Writing Mr. Right

by T. K. Leigh

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Books By T.K. Leigh

  About The Author

  Writing Mr. Right

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Published by Carpe Per Diem, Inc. / Tracy Kellam, 25852 McBean Parkway # 806, Santa Clarita, CA 91355

  Edited by: Kim Young, Kim’s Editing Services

  Quotes from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Copyright © 1813.

  Quotes from Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton Copyright © 1911.

  Cover Design: Cat Head Biscuit, Inc., Santa Clarita, CA

  Front Cover Image Copyright Roxana Bashyrova 2017

  Back Cover Image Copyright Fedorov Ivan Sergeevich 2017

  Used under license from Shutterstock.com

  Copyright © 2017 T. K. Leigh / Tracy Kellam

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-9986596-5-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9986596-5-7

  To Stan and Harper Leigh…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seducing My Boss

  “HURRY UP. HURRY UP. Hurry up.” I rocked on my heels in the packed elevator as I watched the numbers ascend at a languid pace. Carefully balancing two coffees, one on top of the other, I checked the time on my cell phone. 9:02 Monday morning. I would love to have a job where it wasn’t a big deal if I ran a few minutes behind, particularly on a Monday.

  Particularly after having to stop at Starbucks every day to get my boss his expected triple venti soy no foam latte, the lamest drink known to man.

  Particularly after having to leave my apartment an hour earlier than normal, without pay, to stand in line at the Starbucks closest to the literary agency in Rockefeller Center where I worked to get said lame excuse for a coffee.

  Particularly because I had to start ordering the same coffee for myself in case I dropped it, as happened one time. The fallout was something I’d like to avoid in the future.

  I preferred a basic Americano with milk from an actual cow, not this fake bullshit. I knew all about my boss’ allergies. He didn’t have any sort of intolerance to dairy. He was just an asshole, and his choice in drink proved it.

  Finally, the ding of the elevator snapped me out of my vengeful thoughts and I barreled through the doors into a large, modern reception area.

  “9:03,” the receptionist sang after me, her voice almost smug.

  “I know. I know.” I dashed past the desk with Bartlett, Derringer, and Price in big bold letters on the wall behind it, not letting anyone who exited that elevator forget where they were. I wondered if the partners were trying to overcompensate for something.

  “And he’s in a mood,” she added in warning.

  “And that’s different how?” I mumbled, my voice almost inaudible.

  Running past cubicle after cubicle, I prayed today wouldn’t be the day I slipped on the slick marble tile and fell ass over tea kettle. Since I’d started here more than six months ago, I had that vision in my head daily.

  When my desk came into view, I breathed a sigh of relief. My gaze shot past it to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows separating the big bad wolf from the rest of us sheep. I observed him on the phone, pacing his office, a fierce expression on his face. At least he was preoccupied. Perhaps he wouldn’t even notice I was four minutes late.

  As I set my heavy messenger bag on the ground with a thump, my shoulder screaming with reprieve from the welcome lack of weight, I realized my wish wouldn’t come true.

  “Avery!” his powerful voice bellowed. “Get in here!”

  “Shit.” Subtly rolling my eyes, I opened my desk drawer to retrieve a small notepad, shoving it into the pocket of my suit jacket. Running my hands over my cream-colored sheath top and gray pencil skirt to straighten the lines, I grabbed his sorry excuse for a morning beverage. I paused just outside his office door, took a deep breath, then entered the devil’s lair.

  “You’re late,” he barked at me the instant my foot crossed the threshold.

  “I apologize, Mr. Price.” I met his hardened gaze. All my other friends could saunter into work five, ten, maybe even twenty minutes late. When they did arrive, it wasn’t expected they get straight to work. They were able to ease into the day, talk about their weekends, which bars they went to, what movies they saw. But not me.

  I’d considered quitting at least once a week, but reminded myself that I had a rare opportunity to get my foot in the door of an industry that typically shut people out. This was my chance to have a say in who could be the next Stephen King, Nora Roberts, or J.K. Rowling. I just needed to put in my time and learn the industry. Then I could start my own firm and, hopefully, family.

  “What’s the excuse this time, Miss Rollins?” He ripped the coffee out of my hand.

  “No excuse, sir. I should have planned better and left my apartment earlier,” I responded, all too familiar with what he liked to hear. It would have been useless to tell him the real reason — that the barista at Starbucks messed up my order twice. He would simply say I should have prepared for that to happen.

  “And where is it you live exactly?” He came around from behind his desk and sat on the corner, his expression and voice softening. I glanced behind me, wondering if we weren’t alone.

  With his booming voice, broad shoulders, tall height, and impeccable good looks, Mr. Jackson Price had a commanding and intimidating presence. In the half-year since I began working as his assistant, a position that had been like a revolving door before I came around, he’d never exhibited anything but his egomaniacal side. Not only did he get off on being in charge, I had a sneaking suspicion he took pleasure in everyone else knowing that fact, as well.

  “Miss Rollins?” He raised his eyebrows at me when I didn’t immediately answer, caught slightly off guard by his change in demeanor.

  “Umm… Queens, sir.”

  “Do you have a roommate?” He sauntered away from his desk, roaming his office. He shut the door, closing the blinds. I remained firmly planted in place,
his interest in me unsettling, to say the least.

  “I wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment in Queens on this salary without one,” I quipped, then cringed, bracing for his response. Despite months of practice, I still had trouble controlling my innate sarcastic nature around him at times.

  His presence loomed behind me, towering over my five-foot, three-inch frame. A shiver rolled down my spine, my skin prickling with goosebumps. His coffee-laden breath heated my neck, my entire being on high alert. My reaction to him took me by surprise, confusing me. It certainly wasn’t the first time we had been alone together. But today, my body buzzed with anticipation and hunger.

  Perhaps it was because I’d spent my weekend reading a trashy insta-love romance where the main characters probably spent more time naked than they did clothed. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t had an orgasm at the hand of another person in what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it was because I missed the touch of a man, my boyfriend of nearly four years having recently broken up with me because I was always working. Regardless of the reason, I found myself inexplicably turned on by this complete asshole.

  I continued staring at Mr. Price’s immaculate desk. Fantasies of his rippling body bending me over it as he had his way with me seeped into my subconscious. I imagined he would be as demanding and assertive as he was in his professional life. He would take what he wanted and teach me things I never thought possible.

  “Pity.” His deep, sensual voice broke through my perverse thoughts. I tried to shove them deep down and forget they ever crossed my mind. This man was my boss.

  His hand swept aside my blonde hair, exposing the back of my neck. I swallowed hard, a delicious tremor overtaking me as his breath drew closer and closer to my skin. When his heated lips landed with delicate ease on my flesh, fireworks erupted in my core. It was confusing, wrong, and desperately wanted all at the same time.

  My desire for him grew with each flick of his tongue on my milky skin. A voice in my head whispered this was a bad idea. I knew it was, but damn, it felt good, as if he had an Avery Rollins instruction manual and knew precisely what to do to drive me insane with lust.

  His strong hand skimmed the front of my blouse. The sensation of the silky material against my bare flesh heightened my awareness. He clutched my hips, forcing me against his hard stomach. His cock pushed against my back, the reality of the situation snapping me out of my erotic daydream.

  I spun around, meeting his blue eyes, my mouth agape. “Wha—”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about this,” he said coolly. He ran his fingers through my hair, tugging, forcing my head back. “I have been since the day I hired you. You had everything I was looking for in an assistant. Beautiful. Smart. Sarcastic. But most of all, subservient.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are, Avery. You may think you’re a strong woman, and I’d be inclined to agree, but you have a submissive side to you. A side I’m interested in exploring deeper.”

  Did he have a point? Did I have a submissive side? I didn’t know, but the image of this man tying me up, blindfolding me, leaving me completely at his mercy didn’t turn me cold. In fact, it excited me.

  He ran his tongue from my ear to my collarbone, leaving a trail of fire across my flesh. I whimpered, my eyes nearly rolling into the back of my head. The forbidden nature of what we were doing made my hunger for him grow with each nip of his teeth on my skin.

  His hands found their way back to my hips. With incredible ease, he picked me up and pinned me against the wall. Hiking up my skirt, he forced my legs around his waist. I closed my eyes, an unexpected moan leaving my throat when I felt what could only be his enormous erection pushing against me. A slave to my libido, I no longer cared that this man was my boss. That this was wrong on every level. That this could jeopardize everything I had worked hard for since my freshman year at NYU. All I knew was we were both wearing far too much clothing than necessary.

  Greedily, I clutched his face in my hands and forced his lips to mine, trying to prove I wasn’t the submissive little girl he thought me to be. A sexy rumble fell from his chest, the kiss growing deeper. His tongue swept against mine with alarming expertise. Hands were everywhere — pinching, pulling, tugging. His teeth nipped my lips, sending a jolt straight to my core.

  “Avery,” he groaned, pulling away, his breath dancing on my mouth. It smelled like a combination of peppermint, coffee…and raw sewage.

  Sewage?

  I snapped out of the trance I was in, staring at the laptop screen in front of me, a perplexed look on my face. An abhorrent stench wafted to my nostrils.

  “Oh, Pee Wee! What the hell did you eat?” I shot my gaze to the slightly overweight labrador retriever curled up beside me on my large sectional, his snores loud enough to rattle even the deepest sleeper. He ignored me, his large paws moving as if he were chasing something in his sleep. I covered my nose with my shirt long enough for the offending stench to dissipate, then returned my eyes to my laptop, trying to get back into the groove.

  I stared at the words I’d just written over the course of the past few hours, trying to figure out where to take the scene, but I no longer felt it. It was all the same. Girl meets boy. Girl has no interest in boy. Boy is sexy, perhaps a bit of a player. Girl lands on boy’s dick and miraculously falls in love with boy. Boy says he doesn’t do romance, but something about girl, perhaps her gold-plated vagina, makes him change his player ways. Then they live happily ever after and fuck like bunnies well into their eighties.

  I wasn’t ungrateful. I’d made a career using this formula, with a few variations to spice things up. My readers loved steam and angst, coupled with a hot alpha male, but this felt like every other book. I didn’t know how many new words I could come up with for penis…dick, cock, shaft, love stick, man meat, beef thermometer, anaconda, bologna pony, meat popsicle, Mr. Winky. I’d been known to be very creative, but there were only so many words in the English language to describe these yogurt slingers that were the cause of the most pleasurable orgasms my heroines had ever experienced.

  It was pure fantasy on every level. Based on my experience, the feat of multiple orgasms was nothing more than an urban legend, a tale men told women so they’d keep their legs spread a little longer. It was no more real than the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot, yet all the pocket rockets I described in my books were able to deliver not just one or two orgasms a night, but sometimes bordering on double digits. They were the Olympic gold medalists of pork swords. When did it become commonplace to orgasm that much? Who would want to have that much sex? I didn’t care if you possessed the tallywacker of tallywackers. No sane woman would want her legs spread that much, unless she was getting paid.

  Frustrated, I closed my laptop and glanced at the clock in my darkened living room to see it was just before six in the morning. Grabbing an oversized wool sweater draped on the back of the couch, I pulled it over my head. I smoothed my wavy blonde hair into a messy bun, then snagged a canister of M&M’s off the coffee table, heading toward a pair of French doors. Opening them, I emerged onto my balcony overlooking a narrow public alley in Boston’s North End, the famous Italian section of town where people from across the world came to sample some of the best cuisine there was.

  I climbed on top of a small wooden table and sat facing the window just a few yards away. The moon was still out, stars twinkling in the cloudless April sky. It was cold enough to see my breath in front of me.

  I loved this time of day when the city was mostly still asleep, apart from delivery trucks beginning their morning routes. The bars had closed, drunk college students had passed out somewhere, and I could just sit and enjoy the peacefulness surrounding me before our small slice of heaven was infiltrated with tourists who thought Olive Garden served authentic cuisine.

  Growing up in a large Italian family, I was taught two things at a very young age. One, always say your prayers before you go to sleep. That one pretty much went by the wayside when I was kick
ed out of Catholic school at the age of six. Two, never date a man who considered sauce from a jar authentic. I’d been able to follow that one pretty closely. I didn’t date. Period.

  Grabbing a candy-covered chocolate, I chucked it at the window across the alley, a smile building on my face as I continued my relentless badgering of the glass pane. Finally, a light clicked on from what I knew to be the bedside table. Seconds later, the shades were drawn and the window opened. A mass of dark hair stuck out.

  “Morning, Mols,” my brother said groggily, running his hand over his face, which he probably hadn’t shaved in three or four days. He was two years older and had always been ruggedly handsome. Most of my friends in high school were probably only my friends because they wanted an invite to my house so they could have unfettered access to my brother. Teenage girls should be institutionalized. “Thanks to you, I’ll never have to invest in an alarm clock.”

  “Whatever, Drew. Like those girls of yours wouldn’t wake you up soon anyway,” I shot back in the peaceful early spring air.

  “You’re probably right about that.” He rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance, but I knew nothing could be further from the truth. Alyssa and Charlotte were his life. Being a single father to two precocious girls, aged six and four, was challenging, to say the least, but the love my brother had for those kids was unlike any I’d ever seen. “Another all-nighter?”

  I sighed, reminded of the reason I wanted to talk to him. My brother was one of the few people who actually knew about my alter-ego, Vivienne Foxx, author of sinfully sexy romance. Everyone knew I was a writer, but they were under the impression all I wrote were situational humor pieces for a fashion magazine. While that was true, I could pull that shit out of my ass five minutes before it went to press.

  “Yeah.” I tugged my sweater closer as a breeze blew through the alley, knocking long-forgotten beer bottles and coffee cups around the street two stories below us. I never understood why people littered.

  “What is it this time? Bad boy billionaire? Tattooed biker? Tormented rock star?”