Mr. Rochester: British Bad Boy (Classics Made Smutty Book 1)

by Marian Tee

  But to be fair to him, it always takes two to tango, and I don’t think he’s ever forced any woman to go out with him. Those women whose hearts Mr. Rochester allegedly broke were women who chose to play with fire in the first place.

  “Perhaps we should clear the air now,” the H.R. manager suggests, “so we can avoid any preconceived notions about Mr. Rochester from affecting your job.” Maria reaches for a pen and taps the end of it against a pad of paper, saying, “To start with, tell me what you know of Mr. Rochester.”

  Startled by her words, I stammer awkwardly, “Women think he’s hot?” But even though I know it’s true I can’t help wrinkling my nose as I speak. I’ve seen enough photos of Mr. Rochester to know he’s more than passably attractive, with his ebony black hair and sapphire eyes, and that his six-foot-plus frame is built more like a professional athlete. Supposedly, he’s this ridiculously wild animal in bed, too---

  “Dare I even ask what you’re thinking now?”

  “Nope.”

  Maria sighs. “This is going nowhere. I can see that you don’t like Mr. Rochester, so may I just go straight to the point and ask why?”

  “It’s nothing personal,” I say uneasily. “It’s just…I hate the idea of him.” I shrug again. “Bad boys have never been my taste, you know?”

  “Ah.” The older woman’s fingers tap on the desk. “I’m beginning to understand what you meant earlier. You are thinking about the previous PAs, aren’t you, Ms. Reed?”

  I nod warily.

  “And you’ve heard rumors about how he’s bullied and mistreated them, taking advantage of the fact that they’re in love with him. Yes?”

  “In a nutshell.”

  Maria sighs. “I want you to enjoy working for Mr. Rochester, Mary Jane, but I don’t see that becoming a possibility until I correct these misassumptions of yours.”

  “It’s not---”

  The H.R. manager waves a hand, and I fall silent, knowing a ‘shut up’ sign when I see one.

  “Just this once, I shall be coarse and indiscreet, quite unprofessionally so, to deliver the point across.”

  I gape at her. What did that even mean? Is she saying in too many words she’s going to be…honest?

  “All those women who worked as Mr. Rochester’s PA have two things in common, Ms. Reed.” She gives me a humorless smile. “One: they wanted his cock.”

  Oh my God, that was coarse!

  “Two, they wanted his money even more.”

  And that was way harsh!

  “Now, Mr. Rochester can only be so obliging---”

  I choke. Obliging? Really?

  “And unfortunately all of them ended up being greedy, which warranted their complete eradication in Mr. Rochester’s life.”

  “You mean he got rid of them,” I say bluntly.

  “Legally and permanently so,” Maria says pleasantly, “and with absolutely no chance of even getting within a ten-mile radius of Mr. Rochester unless they wish to be slapped with several indefensible charges.”

  A moment of silence follows, and I find myself subject to Maria’s contemplative look.

  “I’m not going to follow in their footsteps,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “It’s not. But what I am worried about is…” Maria pauses.

  I frown. “What?”

  “Never mind,” the older woman says finally. “Just please heed my advice if you wish to keep this new job – be quiet as a mouse, work hard, don’t give Mr. Rochester any sass, and you’ll be fine.”

  Mary Jane

  Two weeks later

  I twist and turn my neck while reaching over my shoulder to knead the aching muscles on my back. God, I’m tired. I stretch in my seat, wincing slightly at the way my body protests in reaction. I’ve been working since eight am, and it’s---

  I glance at the digital clock display on the phone’s dock, and my eyes widen.

  Nine pm? Sheesh. I’ve been working for over twelve hours, and I haven’t even noticed. Shaking my head, I stand up and shut my laptop close. Time to call it a night, I decide silently. But when I’m halfway to the reception counter, I hear the most awful sound.

  Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

  My footsteps stall as I debate what to do. Should I pretend I’m already gone?

  Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

  I gnaw on my lip. It’s already way past my working hours. I’m under no obligation to answer it. Right?

  Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

  But then a memory drifts back in my mind, and I remember the blistering earful I received the last time I made my boss wait for more than five rings before answering his call.

  Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

  Shit. That’s number four already, and before I know it, I’ve already dropped my stuff on the floor and I’m running back to my work area. As I make a dive for the phone, its display starts to flash.

  Rr---

  “Good evening, Mr. Rochester.” I struggle to keep my voice level even as I work hard to catch my breath.

  “You sound out of breath.”

  The words are spoken briskly, almost brusquely, in a strongly accented British voice. I’m ashamed to admit this, but my toes had curled involuntarily the first time I had heard Mr. Rochester’s voice. Right now, however, I have more pressing concerns---

  “Were you about to leave when I called?”

  ---such as the fact that my boss is too perceptive by half.

  Jabbing the loudspeaker button on the screen, I glare at my phone even as I manage to say sweetly, “Not at all, sir.” The gall, to make it sound like it’s my fault I’m leaving. Hasn’t he noticed what time it is?

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, Mr. Rochester.” I glare harder at my phone.

  “Yes.” Mr. Rochester’s pleasant tone comes with a cultured edge. “You are.”

  Received pronunciation is what it’s called, an accent so prestigious it’s estimated only 2% of the British population has it.

  And most likely than not, I think grumpily, all of them are assholes like Mr. Rochester.

  I take a deep breath, but Mr. Rochester beats me to speak, saying curtly, “Enough with this. You’re wasting too much of my time.”

  ASSHOLE!

  “I need you to send the Marconi report to our Japanese affiliate,” Mr. Rochester goes on briskly. “You know who I’m talking it about?”

  “Yes, sir. The report will be in your inbox in two minutes---”

  “Make it one.” And the line goes dead.

  My teeth grind against each other, and it’s all I can do not to throw my phone against the wall. Gaah! I never knew that another person in this world can make me so mad, but Mr. Rochester simply takes the cake.

  “Make it in one,” I mimic sarcastically to myself, and my teeth start gnashing again. But even as I continue cursing him in my mind, I’m also moving towards my seat because asshole or not, it’s Mr. Rochester who pays my bills---

  And people who pay the bills always get their way, I think with a sigh while switching my laptop open. Pulling out the report Mr. Rochester’s asked for, I update it with the latest data and click Send thirty-five seconds after.

  A moment later, a message pops up over my inbox.

  Your message has been sent.

  Ha! Take that, Mr. Rochester.

  Getting up, I close my laptop – hopefully for the last time – and just as I pick my bag up from the floor, the iPhone I’ve shoved in my back pocket chimes out a message alert – and it’s the special tone I have assigned to my asshole boss.

  Seriously?

  I reluctantly take my phone out and read his text.

  Mr. Rochester: Update on the Marconi report?

  Me: Already sent, sir.

  Mr. Rochester: Good girl.

  I grimace. The former PAs probably had their hearts skipping a beat over that, but I just can’t help feel it’s a little bit condescending. Then again, I’m also the practical sort, and I know the words “good woman” don’
t quite have the same ring.

  But then, I continue arguing mentally to myself, if he had a male PA, I doubt Mr. Rochester would have told him ‘good boy’ by way of praise.

  So whatever way you look at it, he’s being a little sexist---

  Mr. Rochester: Inform Maria for me you’re scheduled for overtime bonus, will you?

  ---but I’ll totally forgive him for that since Mr. Rochester is, in my opinion, the best boss ever.

  Me: Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.

  No reply follows, but I don’t mind.

  Yes, yes, yes!

  In the mood to celebrate, I impulsively decide to make a detour towards the kitchen, which is exclusive for the penthouse staff and always has a fully stocked pantry. It’s definitely going to have everything I’d want for a celebratory dinner, I think happily, and even better all of it will be free.

  On my way I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the glass walls of the office, and my nose wrinkles, like it always do, when I’m confronted by the reality of my appearance.

  Hair – average.

  Eyes – average.

  Even my body is the same, neither thin nor chubby but just…average.

  The thought of what Mr. Rochester would say if he sees me makes my nose wrinkle anew.

  Bloody mediocre?

  I mentally nod to myself as I enter the kitchen. Yeah, that would probably it. Although I’ve been working for Mr. Rochester for the past half month, my boss and I actually haven’t come face to face yet. In the past two weeks that I’ve been his P.A., Mr. Rochester has only been communicating with me either by phone or email.

  Even so---

  Why are there moments when I feel like I’ve known him for a long time?

  I mull this over as I rifle through the pantry’s contents. Maybe it’s because Mr. Rochester never tiptoes around me? Unlike my previous bosses, who were all perfect gentlemen, our British CEO is so rude there are times he makes me seem nice. He likes calling a spade a spade, never mind if he ends up rubbing other people the wrong way.

  I kinda admire him for that, I admit to myself grudgingly, but only when his viciously blunt words aren’t directed at me.

  After finally settling on some Japanese crabstick salad and pasta, I pull out my phone to browse my newsfeed on Facebook, and I let out an inelegant snort as I’m once again greeted by an insane number of friend requests.

  It’s been like that ever since word’s spread that I’m now Mr. Rochester’s PA, which I think is stupid. What did these women expect me to do, anyway? It’s not like our resident bad boy would ask me for dating advice or something.

  After washing up, I make myself a cup of latte and go back to scrolling up on my newsfeed. I take my time perusing photos and status messages but not liking or commenting on anything. It’s just endlessly fascinating to me how people seem not to have any qualms posting everything on Facebook---

  I don’t get it, but I do respect it, and it’s another thing I sort of admire. At least they’re putting their selves out there, which is more than I can say for myself. As I take another sip of my latte, an article shared by someone from my old high school catches my eye.

  Constantin Edward Rochester – Exposed!

  Obvious click bait, I think to myself, snorting over my mug.

  But it also works, and so I click.

  The link takes me out of Facebook, and a new page starts to load.

  What the---

  My face warms as a single photo takes up the entire screen of my iPhone, and I realize too late what exposed means.

  In the photo, my boss is lying lazily on a bed of white silk sheets, ebony black hair tousled, one arm behind his head, and his sapphire blue eyes smirking at the camera.

  I know you’re staring at me, that cocky look in his pretty blues is saying---

  I take a quick gulp of coffee as I feel my pulse actually start to stupidly, inexplicably race.

  Close the page now, Reed!

  Close it!

  But I can’t even tear my gaze off the page.

  Mr. Rochester’s powerfully muscular body is almost completely naked in the photo, with only his crotch covered by a rumpled silk sheet. If that isn’t bad enough, the sheet is so thin the shape of his cock makes a rather prominent impression---

  Shit.

  I down the rest of my coffee, but it’s no use, and my throat continues to feel dry. I may be a virgin, but I’ve watched enough sex scenes in my life to know the difference between small and big weenies---

  Well, let’s just say that Mr. Rochester’s is not small. Instead, it’s---

  It’s---

  It’s so…so…monstrously---

  Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I mentally catch myself in time. Why the hell am I thinking about my boss’ cock? And did I really just use the word monstrous to describe---

  I shake my head hard, literally, but it’s too late. My thoughts have once again gone off tangent, and now there’s no stopping it.

  Now, all I can imagine is Mr. Rochester – my boss – and he’s not just naked.

  It’s worse than that.

  Right now, I can only imagine Mr. Rochester lying over me, naked, mocking blue eyes devouring my body---

  “I’m going to fuck you bloody hard now, Ms. Reed.”

  My mind has no trouble imagining the sound of his voice either: it’s very much British and – yes, cultured, and when used to say dirty words the combination is devastating.

  A moan of embarrassment tries to rush out of my throat as my body clenches with unexpected need.

  Oh, to be fucked so bloody hard!

  I close my eyes and cover my face, but it’s no use.

  I can’t stop fantasizing about him---

  Oh, Mr. Rochester!

  Imagining how he’d shove his monstrous cock inside of me, tearing me apart---

  I feel something ooze out of my folds, soaking my panties, and I jerk. My hands fall away as I gaze down at myself in horror.

  Am I…wet?

  As soon as the word forms in my mind, I realize I am, extremely so, and the knowledge has my legs automatically pressing together.

  Oh my God!

  But still the wetness continues to ooze out of me, hot, sticky, and uncontrollable.

  This is stupid. Insane. Impossible.

  And yet---

  My mind is stubborn, and it’s STILL fantasizing about Mr. Rochester fucking me, with his bloody hard cock---

  His impossibly, monstrously---

  Stop imagining things, Reed!

  My fingers tighten and loosen reflexively around the handle of my empty mug as I struggle to control my arousal. Just one stupid photo, I lament to myself, and now I’m horny as hell.

  It doesn’t even make sense.

  I hadn’t lied to Ms. Fairfax when I told her I’ve been attracted to bad boys. They’ve just never been my type. Never. Other girls no doubt see them differently, but I’ve always thought them shallow and selfish, and more often than not cruel and stupid.

  So why is Mr. Rochester making me feel this way – when he’s the virtual king of bad boys?

  Only one answer comes to me, and the mere thought of it has me squirming, not out of discomfort…but of arousal.

  I’ve never thought I could be this way, but the moist heat still making my insides churn and my pussy ache tells me that what I’m suspecting is embarrassingly true.

  Monstrous cocks are my weakness.

  It’s my fetish, my---

  Shit.

  A sound has reached my ears, cutting my thoughts off, and I tense and strain my ears---

  Shit.

  I still hear it, which means I haven’t imagined the sound of a knob turning.

  The realization has me automatically reaching for my empty mug like it’s a weapon for self-defense. It’s no pepper spray, but right now anything is better than nothing.

  Penthouse access is so strict that entry to it after office hours requires at least 24 hours’ notice. And since I’m the one who gran
ts such access as Mr. Rochester’s PA---

  My heartbeat speeds up, and my grip on the mug tightens.

  Whoever’s coming in isn’t supposed to be here, I think grimly.

  I hear the main doors of the penthouse office start to open.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I tiptoe behind the door, knowing that it’s too late to switch off the light in the kitchen and hide in the darkness.

  What if it’s a ghost?

  What if it’s an intruder?

  Ah dammit, I’m not even sure which is better, all I know is---

  The sound of footsteps reaches my ears.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  And the sound is coming louder, the footsteps nearer---

  Intruders can be hurt, but not ghosts…right?

  Even so, it doesn’t hurt to try.

  Taking a deep breath, I raise the mug over my head as I bide my time, waiting, waiting---

  The kitchen door opens, and whoever – whatever – it is casts a shadow on the ground.

  Oh God.

  Someone---

  Something---

  Enters---

  I swing hard.

  Stunned blue eyes clash with mine, and I pale, gasping, “Mr. Rochester?”

  Oh, shit.

  I try to control the downward swing of my arm, but it’s too late.

  A moment later, we both hear something crack.

  And then---

  “BLOODY HELL.”

  The mug slips out of my grasp and crashes into the floor.

  I stare at my boss in stupefied horror, thinking numbly, Bloody hell indeed.

  I think I’ve just given my boss cause to sue me for manslaughter.

  When Mr. Rochester emerges out of the E.R. with the coldest-looking expression I’ve ever seen on a human face, I open my mouth immediately to say sorry---

  “Later,” my boss snaps.

  I shut my mouth. Still rude as ever, but I have to let it go, considering how I’m the reason for the ugly cast covering his right hand.

  Outside the hospital, Mr. Rochester’s limousine is already waiting and when he glares at me, I take it as a non-verbal command to get in or die. My teeth start to grind, but I doggedly remind myself being subjected to tantrums is getting better than being sued.