something to offer the world now that my plans of marriage and motherhood have fallen through. I just need to figure out what it is.

  It’s been years since I’ve held down a job, at least legitimately. Sure, I’d cleaned a house or two here or there just to make ends meet, and I'd cut hair for some of the local girls in my neighborhood. But it appears it’s time to get a “real job.”

  I turn on my computer and go online. Clicking on websites that aren’t familiar to me— monster.com, indeed.com— I begin applying to many different jobs, pretty much any and every one that I’m remotely qualified for, and some that I’m not.

  I live in a small southern town, where there aren’t many jobs available. I’d never had a need to look in or outside of it for jobs before, since mine was supposed to be “homemaker.” But once I exhaust the few job openings available here, I decide to apply anywhere and everywhere.

  Why not? There’s nothing for me in this town any more, and it would probably be a good thing to get out of here. Other places have more jobs and higher salaries, so I’d best go to where they are.

  There’s a job listing for a legal assistant at the law office of Marks, Sanchez, Reed and Mack that falls somewhere in the middle of “totally not qualified for” and “could do this in my sleep.” It also happens to be in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I’ve never been. I doubt I’ll get the job, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to apply.

  I’m a fast typist, and know my way around basic office programs like Word and Excel, but I don’t know a damn thing about the law. I figure I’m semi-qualified and I apply because it’s on the list of things I need to do if I want to go on eating and paying rent and all that other important stuff.

  Having done my due diligence in looking for a job, I collapse back under the covers. And now I wait, until one of these leads calls me, hopefully. If they don’t, I have no idea what I’m going to do.

  Chapter 3 – Garrett

  2 Months Later

  I’m quite literally seeing red as I’m correcting a legal assistant's work. Office Depot probably can’t restock red pens as fucking quickly as I've been going through them.

  No, I write, crossing out yet another line of Jeff's latest attempt to draft discovery requests. All the nitwit kid had to do was use some templates from the firm’s “brief bank,” which he had started on as a base, but for some reason insisted on adding his own discovery responses to the mix. Like this one, which asks for what the defendant had to eat a week before the accident.

  No one asks for this information because no one will get this, I write in red pen. The judge would overrule this request as overbroad and irrelevant.

  Who cares if the defendant ate Honey Nut Cheerios or pancakes? And why a week prior? P
erhaps there could be some relevance the day of the accident but a whole before? The kid has lost his marbles.

  I shake my head, wondering why I’m wasting so much red ink by bothering to object to my own legal assistant's proposed discovery requests. I'd already explained to him many times how they're supposed to look.

  "Just follow the damn templates in the brief bank," I'd told Jeff, but he likes to take poetic license and go rogue. That would be fine if he came up with something that could improve the discovery requests rather than render them useless, which he had routinely been doing.

  It seems that if my assistants aren’t being too creative, then they aren’t being ambitious enough. I’d had to have Ruby get rid of the guy before Jeff because of the most basic spelling errors and typos.

  I’ve been giving Jeff a little more latitude because at least he takes initiative, but now I’m frustrated that he would spend so much time coming up with discovery requests I can’t use instead of simply copying and pasting some that I can.

  Damn it.

  If only the other partners would let me choose my own secretary. But they won’t— not since I’d slept with Selinda. Once things turned sour between her and me, which for me always happens somewhere after the third date, Selinda had already worked for the firm for a couple weeks.

  That was a longer "relationship" than I'd been used to or comfortable with anyway, so I wasn’t disappointed that it was over. Still, the partners had given me a stern talking to, throwing around phrases like “inappropriate office behavior” and “sexual harassment suit.”

  Takes one to know one, I had wanted to say, but of course I didn’t.

  Asher, Ron and Jim reminded me of that first conversation we had had in the conference room, and that the deal was that I could pick my own assistants if I didn’t screw them, too. They said that since I couldn’t manage to follow that one simple rule, they would be in charge of choosing my legal assistants from then on.

  Fine, fair enough. Except that their two choices have been awful, and I don’t just think that because both have been men. I suppose they were doing it so that I can’t get myself into further trouble.

  I understand the precautions they’re taking, for the firm’s sake. I had meant to follow the rules and be a good boy. But I had messed up big with Selinda.

  I hadn't meant to, but a man has needs, and my needs included the need to push my eleven- inch cock into Selinda's juicy little pussy, which I'd known was juicy because she’d insisted on telling me every day how wet she was for me and that she was wearing no panties under her black pencil skirt. Then she would ask if I would like to confirm those facts for myself.

  Well yes, I would like to, Selinda. What red- blooded male wouldn't? I'd tried to restrain myself since she was a firm employee and since I had promised Asher, Ron and Jim that I’d behave. I'd told myself there were plenty of other fish in the sea, and none of them even required much work to catch since so many of them just threw themselves at me.

  I'm rich, attractive, and good in bed, so it only makes sense that women fantasize about me. I’m more than happy to indulge their every fantasy, but since I try not to mix work and pleasure ever since merging partnerships here at the firm— tried being the operative word, since I didn't always succeed— I did my best to exercise restraint around Selinda.

  Of course, there’s only so much restraint a red- blooded male is capable of showing day in and day out when a beautiful young woman throws herself at him, and that's exactly what Selinda did. One day she threw herself down onto the floor and crawled over to me with a piece of paper in her mouth, as if she was auditioning for a remake of The Secretary.

  At that point, I could resist no more. Just ask my cock. It was tired of resisting. It was ready to stand up, quite literally, and take what was being offered to it. So, I did. When Selinda got to my computer chair and began unzipping my fly, that was the moment I stopped resisting.

  She gave really good blowjobs, so I still don't regret giving into Selinda, even if it did get me stuck with the likes of Jeff and the other useless male assistant before him. But don't get me wrong, I only got physically involved with Selinda—not emotionally. Just because I put my cock down an eager woman's throat and then show her the time of her life by putting it in her pussy and fucking her silly, it doesn't mean anything more to me than another day at the office.

  But that's not how Selinda took it, and that's where our problems started. Once she started wanting more, I realized I was in trouble. As much as I wished I could give her something more than at least five orgasms a day, I simply wasn’t capable of an emotional commitment.

  God knows, I did try to convince myself that I could, for the sake of my happiness at work. But I failed.

  I'd never been able to form emotional attachments to women. I guess I’m what they called damaged goods. Except, of course, for my cock. They’ve always said that worked just fine.

  And my brain works half decently, as much as it needs to anyway. My father has always been rich as fuck and made it so that I didn't have to do much to get by.

  People at my firm talk about me as if I'm lazy, but they should be glad I even bother showing up. My name on the letterhead helps keep the money coming in, and I don’t have to do anything in life except eat, sleep, pay a shitload of taxes, and fuck a lot.

  I’m a man with an insatiable sexual appetite and a short attention span. No one should have been surprised that Selinda and I didn't work out, but for some reason, she was. And so were my partners at the firm. In fact, for some reason, they were surprised that she and I had even gotten together, after I had promised them I would refrain from getting handsy at work.

  But I'd like to see them turn down a piece of ass as fine as Selinda’s if she was offering herself up to them. Of course, they won’t ever get that chance. Asher and Ron are married and Jim is always known to be super secretive about his relationships but the way he blushed in the conference room when the other men were talking about their conquests let me know that he has something of their own going on.

  So, it’s easy for them to be judgmental about me but if they were single guys in my position, they’d do the same thing. Hell, at least two of them already did, and I wouldn’t put it past Jim to have done or currently be doing the same thing, either.

  By the time I’m done adding my red pen corrections to Jeff's draft and stewing about the circumstances that lead me here, the whole damn pleading is covered in red. I could have saved a lot of time and ink by just writing "start over."

  It dawns on me that it’s time to take my own advice. I’ll start over and find a new assistant on my own, no matter what my partners think. I doubt they’ll get rid of me— and my money and my lucrative cases— over such a minor infraction.

  Since I can’t ask Jeff or my partners to perform a search for a new legal assistant, I decide to conduct one of my own. I get on my computer and go to monster.com, intending to advertise a job opening.

  But soon I notice there are so many applicants who have posted resumes that I can just look through those instead of wasting time posting my own. See? I’m not lazy, I’m just industrious. The way I see it, there’s nothing wrong with shortcuts that save time and get the job done.

  My mouse arrow swims in a sea of applicants, none of which look like the right fit for me. And then I come across one who does: Carolina Abbott. Hers is the first resume that’s worth looking more closely at. Mostly because she’s fucking gorgeous. I’ve been Googling the applicants' names to see if they’re attractive enough to work for me. I need to be happy at work, and what better way to be happy than to treat myself to a little eye candy each day?

  And speaking of eye candy, Carolina is some of the sweetest I'd seen. I find photos of her on Facebook, with her dark brown hair and green eyes, hourglass figure, and plump ass.

  I know I can’t fuck her. My new partners wouldn't have it. But there’s no harm in thinking about taking her up against my desk and claiming her as not only my legal assista
nt but also my lover. Although, come to think of it, someone in HR has probably added a "no fantasizing" rule to the workplace handbook without consulting me, because they're killjoys like that.

  Still. Nothing permanent could result just by thinking about something, right?

  From the moment I lay eyes on Carolina’s photo, I know I have to have her near me— just to think about fucking her, but not to actually fuck her. Also, it seems she would make a much better legal assistant than Jeff Who Dreams Big About Creative Yet Irrelevant Discovery Requests. Sure, anyone would be better than him, I tell myself, but let's not get sidetracked.

  She doesn’t seem to have any legal experience. But that doesn’t matter. I can train her. In more ways than one.

  Her resume was posted over two months ago and not retracted— usually a telltale sign that someone has gotten a job somewhere else. She’s probably anxious to start working for someone, so why shouldn’t that someone be me?

  I call Carolina and offer her the job on the spot. What can I say? Patience has never been my strong suit. Finding a girl's G-spot and hitting it until I make her come has always been my strong suit, and that normally doesn’t take much time, since I knew my way around a woman’s body.

  Carolina says yes, of course. They always do, for me.

  Her voice trembles a little bit when she says it, and I imagine her pussy quivering. That's another effect I have on women. I’m sure this Carolina from some small town I've never heard of, according to her resume (how cute, she lives in South Carolina and her name is Carolina), would love for me to carry her over to my desk and lay her on top of it and eat her wet-for-me little pussy until she comes. That much is obvious.

  She looks like the type who will be too shy to say it, unlike the last little temptress who got me into trouble. She looks like the type I can admire, and even tease, who will blush and daydream but not take the bait because she values her job and her reputation.