Slave to Love

by Julie A. Richman

  Slave to Love

  Julie A. Richman

  Julie A. Richman

  Text copyright © 2015 Julie A. Richman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Slave to Love

  Cover Design: Jena Brignola

  Books by Julie

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note:

  About Julie

  Contact Julie

  Julie’s Bookshelf

  For The Reader

  Searching for Moore (Book 1)

  Moore to Lose (Book 2)

  Moore than Forever (Book 3)

  Needing Moore Series Boxed Set

  Bad Son Rising

  Henry’s End

  For Joy, Brenda, Lynne, Yvonne and Jill…

  “Women who can run in heels should be feared.”

  ~ Author Unknown

  And to Brian and Liz

  Rest in Peace

  I am a slave. Seriously, I am. My shackles may not be what you’re envisioning, as unfortunately, they are not crafted from leather with a hot, sexy dominant on the other end, flogger in hand. But they are trendy and cool and golden. Yes, my handcuffs are golden and they come with stock options, a 401(k), oodles of frequent flyer miles and hotel points and an Admiral’s Club membership at the airport. I wear my handcuffs 24/7.

  And I have no freaking idea where the key is.

  Eight-twenty A.M. and I already need an effing shower. Ugh. Running late for an eight-thirty meeting. I thought a cab ride would be the answer and certainly cooler and quicker than walking, or God forbid, taking the dreaded subway on a sweltering Manhattan morning. But no. I emerge from the cab, with my now translucent white silk blouse pretending it’s a soggy second skin gearing up for our fabulous win in today’s “Who’s Got the Perkiest Nipples” contest. Shoot me. Just shoot me.

  As I slide sideways into an elevator, the doors already half closed, I have the distinct honor of joining two techy nerd boys returning from their eight-fifteen A.M. smoke. Lucky me. The unkempt duo reek of cigarettes, yet I can’t decide which is worse, that, or the stench of their general shoddy hygiene and filthy jeans. Nerd Boy #1 is enjoying my transparent, wet tank blouse and my not-shy nipples. I catch him and he pretends to look at my necklace, a gold mermaid, just grazing my cleavage.

  The door opens on my floor. Eight twenty-six. I’m not late yet. On my way out of the elevator, I lean over and whisper to Nerd Boy #1, “Great necklace, isn’t it. Would be better if it were pearl.”

  I hear him choke as I exit. Schwing.

  Tanisha looks up at me from the receptionist’s station and gives me the face. I have seen that face on many an occasion as her mood is more often surly than not. Wordlessly, she points one impossibly long coral clawed nail in the direction of the conference room, and in my head I can hear her saying, “Girl, you’d better get your ass in there, now!”

  Fuck, I need coffee, is my last thought before I fling open the door to the lion’s den.

  The long conference table is full, with the exception of two seats. His and mine.

  “Could your skirts get any shorter and your heels any higher? How do you walk in those things?” The whine of her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and without my first cup of coffee, not going totally postal on her is a true attestation to my superior self-control.

  “God didn’t give me these legs to wear pants and ugly shoes,” I retort, smiling sweetly at her. Bitch.

  He enters behind me, “Nice to see everyone made it on time.” Walking to the head of the table with the swagger of a former athlete, he sets down his iPad and coffee and unbuttons his rich navy suit jacket.

  New York City men in suits. There is just nothing finer. And if he’s handsome, smart and arrogant – I’m up the creek without a paddle. And I work for one. A very married one. But that doesn’t make him any less attractive.

  It’s impossible not to smile when looking upon such a perfect specimen of a man. Kemp McCoy. C’mon, even the name. You just know the guy was bred to be the quarterback or team captain of something.

  I laugh at my friends with all their fictional alpha-males in their books. I’ve been working for the ultimate alpha for years and I’ve watched him get more and more dominant, and domineering, as he’s climbed the corporate ladder. He scares the crap out of most people. But I’m not most people. I’m one of the few in his inner circle, and I tell it to him just the way it is. Which is why I think he looks at me like I’m one of the boys. Great tits, fine legs and all.

  We’re all there in the conference room on this hot, sweaty morning in June, having arrived from different places throughout the country. All his direct reports. Me, the bitch who made the remark about my skirt, my counterpart/enemy, Cuntessa. Okay, she really does have a name. It’s Susan. Susan Smith. Seriously, I kid you not. How boring is that? Right? Our marketing guy, Scott, finance dude, Tad, ops geek, Ray (Ray’s cool and way fun to get trashed with), production king, Tony and Kemp’s very hot and loyal admin, Angela.

  “So, I’m sure you saw my memo on Friday.” Kemp’s demeanor is serious. The man is all about business, all the time, unless you are in the inner circle, then he might share tidbits from his personal life or cut-up over drinks. “Laura is no longer part of the team. It’s no secret that if changes were not made, we were in jeopardy of losing our entire west coast sales force.”

  Laura was my other counterpart. She ran sales in the west. I’ve got the center of the country and Cuntessa runs the east. Three women going head-to-head in sales has its ups and downs. While it’s very competitive and results and sales tend to be very strong, three alpha bitches in the pack means claws are sharp at all times and blood-letting is a regular occurrence. And Laura was a damn control-freak nut job
. And I don’t mean that in a good way.

  “I received calls last week from our Top 5 performers in the west and it appears Laura insisting her staff stay out with her in bars until two to three in the morning when they were traveling together, has not been going over well with them. And it seems there was an incident last week where she kept pulling a waitress into her lap all night.”

  Cuntessa and I roll our eyes at one another. Laura’s insanity is one of the few things over which we actually bond.

  “Will we be hiring a new west coast sales director?” Cuntessa jumps right in.

  Kemp makes a face, “I would if I didn’t think you two bitches could handle it.”

  The man actually called us bitches. Which is probably an accurate assessment. Laughing, I lock eyes with him, “You’re a fucking HR nightmare.”

  Yes, there I am in my short turquoise pencil skirt, and oh so hot, Christian Louboutin Pigalle Follies aquarium colored glitter pumps, and I drop the first F-bomb of the day, opening the window for a veritable shit storm which will undeniably follow.

  “I think you got me beat, babe.” Kemp is amused, his sexy smile making its morning debut.

  Bitches. Fucking. Babe. Yeah, we’re quite the crew. The funny part is, we’re a highly profitable division of a Fortune 100 company. It doesn’t get bigger than that. And we work our asses off. Work hard. Play hard. We are the definition of high risk, high reward.

  “So, is that the answer,” Cuntessa presses, “we get more work?”

  “Pretty much.” He smiles at her and I know her panties are wet. She’s loved the man since the day he hired her whiney ass as a territory sales rep and climbed the ranks with him. His evil little protégé.

  “Are we going to be compensated for this extra responsibility?”

  I sit back, letting her do the dirty work.

  “What do you think?” He gives her the “don’t be stupid” look.

  “I don’t know, why don’t you tell us.” She’s now somehow lapsed into something between a whine and baby talk and I want to slit my wrists. I have not had freaking caffeine yet, damn it, and I have to listen to baby talk. Kill me now. Please just kill me now.

  “Yes, you’ll both be nicely compensated. I’m taking her base pay and splitting it between you two bitches.”

  Cuntessa and I are now smiling at each other. Without even knowing exactly what crazy Laura’s base pay was, it’s safe to assume we each just got a six-figure raise or something close to it. Oh happy day!

  Kemp looks around at the guys (the rest of his team are men), “The things I have to do to keep these two happy.”

  “So, how is this splitting up?” I ask, anxious to get every last detail.

  “Well, since you’re down in Texas and Susan is here in New York, I thought we’d do a north/south split. You’ll take on Arizona, California, Nevada and Utah. Susan, you’ve got Washington and Oregon. We don’t have much in the other states up there.”

  “She gets all of California? San Francisco should be considered the north. After all it is Northern California.”

  The greedy bitch is already trying to poach from my territory. “You picked up Washington State. You just got Microsoft and Boeing, so stop bitching.” I know I’m sneering at her and I’m not even attempting to hide it.

  California. I’m trying not to show how thrilled I am, but I am jazzed and want to get up on the conference table and do a happy dance in my sparkly shoes. I love the sales reps out there and our clients are to-die-for awesome. We provide outsourced services to all the major movie studios and a prestigious array of Silicon Valley companies and Napa/Sonoma wineries. I have just landed a big fat slice of heaven.

  “You love Pinot Noir.” I smile at Cuntessa as I reference the wine coming out of Oregon.

  Her expression is less than friendly.

  After three hours, Angela has lunch brought in for us as we continue to review accounts and quarterly projections. Cuntessa is still sulking over California and giving her best shot to wear down Kemp for at least San Francisco, as he attempts to eat a corned beef on rye. As I finish my sandwich, Angela places a steaming cup of hot dark roast coffee in front of me.

  “I love you hard.”

  “Is this your first of the day?” she whispers discreetly.

  She’s surprised when I nod, then turns to Kemp, “Shall I make dinner reservations for all of us at the Old Homestead?” It’s his favorite ‘Old Boys’ Club’ steakhouse.

  “I won’t be joining you.” Everyone turns toward him in surprise, he never blows off staff dinners when the whole crew is in town. “And I’ll be needing these two for drinks,” he points to me and Susan, “but they’ll be back with the rest of you for dinner.”

  Generally, he does private sessions with me and Cuntessa that don’t include the remainder of his directs. I assume we’re going to get some dirt on his last conversation with the nut job, Laura, that he just canned, as well as some inside scoop on what’s going on with top brass.

  Kemp McCoy is on the fast-track for a top executive spot, and Susan Smith has made a near full-time job of trying to marginalize me and my team’s success so that she becomes the heir apparent to his current position. One small problem for Susan and her minions – my team has taken the number one spot three years running, so she resorts to backstabbing, and commenting on my skirts and high heels, tits and nipples, to try and diminish me and my success.

  My answer to her, go sell something, bitch. (Or “Did you and Hillary Clinton coordinate on pants suits and shoes again today?”)

  We wrap up at 5:30 and my brain is mush.

  “Do I have time to go back to my hotel or are we going straight out?” I ask Kemp.

  He looks at his watch. “You have time to go to the bathroom. Hurry.”

  Sitting in a cab in rush hour traffic, I watch the wilting people walk the stewing sidewalks of Madison Avenue and I’m profusely thanking the cab gods that the one we hailed actually has air conditioning, because there’s way too much body heat being squished in the back of a cab with two other people on a June afternoon.

  “Are we meeting someone?” I wonder if we are since he hasn’t given us any prep information.

  “You’ll see,” is the odd response I get.

  Cuntessa finally asks, “Where are we going?’

  “That I will tell you. The St. Regis.”

  “The St. Regis Hotel?” her voice rises an octave.

  “The bar,” Kemp clarifies.

  I look at him, wondering who we are meeting at the King Cole Salon, the St. Regis’ famed bar. I silently snicker thinking it’s more of an infamous bar in my case, as my dating past includes the bar manager from when I was living in New York in my early twenties. Lesson learned from that relationship – if a guy tells you he has a history of commitment issues – believe him. No, you are not special. No, your relationship isn’t different. He’s got commitment problems. Believe him and run, if commitment is what you seek. Do not get attached to a man with commitment issues.

  I’m smiling as the bellman escorts me out of the cab. The St. Regis is truly one of the grande dames of old New York. I am lost to visions of boyfriends past and hot, passionate kisses against walls, and champagne splashed on my body, while lying on the bar long after the last patron has gone for the evening.

  Before we enter, Kemp stops us. “Okay, I don’t want you two to go crazy, but drinks tonight are with Hale Lundström.”

  “Oh my God.” Susan locks my upper arm in a death grip that I’m sure will leave nasty purple bruises.

  I’m clueless, looking from Cuntessa to Kemp and down to what is surely going to be a bruised biceps. “Who’s Hale Lundström?”

  “You’re not serious?” I can tell Kemp is already annoyed with me. He’s worried that if I don’t know who the guy is, how am I going to have any meaningful conversation about his business? “Have you looked at the Forbes fastest growing tech companies over the last three years? He’s the founder and CEO of SpaceCloud.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, okay. I’ve heard of SpaceCloud, I’m just not familiar with him.”

  Cuntessa is staring at my tits and I look down. My nipples are flashing their high beams through the thin silk of my blouse. My memories of bar fucking must’ve gotten the twins excited.

  “You need covers for those things,” she comments and I can see Kemp is uncomfortable.

  I look at her lack of anything sizable hidden under her Hillary Clinton blazer and shake my head, “Maybe I’m turned on by you.”

  “Very funny. But I bet you will be turned on by Hale Lundström. The man is drop dead gorgeous.”

  “Well, maybe he’s a nipple man,” I comment, as we follow Kemp into my old stomping grounds

  As if seeing an old friend that I’ve missed for years, the Maxwell Parrish mural of Old King Cole adorning the back of the bar brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I was twenty-three. He was twenty-five. And I’d never before met someone who I clicked with, in every way, like that. We’d gotten into the habit of saying, “Hey twin,” to each other because we were like mirror versions of one another.

  Approaching the bar, I smile at the bartender, an older man with warm eyes and an inviting smile. He probably thinks I’m already drunk approaching the bar with such a huge grin. Either that or he’s smiling back because he too is a fan of nipples and legs.

  We’re just feet away, when from the highly polished counter, a man in a navy blazer and worn jeans turns on his bar stool, immediately planting his sneakered feet on the floor as he stands, unfolding to his full height before us. His dark blue eyes are sharp and focused as he breaks into a movie star smile, taking Kemp’s outstretched hand for a hearty shake. Loose wavy curls, slightly too long for a businessman, top a handsome face graced with a square jaw and slightly dimpled chin. The look is completed with a day’s dark stubble. I’m thrown, the man looks like an Italian movie star. I was expecting a Viking with the last name Lundström, not Raoul Bova’s younger brother.