Sinful Rewards 3

by Cynthia Sax

  We have time, he’s telling me. He’s not going anywhere. I’m grateful for this slower pace, as I suspect any ground Nicolas conquers, he keeps, and I’m not ready to be completely captured, not yet.

  He stretches out his legs, his expensive leather shoes placed flat on the carpeted floor of the limousine. Nicolas’s eyelids lower, his eyelashes thick, his face softening. He resembles a sleek black panther, appearing slumberous yet ready to pounce at any minute. His fingertips swirl lazy circles into my skin.

  He ends his call and tosses the phone on the seat. Another man might apologize for the interruption. Nicolas says nothing. He’s a successful real estate developer. Interruptions are part of his world, of my world now. It shouldn’t bother me.

  But it does. . .a little. My mom always put her work demands before her time with me, needing the job at the diner to pay our bills. I want to come first with someone, unrealistic as this dream is.

  “My boss is announcing my promotion to full time today.” I share my work news with Nicolas. I’ll no longer be temporary, and he, of all people, will understand what this means to me. He prefers to build long-term relationships, maintaining them forever. This is one of the things I like. . .love about him.

  “Is he?” Nicolas cups my chin and turns my face toward his. The vibrations under my ass fade, the limousine rolling to a stop. We’ve arrived, but I don’t want to leave him. Judging by the gleam in his eyes and the intent way he’s looking at me, Nicolas feels the same way.

  “He is. I know he is. I organized the party yesterday.” I give Nicolas a nervous smile, my stomach fluttering with excitement. He’ll kiss me now. I’m certain of this. His embrace will be demanding, possessive, as forceful, as consuming as his personality, erasing all thoughts of other men, especially tattooed former marines. “There will be cupcakes and coffee,” I continue to babble.

  “Bee.” Nicolas traps my face between his beautiful hands, his fingers soft yet unyielding, preventing all escape.

  I swallow hard. “Yes?”

  “Let me be the first to congratulate you.” He draws me closer. My gaze meets his, the passion in his brown eyes captivating me. This passion is for me, ordinary, broke-ass Belinda Carter.

  Nicolas dips his head and skims his lips over mine, slowly, gently, a brief teasing caress. His breath brushes across my cheeks, his warmth coaxing the fire inside me higher. The scent of mint and expensive cologne tickles my nostrils, filling my senses with him. I lean into my billionaire, clutching his shoulders, eager for more, wishing to lose myself in his embrace, to forget all other kisses.

  Nicolas pulls away from me, and his gaze searches my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for. His fingers remain curved around my cheeks, holding me in place. All I have is his for the taking.

  I want him to take, I want him to kiss me again, deeper, longer this time, imprinting his being on my soul, finally igniting the passion simmering inside me. I lick my bottom lip, anxious for this claiming, for my foolish disappointment to dissipate.

  Nicolas’s eyes darken. “I like to be the first in everything.” His tone is firm, satisfaction edging his words.

  “Nicolas.” I need more.

  Not realizing this, Nicolas releases me and straightens. Cool air rushes into the space between us, chilling my ardor. I suppress my sigh of frustration as he calmly fixes his shirt cuffs, my billionaire unaware of my inner turmoil.

  “I’ll see you at five o’clock.” Nicolas’s voice is curt and businesslike. He raps his knuckles on the window.

  I stare at him, my head spinning from his transformation. The door opens, a gust of fresh air sweeps into the limousine, and my rational thought returns. There won’t be a second kiss, not this morning. Nicolas has already mentally left me, his head bent as he scrolls through the messages on his phone.

  I turn toward the door, clutch my purse with one hand, place the other in Isaac’s palm, the kindly driver assisting me to my feet. My shoes creak. I adjust my weight. “Thank you, Isaac.”

  “It’s my pleasure, miss.” His eyes twinkle. “Have a wonderful day.” He hurries back to the driver’s seat, his movements as efficient as his employer’s. I watch as the limousine disappears into the Chicago rush-hour traffic, the stream of cars constant, never ending.

  It is a wonderful day. Nicolas kissed me. I touch my lips, trying to recapture the experience, unable to. The embrace was too fleeting, too light. But it was an embrace. I grin, my heart lightening. He no longer views me as a friend.

  I have a full-time job and a forever man. A giddy laugh escapes my lips as I enter the building.

  Chapter Two

  “TODAY’S THE DAY,” Susan sings as I pass reception. The usual barrage of deliverymen surrounds my friend’s desk.

  “Today’s the day,” I agree, beaming, swinging my gorgeous purse. All of my weight presses down on my heels, preventing the embarrassing creak. “Are we decorating at noon?”

  “Yes.” Susan signs a delivery slip. “I’ve already asked Zee in accounting to cover for me.”

  “I’ll see you then.” I wave at her and turn into the hallway. The workroom will soon become the party room. I smile at the volunteers as I hurry along the narrow space. They smile back at me, my joy contagious.

  I’m landing the full-time job and Nicolas kissed me. Anything, anyone else is unimportant. I enter the workroom. The space is empty. Mr. Peterson’s office door is closed and Dru is missing. Maybe he’s being kind and letting her go immediately.

  I sit down and place my purse into the top drawer of my desk, a twinge of guilt, of sadness dampening my happiness. Yes, Dru was a horror to work with. She did nothing except cause trouble, spreading nasty rumors about me and everyone else.

  But I know how much this job means to me, my mom needing my income to pay for her rent. I extract my supplies from the bottom drawer. If the job meant half as much to Dru, she’ll be devastated and I shouldn’t gloat. That’s unprofessional.

  It’s a struggle, but I manage to take a semiserious look at my list of initiatives. Does it make sense to tackle any tasks today? All afternoon will be spent preparing for the announcement and then accepting congratulations. On Monday, I’ll start the new job.

  My new job. I drum my heels into the frayed gray carpet. I wish I could afford a new suit for my first day, a black designer skirt suit, maybe Chanel. Lona’s Chanel suits are the height of sophistication.

  New shoes are my first priority. I’ll stop at Grant Park tonight, haggle with one of the street vendors for a new pair. It’s been a couple of months. Maybe the quality of fakes will have improved. Maybe my next pair of shoes will last longer.

  An hour passes and Mr. Peterson’s door doesn’t open. Knowing Dru, she’s trying to trick him into extending her contract, doing anything she can to keep herself employed. Another three months working with her would drive me insane.

  I decide to check on the cupcake and coffee orders. Both of the companies said they’d e-mail confirmations to me today. I remove my beautiful purse from the drawer, fumble through the plastic bag insert, find my phone.

  The screen is lit. I shake with excitement. I have a text message.

  Friendly: Remove your bra. Good girls earn rewards.

  My inner pervert squeals, and I glance around me. There isn’t anyone here. I remain alone in the workroom, the space empty, lonely.

  I reread the message. He wants me to remove my bra. I chew on the inside of my cheek. My blazer is structured, the fabric thick, and my breasts are small and firm, not requiring much support. I could take off my bra and no one would notice.

  I’ll notice though. When the announcement is made, I’ll be the center of attention and I’ll know that under my blazer, I’m naked, my breasts free, easily accessed by seeking, exploring hands.

  Nicolas will pick me up after work. If he’s Friendly, and I’m almost certain he is my mysterious texter, he’ll know about my bare breasts. He won’t be content with stroking my sides. He’ll cup me, squeeze me, pinch my
nipples with his sure, slender fingers.

  Then I’ll be Nicolas’s completely. I’ve never been able to separate lust and love. If he takes my body, he’ll take my heart and all of my loyalty also. There will be no more thinking of Hawke, no more moaning about his rejection, about his leaving.

  There will only be Nicolas and forever.

  This is what I want, what I need. I clutch my purse and rush along the hallway, not allowing myself any second thoughts. I push through the bathroom door. A tall blonde woman stands at one of the mirrors, applying her mascara. I pause, doubts assailing me. What if I’m caught? What if this is a challenge Nicolas wants me to fail?

  No, Nicolas wouldn’t ask for something he didn’t want. I know this about him now. He tests but doesn’t trick, my billionaire too straightforward, too arrogant for deceit. I enter the handicapped bathroom stall, close the door, sweep the surface with a disinfectant wipe. Satisfied that it’s clean, I hang my purse on the hook.

  Then I wait, listening. The woman hums softly to herself. Heels click on the tile. A door opens and closes, the snick loud in the silence.

  I hastily unbutton my suit jacket, unhook my bra, fold the soft silk, and stuff it into my purse, deep enough that no one can easily find it. If Friendly wants to steal my bra, he’ll have to hunt for it. I fasten my suit jacket. The fabric slides over my nipples, teasing, tightening them.

  I smother a moan. Going braless feels even more decadent, more naughty than forgoing panties. This will be a long day, filled with erotic torture. My arousal will be at a fever pitch by the time Nicolas meets me.

  Is this what he wants? To drive me crazy? To make me want him with an all-consuming desire? He’ll be successful, the dreadful man.

  I grab my purse and hurry back to my desk, navigating the narrow hallway, the friction against my nipples delectable, distracting me. Volunteers smile at me, and my face heats. Do they know? Can they tell my breasts are free, unencumbered by a bra?

  The workroom remains empty, and Mr. Peterson’s door is closed. Dru is putting up a solid fight for her job. I have to give her credit for that.

  I place my purse in the top drawer and lock it, sliding the key underneath the waistband of my skirt, the metal cool, stimulating my hyperaware body even more. Every nerve ending buzzes, my sexy secret moistening my pussy. I fiddle with my list of initiatives, unable to concentrate.

  Nicolas, assuming he’s Friendly, knows I’m braless. Is he thinking of me, thinking of my breasts? Is he sitting in his limousine, being driven to his next meeting, his body hard, his dress pants tented around his erection?

  In my fantasy, he can’t wait until he sees me to find release. He unzips his pants, curls his tanned fingers around his cock. His shaft will be as straight and rigid as he is, a bead of precum forming on his broad tip.

  He’ll think of my bare breasts, my pale soft skin, and he’ll stroke himself, up and down, up and down, his grip tight and sure. His black shoes will be solidly braced on the limousine’s floor. The seat under him will vibrate, jostling his balls, escalating his need.

  I lick my lips, wiggling in my chair. The veins will lift on his shaft, his color deepening. Groove lines will form around Nicolas’s mouth. He wants me more than he’s ever wanted any other woman. I’m the one he’ll claim, keep forever, never leave.

  He’ll pump himself harder, faster, his scarred knuckles whitening around his cock. He’s close, his balls hugging his body, his desire for release, for me, compounding. He’ll push upward, driving into his hand, grunting with effort, the primitive sound echoing in the vehicle.

  I swivel my hips, my nipples painfully hard, my pussy wet. He’ll thrust once, twice more and then bellow my name, cum arcing from his tip, his beautiful face twisted with satisfaction, his eyes dark.

  What am I doing? I cease moving, my arousal easing. Good girls don’t fantasize about billionaires while they’re at work.

  Minutes, hours pass and my wanton behavior continues to disturb me. Dru finally emerges from Mr. Peterson’s office at five minutes to eleven. She’s clad in a bright red suit, an outfit I’ve never seen her wear before today. The jacket is low cut, showing the curves of her breasts, and her skirt is obscenely short. Black silk flashes with every step.

  Dru is wearing underwear. This is surprising considering her promiscuous comments and sex-centered rumors. Maybe she’s not the slut she pretends to be.

  “Awww. . .you showed up today.” Dru’s eyes sparkle with malice. I see no signs of tears, no redness, no mascara trails on her freckled cheeks. “Greg hoped you wouldn’t. He feels bad about what he has to do.” She sinks into her chair and props her heels on her desk. “But I’m glad you didn’t deprive me of this moment.”

  Some of my confidence evaporates under her cheery attitude. “You did no work. Mr. Peterson has no choice. He has to hire me.” I grit my teeth, clinging to this fact.

  “No, he has to hire me.” Dru’s smile holds a scary amount of satisfaction. “Because a man like Greg won’t ever risk his carefully crafted follow-the-rules reputation. It’s all he has.”

  She removes an emery board from her black purse. “If you weren’t so naïve, you would have realized that and given me some competition for this job. But”—she shrugs—“your loss is my gain.” She skims the emery board over her perfect nails.

  Have I misjudged the situation, misjudged Mr. Peterson? I watch Dru out of the corner of my eye. She’s tricked me in the past, more lies than truth sprouting from her red lipstick-covered lips, but why would our manager meet with her all morning and not terminate her employment?

  There’s only one reason why he’d do that. Oh my God. My head spins. Mr. Peterson did fall for her games. I misjudged his intelligence, his integrity, and now I’ll be fired.

  I curl my fingers, digging my fingernails into my palms, punishing myself for not protecting my boss from his own dumb choices. My mom depends on my salary. It took me over eight hundred applications to land this job. I can’t lose it because my manager couldn’t keep it in his damn pants.

  Mr. Peterson stands on the threshold to his office. I glance at him. His round cheeks are red, beads of sweat forming on his balding head. “Belinda, can I talk to you for a moment?”

  I see the truth in his face and force myself to stand, to stride toward him, my chin held high. Part of me disconnects from the situation. I’m viewing this from a distance, my emotions safely tucked away. This is a trick I learned in high school, when Tara and her gang of vicious teenage girls attacked me for my knockoff fashions. If I showed no response, they’d become bored, find a new victim.

  Mr. Peterson moves to the left, allowing me to pass him. I sit on one of his horrid guest chairs. His desk is a mess as it usually is, but today it irritates me. It’s a sign of his incompetence, a sign I should have noticed.

  I stare at him as he sinks into his patched captain’s chair. He looks like a sure, steady type of man, the type of man a woman can count on, can trust to uphold the rules, to stick by his personal code of ethics.

  This appearance is deceiving. When faced with the choice, he put his own needs before mine, discarding me as my dad did, as Hawke did, caring only about himself.

  Perhaps those boring accountant types I dated in the past would have done the same. Perhaps I can’t count on perception alone. Nicolas tests people before he trusts them. Perhaps I should test people also.

  “Belinda, ummm. . .you ummm. . .” A rivulet of sweat trickles down Mr. Peterson’s cheek.

  “You made a mistake, sir.” My voice is calm, detached.

  His face turns a deep crimson. “Yes, I made a mistake. There’s nothing I could do.” He toys with two white envelopes, his hands shaking. “She would have—”

  “She still will.” I meet his gaze. “I’ve dealt with girls like Dru my entire life. They play with their victims before they destroy them, and they always destroy them.” Anger swells inside me, at him, at myself. “If you had faced her now, I would have supported you and the others would ha
ve believed us.”

  I pause, giving him the time to consider the magnitude of his mistake.

  “Now you’ve confirmed all of the rumors swirling around the office,” I continue. Mr. Peterson’s eyes widen. He didn’t know about the gossip but I did, ignoring it, foolishly thinking I could trust him, that being the perfect employee would be enough. “When she tells everyone what you’ve done, there will be no one here to help you.”

  I feel no sympathy for Mr. Peterson. None at all. He’s fucked but he’s no longer my responsibility. He’s no longer my boss. I owe him no more loyalty.

  “Belinda—”

  “No.” I stand, unwilling to hear anything more. He made his choice, revealing his true character. Our relationship is now severed. “I will use you as a reference, and I expect glowing words.” I place my palms on his paper-covered desk and lean forward. “When you’re considering what to say, remember that I sent every reminder notice except two to the high-net-worth supporters. I have their names and their addresses,” I bluff. My sense of personal honor won’t allow me to use this information.

  Mr. Peterson swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I already wrote you a reference letter. Here.” He pushes the two envelopes toward me. “And that’s your last paycheck. Belinda—”

  “No.” I won’t give him the satisfaction of an apology. “I’m leaving now. Susan has the details about the announcement. Don’t ask me for anything ever again.” I grab the envelopes and stomp out of his office, leaving my ex-boss to fret about his future.

  Dru’s lips lift into a smug smile. “What? No tears?”

  I’d never cry in front of her. That makes her kind too happy. I unlock the drawer, remove my purse, and take a step toward the hallway.

  “You’re not going to say anything?” my troublemaking coworker asks. “No, you were right, Dru? I’m a naïve idiot, Dru? All men are scum, Dru?”