by Claire, Ava
He said it so offhandedly casual, like he was talking about weather that I couldn't help but chuckle. Uncomfortably.
"Yes. I mean, I do. I mean, I was..." I let my voice trail off and dropped my eyes to the plush carpet beneath my feet. So soft and pliant—a stark contrast to his coldly confidant request. His 'contract'.
"Good," he said, not addressing my obvious discomfort. "That means your period of adjustment should be brief."
I kicked at the carpet with my toe. I think he overestimated my ability to go with the flow. Fifteen minutes ago I was learning I should be seen and not heard and ready to be run like a gopher, and now the CEO of the hottest PR firm in the country wanted to bring me on as his personal assistant and private...submissive. My head spun and when I saw the salary with all the zeroes tacked on the end, I nearly fainted. It was enough to easily pay off my student loans. In like, 3 months. I'd been budgeting for an apartment but with that kind of income, I would be able to buy a house.
"I-Is this number correct?" I glanced back up at him. "It must be some sort of typo."
"The salary is correct." His voice darkened. "And don't worry, you'll earn every cent."
Gulp. "I, uh, as far as the interview?"
The smile at his lips didn't touch his eyes. "It's more of a...working interview. If you are prepared, we can begin now."
Now? I thought, panic making me grip the arm of the chair. He wanted me to submit here, with the secretary right outside?
He looked at me intently. "You are under no obligation to me yet, Miss Montgomery. If you are uninterested in the position, you can sever your employment with Whitmore and Creighton."
I thought back to the frenetic, perfectly normal and unexcited job I'd started off with this morning. "I couldn't go back to R and D?"
He clucked his tongue and slowly shook his head. "We both know it was an extensive waste of your talent."
My nostrils flared at that. So I didn't have a choice. I had to do anything he wanted me to or it was back to want ads and disappointment. I was getting a bout of dejavu and his self-contentment made me slump. It was almost like he was challenging me, wanting me to prove that I could handle the unconventional bargain. His will for a hefty paycheck. I had a feeling I wasn't the first girl propositioned by the handsome billionaire and made an offer that was impossible to refuse.
"You know this isn't fair, right?" I said, my voice hot with anger. "That you're giving me no choice?"
His eyes hardened to ice. "Of course you have a choice. You can submit to me and be paid handsomely for it, or you can walk back through that door without consequences."
I kept my eyes on him, trying to hold tight to my anger but I felt it slipping between my fingers as I mulled it over. Would it really be so terrible? This was my dream job. And how many times had I flipped through glossy pages, green with envy at shots of Jacob shirtless with some woman in St. Barts, or decked out at a movie premiere? And if being his submissive meant more encounters like the stairwell...
"O-Okay," I whispered, nerves making the word quiver.
"Look at me," he commanded. His baritone voice roped me in and his steely gaze held me tight. "I want you to say it again—and be sure."
I obeyed, even though a little part of me was screaming that this was crazy. But there was another part, a piece of me that was inexplicably drawn to him; that wanted more of him, all of him—and was begging me to say the word.
"I am sure. Yes." I'm not sure what magic helped me scrawl my name on the dotted line, but my signature shone up at me. When he took the device from me, his finger brushed mine and I shivered.
His face didn't betray a thing, but he did clear his throat and break contact before turning away. "Very well." He walked over to a minibar and opened the cabinet. He slowly poured a brown liquid into a glass and brought it to his lips. He wheeled back to face me and his eyes darted over me. Up and down, devouring every inch. Teasing me.
He took another sip then placed it back on the table. "Take off your clothes."
****
I gaped at him.
"Now?" I said, visibly surprised by his request. “Here?"
"I don't like to repeat myself," he said sternly, glaring at me.
For the briefest moment, I heard my mother's voice telling me to always wear my 'good' underwear. Always be prepared. But I only had a few pieces of clothing that would qualify and naturally, today wasn't the day I picked to wear any of them. Maybe if I knew my boss was gonna make me strip...
I squared my shoulders and stood up tall, making sure I didn't lock my knees. Collapsing would be the cherry on top of a truly bizarre day.
My fingers worked down the front of my blouse, sliding over button by button until it hung open in the front. I hesitated then shrugged it off my shoulders. The cool of the office and his steely glare sent goose bumps over my flesh. I didn't have it in me to unclasp my bra so I moved to my skirt, unhooking the top then slowly sliding the zipper down, peeling off the layer of black polyester until it joined my shirt at my ankles. My hands dropped to my crotch, my cheeks a flame at the comic strip boy shorts I'd settled on earlier this morning.
When I glanced up I saw bemusement in his crystal eyes, but his lips were a firm line. "Continue."
I squeezed my eyelids shut and gave him a crisp nod before I roped my arm around and unhooked my bra. My breasts bounced free and I quickly shimmied out of my underwear and tried futilely to slouch and cover my nakedness from him.
"Hands down." It was more of a moot point since he'd bridged the distance between us and physically brought my hands to my sides. I found myself simultaneously thrilled and terrified at what he had in store. Did he have a drawerful of odds and ends that he could taunt and tease and push my limits with? Or maybe he'd tie me up with that bolt of fabric at his neck and breathe in my helplessness before he took me?
It was true that I was familiar with BDSM. I dated a guy who thought he was dominant but the extent of our kinky play was rough sex and calling him sir. Everything else I knew came from romance novels and that made me nervous. Excited, but nervous as hell. And he read me just like a book.
"You’re uncomfortable."
It was a statement—and the gospel truth. I didn't trust my voice, so I just gave him a slow nod.
"Are you self-conscious...or afraid of me?"
Even though there was a clear power disparity with him squarely in the lead and me on my knees, there was something raw and vulnerable in his voice. It was ripe with worry that it was fear of him that made me tremble.
I looked up into his devastatingly handsome face, all the right angles focused on me and even though I'd only met him yesterday, I knew that he'd never hurt me.
I swallowed. "S-Self-conscious."
He cupped his chin for a moment, mulling over my response before he glanced past me, gesturing at an alcove in the corner of his office where a dark brown chaise stood comfortably against the wall. "Go have a seat. And relax."
I plodded over, trying to ignore his eyes on my backside. I found myself squeezing my butt muscles, making a solemn swear. Skim milk white mochas. With no whip.
As I sank onto the chaise, I couldn't help but relax against the pillow-like fabric. How did he get anything done in this office? I'd always be camped out on this thing.
"Swing your legs up." That half smile tugged at my heartstrings. "Get the full effect."
I swept my legs up and let out an audible moan with a giggle tacked onto the end. This whole thing was crazy. Unreal. And this chair was magic. All the rough edges were smoothed and massaged away. Was this a taste of the luxury that was in store?
He appeared at the foot of it, all amusement gone from his face. "Raise up your knees and spread your legs. Wide enough so I can see you." His eyes darkened with lust. "All of you."
The quiet part of me that felt unworthy, unattractive, and flat out unsexy made me slowly draw my legs up, giving him every opportunity to change his mind. But there was no pause behind his stance and when
my eyes darted down I saw the tented front of his pants. He was hard. Hard for me.
"And touch yourself," he said and even though he didn't move a muscle, I could see the struggle at his crotch.
I still blanched at his request and immediately gawked at my silliness. I mean, I could let him finger me before we had a coffee or anything, but me doing something perfectly natural was out of the question?
"Is there a problem?" he asked curtly.
I let out an awkward laugh and gripped onto my trembling knees. It didn't help much—now my whole body was shaking. When I glanced up at him, I shot my eyes back down. It was crazy, but I didn't want to disappoint him.
He placed his hand over mine and his warm touch sent a jolt through my system. I flexed my fingers, my heart leaping in my chest as he intertwined his fingers with mine.
"I want you," he said firmly and I didn't have to find validation. I felt it. "But if you're not ready to submit to me now, I'm a patient man." He pulled his hand away and strode to his desk. I watched him punch a button on his phone. "Natasha, please call the boutique on 6th and let them know I'm sending Miss Montgomery over before the flight to Venice."
I leapt to my feet. "Uh, what? Boutique? Venice?"
"Yes," he replied, lowering himself into his seat. "Press junket for one of our trouble clients. I'm sure you're familiar with her? Child star? Crashed and burned as soon as she hit 18 but is somehow still America’s sweetheart? This is her first serious role since she was released from rehab and you're accompanying me to the film festival to keep her on the straight and narrow and ensure all press is good press."
Five seconds ago he was asking me to finger myself and now I was flying to Europe? "I can't just go to Europe!"
He didn't even look up. "You have a passport, yes?"
"Well yeah, but I-"
"All expenses will be paid, of course. When you're not essential, you'll be free to see the sights or whatever your heart desires."
I stood up, my mouth hanging open, not sure if I should pinch myself. I turned to gather my clothes. If I was dreaming, I didn't want to wake up.
"Leave the clothes."
I shot him a look. "I'm certainly not gonna traipse around in-"
"Look beneath the chaise."
I frowned and bent at the knee, pulling out a long white box tucked underneath. I shook it like a kid at Christmas before easing the top off. Tucked inside a sheer sheet of tissue paper was a sleek black trench coat with the tag still on it. "I can't keep this! It costs more than a month's rent!"
"As my assistant, you're an extension of me," he said sternly. "It means you must look the part, Leila."
I fingered the expensive fabric for a moment before slowly pulling it on. The inside felt like cashmere on my skin and I couldn't stop the smile that crept across my face.
The phone on his desk beeped and the sultry voice of his secretary floated around the room. "Mr. Whitmore, your car has arrived."
"Thank you." He slid back from his desk and walked toward me. His hand found mine and when his lips pressed against my knuckles, I closed my eyes, committing the tender moment to memory. As I followed him out of his office and toward the executive elevator, I couldn't quiet the voice that told me that saying yes to Jacob Whitmore meant my life would never be the same again.
Part Two
The Billionaire’s Touch
“You deserve this,” I told myself as I pulled the slinky number over my sweaty skin. I didn’t sound too convincing, so I said it again. “You deserve this.”
I smoothed the front of the last dress, the chiffon tight in the bodice and the hips until it flared out at the skirt. The color reminded me of red wine and when I spun in a circle, it swished around my knees.
Each dress I’d stepped into over the last hour was more beautiful than the last and every one fit me like sin. But the excitement of wearing dresses I’d only seen in magazines paled in comparison to how I felt when I displayed them for Jacob’s approval. His deep blue eyes drank me up inch by inch and in his gaze, I saw myself. I felt beautiful. Desired.
We’d shut down Le Magnifique on Fifth street because Jacob couldn't shop among mere mortals and before we headed to Venice for the film festival, I had to have a new wardrobe.
I'd stolen glances at the price tags so I knew the tally, but I still couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe there were people out there that could spend hundreds of dollars on a bolt of fabric and I definitely couldn't believe that I had an allowance for such things now.
All because I’d tripped in those stupid heels.
I brought my chocolate curls off my neck, biting my lip as I remembered the fear bubbling in my gut as he marched me down the stairwell after our run in. Who knew that the billionaire playboy was not only tenacious when it came to business but also when it came to needs of the flesh?
I rocked slowly from side to side as classical music hummed from the overhead speakers, letting the memory of his hands do its work. This dress wasn’t made for board meetings, after all. It was made to set fire to the dance floor. Jacob would own the moves as we spun and every twirl, dip, and heated gaze would tell me all the ways he would make love to me when we were alone.
Jesus. ‘Make love’?
I dropped my hair and gave the wide eyed girl staring back at me a stern look. I had to stop thinking like that. It was clear that ‘love’ had nothing to do with our arrangement. I agreed to be his submissive. To submit to him sexually. And hell, two hours ago I could barely do that.
I heard his deep voice filtering through the door and the area between my thighs immediately came alive. Instead of focusing on the fact that I was being given a prime opportunity to take the fast track as far as my career was concerned, I couldn’t think about anything except the things I wanted him to do to my body whenever he was near.
I kept kicking myself for dragging my feet in his office earlier when I saw that look in his eyes. That look said he wanted to fuck me until I couldn’t even walk straight. To possess me.
Now I was just biding my time until I got another chance to say yes.
Snap out of it, I admonished myself. He’s just a guy. A rich, incredibly attractive guy with a sexual appetite that intrigues you, but in the end, he’s just a guy. But there was no explaining away the number he’d done on me. He had me off kilter. Off balance. And it was unacceptable—I had a feeling that I had to be on my A game with Jacob Whitmore.
“Miss Montgomery?” The haughty voice of the attendant assisting me, Skye, brought me from the ramblings in my head back to the mirror.
“Yes?” I said, not even bothering to hide my wariness.
“Do you need any help? Zipping something up, clipping something together if it’s the wrong size?”
I rolled my eyes at the last bit before I did a twirl. The dress was more beautiful in motion and I wasn’t going to let her ruin this moment for me. After showing several other dresses and dealing with her condescending smirk, I wouldn’t let her ruin this dress too.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Naturally, she took it as a ‘come on in’ and burst into the dressing room.
"Just making sure everything fits—” The word hung in the air as the door clicked shut behind her and her heavily mascaraed eyes popped from her head. “—perfectly."
Skye had been making backhanded comments about my figure all day, going on and on about how I filled out every inch. She was the kind of woman that looked at anyone who wasn’t a size 0 like they had a predisposition toward laziness.
She'd also been making googly eyes at Jacob since we’d walked through the door. It made me angrier than I liked to admit, but I took a measure of comfort in the fact that he seemed completely uninterested. Instead of taking the hint, she just bat her eyelashes even harder. It was obvious she wasn’t convinced of the spell he was under. That he would go for someone like me.
Well, I thought deliciously as I stood a little taller, until now.
She cleared her throat and did a
slow circuit around me. She was probably searching for some love handle or thread pulled too tight. "The dress is positively lovely on you, Miss Montgomery!"
I smiled at the compliment that wasn’t really one, choosing to ignore the utter shock she'd bundled it in. "It's definitely my favorite."
"And rightfully so," she said with a nod. She stepped up behind me, her eyes burning into mine. "How long did you say you've been working for Mr. Whitmore?"
"I didn't," I replied cryptically.
“Oh.” She glanced away, nothing cryptic in the way her face scrunched in concern. “I see.”
I turned to face her, getting the feeling that she had something on her chest. "Not that it’s really any of your business, but I was promoted a few hours ago."
"And you're already getting the VIP treatment?" The smile on her lips didn't get near her olive eyes. "You must really be...something."
It was obvious that she meant another word that started with an 's'. Before I could open my mouth to respond, she dropped her volume to a low, confidential level. "If you want a piece of advice, enjoy the perks while they last."
My nostrils flared as I crossed my arms against my chest, suddenly feeling bare and exposed in spite of my pricey frock. "I don't remember asking for anything from you."
She held her hands up, feigning innocence. "I'm just trying to help, sweetie. I thought you'd want to know that Mr. Whitmore's assistants don't have a very long shelf life and to stuff your swag bag while you can."
I generally have a 'make love, not war' view as far as violence goes. I've only been in one fight my whole life and it lasted all of ten seconds when I bitch slapped Mindy Kennedy for ripping the head off my Barbie in the second grade. But this woman had me imagining all the ways I could wipe the smug satisfaction right off her face.
"Get. Out." The words came from behind clenched teeth, which I thought should have been a dead giveaway that she was approaching the danger zone. Infuriatingly enough, she just stood there, like she didn’t understand English.
"Is there a problem, Miss Montgomery?"
