F Boy: Screwing the Boss series

by Michelle McLoughney

  “Will there be anything else, Mrs Hartman?”

  I jolt in fright, before waving a hand without turning around. “No. Thank you Charles, you may finish up for the day. I’ve everything I need here.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Yes. Thank you, have they all left?” Please let them have left.

  “Yes ma’am all the mourners have gone home now.”

  “Mourners. Yes, of course.” I stifle the outrageous giggle that bubbles in my throat threatening to explode into the air. It’s the day of my husband’s burial, and all I can think about is Ridge Franklin buried up to his balls inside me. Classy as fuck.

  “Give my best to Clara,” I say, closing my eyes as the buzz from the alcohol hits me.

  “Of course ma’am, Clara is very fond of you,” he lies, and I hear the affection for his wife in his voice. How beautiful it must be to hear the name of your wife and be filled with happiness. My marriage had everything, everything but happiness.

  Charles shuffles around the room before closing the door gently. I wonder for a moment what he thinks about working for me, now that the man he worked for 50 years, my husband, is dead. No doubt he still has some misplaced loyalty to the man who paid his salary and provided him with a home for half a century. Misplaced, because Beaufort Hartman the third, cared for no one, especially not a lowly butler like Charles. Not for his many estranged children, not for his staff and most definitely not for me, his wife of 17 years. Twirling the stem of my long crystal flute glass, I take myself back to my 18th birthday. The day my life ended. The day I left behind my family, friends and everyone else I knew and came here, to Rosemere manor. The most beautiful of prisons.

  May 14th, 2000

  Riding in the back of the garishly crimson coloured Bentley, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the over the top indulgence of my new husband to be. A man I’d yet to meet. Two weeks, that’s all I’d had to digest the mess we were in, and resign myself to the fact that the only one who can save us, was me. Thanks to my father’s excessive gambling and alcoholism, we’d lost everything, the estate that was in our family for three centuries, our cars, the horses, and every penny we had which wasn’t much to begin with. We were typical of the poor rich, old money and titled, but with estates that couldn’t sustain themselves and slowly fell into decline. You’ll have seen them, like beacons of grey dullness dotted along the Bedfordshire countryside, beautiful but neglected, as my mother had been.

  My father clung to his ridiculous title of Duke of Deerfield, as though it were a life buoy to a drowning man. And he was a drowning man, slipping slowly into a life of constantly searching for something he could never quite reach. Boredom and a predisposition to addiction, he never really had a chance in life. My mother had died years before from cancer, and although my father tried to parent, he was in equal parts selfish and disinterested.

  I would have moved away and begun a life apart from him, but for Daniel. My baby brother, whom I adored. Daniel needed 24 hour care following a brain injury at birth, care that was specialized and expensive. Confined to a wheelchair, and his mind that of a little boy even at 16, he was my world. I mothered him, and lavished every ounce of compassion and love that I had onto him. Daniel was the only reason I agreed to married Beaufort Hartman, a man 52 years my senior with a reputation as something of a recluse. I imagine he picked me from some kind of catalogue of poor titled ladies looking to move up in society. Either that or my father owed him a debt of some kind. I couldn’t bear to think of Daniel in a care home, being surrounded by strangers, slowly dying from the inside out. Little did I know, by marrying Beaufort, I was condemning both of us to that very fate.

  Saying goodbye to my father was easy on both of us, neither caring much for the other. Beaufort would take the prestige of my title. Daniel would get the care my father no longer wished to provide, and my father could wallow in Deerfield with a cellar full of wine, gifted by Beaufort on the announcement of our engagement. Rosemere was our home now, our forever home. The terms of the agreement were simple, upon the death of my husband, I would receive a generous yet undisclosed amount for every year of our marriage, but if I left Beaufort, I left with nothing. I didn’t care about the money, I assumed with Beaufort’s wealth that he would be generous. My only insistence within the terms of our agreement, was that it included care for Daniel at Rosemere, with me, for as long as he lived. I could cope with anything as long as I had Daniel.

  The Estate came into view and I gasped loudly at the sheer size of it, estate isn’t even a word that came close to the grandeur in front of me. If my own beautiful Deerfield was a dying shell, then Rosemere was the epitome of the living opulence that came from new money. My mouth dropped open at the sight of lush gardens with hundreds of acres of land and horses, fountains with monstrous gargoyles spouting water from their mouth and huge ponds opened up before my eyes. I marvelled at the bushes and hedges clipped into the shapes of angels and animals that adorned the gravel driveway. Lowering the car window, I put my head halfway out, laughing as my long chestnut hair blew around my face. This was going to be okay, a place as beautiful as this would be a joy to live in, Daniel and I would be happy here. I imagined walks in the garden, reading to Dan as he smiled to himself locked into his own little world. A sense of peaceful calm washed over me and I smiled brightly at the handsome man waiting at the threshold for me. He was handsome, if a little stiff. I was curious about him and his reasons for choosing me. Exiting the car I straightened my skirt and ran a shaky hand down my front to smooth my silk blouse. Extending my hand in his direction, I feigned confidence but inside I was shaking like a leaf.

  “Beaufort, it’s-“

  A sneer came to the lips of the man in front of me. He rejected my hand by simply staring down at it in disgust.

  “My name is Edmund Hartman, Beaufort’s brother, and also head of the family’s legal team. Welcome to Rosemere. I assume you’ll find your time here an experience. Beaufort will see you shortly. Your brother has been taken into the wing of the house adjacent to yours. Daniel will have two full time carers in order to allow mister Hartman to call on you should he so wish. All your current wardrobe and belongings are to be destroyed, your new clothes are laid out in your room.” I clenched my clutch bag in front of me for protection, and nodded curtly. “Of course, pardon my confusion, I assumed my future husband would greet me.” Edmund’s smug grin and the shake of his head filled me with dread.

  “Your soon to be husband is a very busy man, Miss Bell. He arranges his day in order of importance. I hope you understand where you fit within his schedule.”

  “Of course,” I muttered, embarrassed. Even I, with my lack of experience of people and life could spot a red hot fuck you when I heard it. After that I learned my place and more importantly I learn to hide. My face became a mask, hiding the raging turmoil behind a façade of serene calm.

  Daniel had died in his sleep only three short years later, and left me alone in my grief. The only person I ever really cared about, was gone. When Beaufort allowed me to have Dan buried on the grounds of Rosemere, I assumed it was an act of compassion. It was only years later that would I come to realise that having Daniel here kept me here also. I would never leave him.

  Present day

  Opening my eyes I take another gulp of my mimosa and refocus on Ridge’s striding body. I mean who the hell names a child Ridge? Well certainly not me, considering not only my lack of children, but lack of general interaction with the opposite sex. Something about him makes me nervous, how can a 20 year old boy make me feel unsure of myself and exposed? Suddenly he looks up, straight at me and nods, his mouth a tight line. Would it kill him to smile, for fuck sake? I raise a brow in return and nod, hating it when I see the itch of a smirk at the corners of his mouth. Who is he? Some fuck boy who is never short of a girl apparently, according to staff gossip. He comes only for the summers, to help the Featherstone family tend the grounds and the horses, and then disappears back to God knows
where for nine months of the year. I know he watches me. I’ve seen him, watching, shirtless and tan, his t-shirt bunched into his back pocket. His snug black jeans low enough on his hips for me to see those disgustingly erotic vee muscles dipping into his waistband.

  Siting on the curb taking a break, sweat glistens on his bare chest and a cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips. He tosses the cigarette and throws on his t-shirt, flexing his arms as he lifts them above his head and covers his eyes with a pair of black Ray-Bans, the epitome of model chic. Crosses his arms the material pulls taut across his chest. I turn sharply, and sit with my back to him on the windowsill breathing out a slow breathe of frustration. Damn him, damn my hormones and damn my body for making me sit with wet panties on the day of my husband’s burial.

  Why the hell am I so affected by him? The thoughts of his hands, calloused and rough running up the inside of my thigh makes me instantly wet. I hate it, I hate the loss of control over my body. My experience of men is sadly limited to the handful of times Beaufort took me to his bed in the first few months of our marriage. After that, he announced that he wouldn’t waste time on a frigid wife. I might have objected to the lack of intimacy in my marriage, if I had given a fuck. But I stopped caring for my husband on our wedding night, when he took my virginity painfully and with all the finesse of a goat. Is that what sex is? Something to get over with, something that causes pain and humiliation. After that, Beaufort preferred to bring home women to satisfy his needs. I avoid him as best I could, and turned a blind eye to the women who laughed at me as they left my home the next morning.

  If I never fucked another man as long as I lived, I would live my life happily. Liar. It comes from somewhere deep inside my thoughts. Ridge Franklin. His name reverberates in my mind and I speak it aloud.

  The knock at the door startles me and I drop my glass on the floor, shattering it into tiny fragments. Shit! Beaufort doesn’t like a mess. I shake my head and laugh silently underneath my breath. Beaufort is dead. I repeat it like a mantra. Bending down to pick up the pieces, I reach my hand toward the slivers of glass.

  “Don’t. I’ll do it for you,” he says.

  I turn around and stand up, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. “I didn’t hear you enter. What are you doing here?” Ridge ignores me and instead bends down and gathers up the biggest pieces of glass in his palm.

  “My hands are harder than yours. You’ll cut yourself.” His voice is deep and rich, his Irish accent thick, yet strangely lyrical. I nod at him, and stand back watching him move. My eyes focus on his back, the white t-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulder blades, a patch of sweat down the centre of his back. I steady my breathing, forcing my eyes to focus on the ends of his hair, jet black and to his nape. I can’t help but reach out to touch it, before using my other hand to pull my fingers back. Stop this! He swivels his head around and his eyes meet mine, the irises so dark they look almost black. Standing, he places the shards of glass on the table, and inhales deeply though his nose smiling at me, his teeth effortlessly perfect and pearly white.

  “Are you glad he’s dead?”

  The question throws me, and I open my mouth to speak but snap it shut again. We stare at each other for a few seconds and I shake my head.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Ridge.”

  “I want to be here, Ava.”

  I raise my brows, hearing my name on his lips sends pluses through me. I stare up at him, flustered and agitated by his boldness. My eyes are level with his chest, and I can’t look away when his nipples harden beneath his t-shirt. My own nipples pebble and tighten in response, and I want to cover them with my hands. My body won’t cooperate and I suck in a short sharp breaths, my chest rising and falling like a bloody heroine in a racy novel. His eyes fall to my breasts and he steps even closer until we are almost touching. Closing my eyes, his breath caresses my cheek and I wet my lips nervously. When I open my eyes he’s moved away from me, and I feel the loss of his body like a gaping wound. The guy is a beast. Everything about him screams sex and heat. Sex and desire.

  Moving to the bookshelves, Ridge runs a hand up and down the spines of the books playfully. I run my fingers down the outside of my thighs imaging what it must feel like to be touched like that. By him.

  “What are they about?” he asks, turning to look at me. I nod and make my way over to him nervously. Books. A topic I can talk about without sounding like an idiot.

  “They’re the complete works of the English classics from Chaucer to Dickens. If...if you’d like to borrow them.” He shakes his head and turns back to the bookshelf smiling before pulling out a book and pointing it at me.

  “Nah, I read thrillers mainly, horror too. James Patterson, Stephen King. More modern authors. Do you enjoy these books?”

  I sigh, before smirking at him and shrugging.

  “No. I hate them. I enjoy the American literary classics, in particular the Beat poets of San Francisco.” Why am I telling him this? Why not just pretend? I’ve never told anyone that before, it feels dangerous and liberating all at once.

  “Where are they? The books you like. I don’t see them,” he says slowly, staring at me until I look away, feeling naked under his intensity.

  “Beaufort. My...my husband...he... wouldn’t allow them in the house. He said they were trash. Thugs and degenerates,” I say, imitating Beaufort’s raspy tone, a dart of pain slicing through me. Even saying it makes me feel weak and stupid. Ridge moves closer to me, closer, until my back hits the wall. I look up at him, straining my neck and throwing a hand up to block the sunlight that streams through the windows. His mouth touches my ear as he speaks, and I smell the minty freshness of his chewing gum on his breath.

  “Do you still read them? Did you hide them? Did you disobey him, Ava?”

  I swallow deeply and consider lying.

  “Yes,” I hiss through my teeth, as his hand makes contact with the back of my neck, his palm hot and rough against my skin. My pulse quickens under his thumb, and my heart beats like a frantic bird in my chest. Pulling in a sharp breath, I moan as his fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze firmly.

  Dropping his head down so that his lips are touching my cheek, he speaks lowly and so softly that I strain to hear him. I shake under the pressure of his body against mine.

  “I like that you disobeyed him, Ava. You were never his to control, darlin’. You belong only to you. Your mind is your own, your opinion is your own, and your desire is your own. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I repeat, mesmerized by him.

  “Yes, Ava,” he nods, mimicking my own movements, a slight smile kissing his lips. “But your mouth, your eyes, and your body will belong to another,” he says moving his hands to my hair.

  I buck against him, and a tear works its way from the corner of my eye. The back of my throat burns with unsaid words, and emotions that have lay dormant all these years. I turn my face from him and focus on the books, embarrassed by my lack of control.

  “Tell me how they make you feel. The books.” His hands travel down my shoulders, slowly encasing my breasts while his fingertips trap my nipples between them, first tugging roughly and then caressing the dull ache with his thumb. My back arches against him and my mouth opens, my words coming in jerky bursts. I clench my thighs, and stifle a groan.

  “Like... I’m living a life other than this one. Other...other people’s lives. The freedom they have, the thoughts they allow themselves to think, the connections they make. I want it all. I feel it all.” Ridge nods and leans into me, his hands falling from my breasts, and settling on my hips, tightly pulling me against him. His lips touch my neck and his teeth graze the tender flesh of my collarbone.

  “I’m done waiting for you, Ava. It’s time for you to live, to feel it all. Tonight in the orchard, at midnight,” he murmurs into my neck.

  I nod, close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, feeling every bit of sensuality he unleashes in me.

  “Say yes, Ava,” he says, slipping his hand b
etween my legs and rubbing softly through the material.

  “Yes. God! Yes.”

  Opening my eyes, I reach for him as he moves away from me.

  With his back to me and one hand on the door handle he stands still, without speaking, or looking back. And the he’s gone. I wonder if I dreamt it. I wonder if I’m so desperate for human connection that I manufactured the whole damn thing. My body is on fire and awake and alive, and everything it’s never been before. Touching one hand to my throat I hold it there, remembering, panting. I move the other hand down between my legs and apply pressure to my clit, rubbing in circles imagining Ridge’s coarse hands. It only takes seconds before I imagine Ridge plunging his fingers inside me and let out a cry, cuming quickly with his name on my lips. Ridge.

  RIDGE

  Walking back to the cottage, I wipe the sweat from my brow, the heat of the sun mingling with the heat from my body. The raging hard-on attempting to break free is crippling me. Seeing the way she looked at me, the image of her darting her pink tongue out to wet her lips, has my balls tight and aching. At this moment, I need a release more than I need to live. Resting my back against the door, I relish the coolness of the small living room.

  “You need to leave.”

  I turn and wipe my hand across my mouth. Edmund Hartman leans against the small fireplace, and examines his fingernails before flicking his eyes around the small cottage.

  “Is that so?” I say, smirking in his direction. Ignoring him, I saunter over to the fridge, pull out a beer and twist the top off throwing it passed his head into the hearth. Lifting the bottle to my mouth, I savour the cool iciness of it guzzling it down without taking a breath.