by Tasha Fawkes
“You son of a bitch, you can’t do this to me! You can’t do this to my family—”
“Watch me,” I say. I turn my back on her and leave her apartment, slamming the door shut behind me. I hear something crash against the door—shattering glass, and imagine she’s probably thrown the bowl of soup at it. Crazy bitch.
I quickly head downstairs to my car, pulling my phone from my pocket. I press speed dial as I step from the building into the parking garage.
“Hi, Daniel, how are you doing?”
“Mom, I’ve had it with her. We’re done.”
“Daniel?”
“She faked her suicide attempt, Mom. She faked it!” My mother says nothing, and I can just imagine the look on her face. “I’ve always tried to do what you wanted me to do, and until recently, I’ve been accepting of your wishes. I’ve compromised on things I never should have compromised on. I wanted to make you happy by marrying Karen, but I can’t do it.”
Nothing comes over the phone and for a second I wonder if the call dropped. Then I hear her voice, soft with dismay.
“Are you sure, Daniel? She faked her suicide attempt?”
“I’m sure, Mom. I just wanted to let you know in case she tries to call and give you another sob story. I have a feeling she might call you.”
“I don’t understand…”
“I’m trying to understand it all as well. Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on my way. We’ll talk.”
I disconnect the call and continue toward my car. One thing is certain. I’m not marrying Karen. I don’t care what kind of histrionics she produces. I’ve found someone that I want to be with, and I just hope it isn’t too late to fix the mess I’ve made out of things.
Chapter Twenty-four
Ashley
I glance up at the clock on the wall. Four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Just like old times, sitting in my apartment in frumpy sweats and a T-shirt, working on my laptop. Well, trying to anyway.
It’s been a week since Daniel rushed out of my apartment to go rescue Karen. I shouldn’t feel so resentful, but I can’t help it. What did she have that I didn’t? Money? Good looks? A fancy lineage? Big deal. It’s funny though; I’m angrier at Karen, a woman I’ve never met, let alone seen, than I am with Daniel.
He can’t help it if his fiancée, ex-fiancée, was weak-minded, or so desperate to hang onto him that she resorted to a suicide attempt to keep him by her side. Sad, really. I know Daniel was trying to do the right thing even though I didn’t want to feel that way. His traditional values and loyalty seem at odds with his underground life. The Master, the Dom, and his playroom, as opposed to the professional and solid business owner, fiancée, and future husband.
I stare at my computer screen, dissatisfied and frustrated. I quit trying to revise my first manuscript, the one based on Daniel and me as its main characters. Looking back, I realize now how obvious I was in describing not only appearance, but character and personality. Now I’m working on a second novel; nothing that hints at my life or his. Nothing about the characters based on me, Daniel, or anyone else I knew. The problem is that they seem flat and two-dimensional. I know I can write. I just need some inspiration. Unfortunately, my inspiration flew out the window at about the same pace that Daniel left my apartment last week.
It’s a book about a couple venturing into the world of bondage, so it’s the same niche, and this time I can write from actual experience. The location of my new story is far from my own, set in a nondescript, one-bedroom community in suburban Los Angeles. The female character of my new book doesn’t work in a publishing house, but rather as a realtor in swanky Beverly Hills. My main male character is nothing like Daniel, but one that I’ve developed as a rather introverted mechanic. You don’t have to be rich to delve into bondage, and I want to stay away from any similarities in my character or the slowly developing plot line from my first book.
During the past week, I’ve had to force myself to go to work and act as if nothing is wrong. Act like the past few months of my life haven’t been an out-of-control roller coaster ride—first admiring and crushing on Daniel from afar, then indulging in a torrid underground affair with him. Tory told me that word floating around the pub house was that Daniel was called away for some kind of family emergency. I pretended disinterest, other than the initial oh I’m sorry to hear about that offer of sympathy. Inside, my curiosity was killing me. What happened with Karen?
Things returned to normal, at least at work. After the third day, I found myself glancing down the hallway toward Daniel’s office less frequently. By the fifth night, I could lay in bed and try to go to sleep without imagining a bondage scene with Daniel standing behind me, his cock pressed up against my ass, my pussy wet with desire and anticipation.
By yesterday, I was beginning to grow disgruntled with myself. Let him go! He doesn’t want you! So, here I am, forcing myself to concentrate on new beginnings; a new story, a new attitude, and… well, if not exactly a new life, then a new outlook.
I admit that I miss Daniel, but focusing on creating a new manuscript is keeping me occupied and in a way, does make me feel better. This time, when describing bondage scenes, I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m writing what I know, one of the foundations of authorship.
I do wish that someday, I’ll be able to finish my first book, but I’m not so sure how to do it without thinking of Daniel. That character is Daniel. Putting it away for a time seems like a good idea, even though I hate to do it. At the same time, I know that if I don’t, I’ll end up wallowing, and I don’t want to do that either.
Daniel taught me plenty, and I appreciate that. I told myself that when he returns to work, more than likely a married man, I’ll treat him with the same courtesy and respect with which I’ve always treated him. I won’t hold a grudge, fuss or internally whine. After all, we had an agreement. It isn’t his fault that I ended up falling for him, wishing…
A knock on my door startles me. I jolt upright in my chair, staring at the door. I hear nothing from the other side. I rise from my chair and walk toward the door, thinking how wonderful it would be if this was a moment of déjà vu and I would open it to find Daniel standing on the other side. I’m not really surprised when I open the door and find a UPS delivery man wearing his brown uniform, a package in one hand, his digital boxlike gadget in the other.
He shoves the contraption toward me. “Sign here, please.”
I almost laugh at my foolish wishful thinking as I grab the stylus hanging from the device, scribble my name on the screen, then hand it back to him while he hands me a large, white plastic envelope. He turns and walks down the hallway as I step back into my apartment. I close and lock the door before turning the envelope in my hand. It has the typical mailing stickers on it, but in the shadowed light of my small foyer, I can’t see the return address.
I take it into the living room and sit down on the couch, pulling the plastic mailer open. I peek inside and see a stack of paper about an inch thick. A manuscript? I reach inside and pull it out, realizing that it’s a printed copy of my manuscript. I frown, thumbing through it. I know that Daniel had to be the sender, and a surge of emotion sweeps upward. Unexpected and powerful. Is this his way of saying goodbye? Sending me my manuscript as if to say he wants nothing more to do with me? Oh, how I wish everything worked out. Maybe—
Wait a minute. As I thumb through the pages, I remember that I ended my draft on Chapter Twenty. As I flip toward the end of the manuscript, I see a Chapter Twenty-One, and another after that. My manuscript ended on the Saturday evening before Christmas. The last chapter heading here is the second week in January. I frown and lean back. Today is January fifteenth. Curious, I begin to read the last two chapters. My eyes widen as I realize that Daniel must have written the additional chapters, adding several scenes to my story that tell how the hero met someone; someone who understood him, didn’t expect anything from him, and wanted only to please him, not
only in the bedroom, or his playroom basement, but as a partner.
I choke back a lump in my throat when I read the last few pages. The hero broke up with his fiancée after she faked a suicide attempt in a desperate ploy to keep him despite knowing that he was interested in, and falling in love with, someone else. My heartbeat begins to accelerate as I read further. The hero called off his engagement a second time, swearing to the fiancée that he was going to try to win the heroine back.
I turn the page, anxious to see how Daniel ended the story, but to my intense frustration, it’s blank.
“What the hell!”
Another knock on the door startles me. Did the delivery man forget something? Placing the manuscript on the coffee table, I stand and hurry to the door. When I open it, my heart leaps into my throat. Daniel. I blink, so surprised I can’t say anything for several moments. He stands there, looking at me, not saying a word.
“You wrote those two chapters, didn’t you?” I barely get the words out. I want to leap into his arms on the one hand and guard myself and my heart on the other.
“Yes, I did.” He nods.
I can’t help it. Once again, my heart burgeons with hope. “Is it true? What you wrote?”
He nods again. “Very much so.”
I step back, allowing him entry. He brushes past me, and I inhale a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. I shut the door and turn to find him standing close, so close that I feel his heat, intoxicated by his nearness.
“Why isn’t there an ending?” I ask. He smiles at me; a tender, smile that literally has my nipples tingling.
“Because the ending will be up to you.”
Is this for real? I resist the urge to pinch myself, all the while staring up into his grass-green eyes, gazing somberly, yet with affection down at me. Life is filled with ups and downs, risks and challenges, and I know that the only way to find out for sure is to take that step.
“I’ve always been a sucker for a happily ever after ending,” I say.
“And how would the ending go?”
I step closer, place my hands against his chest, then trail them downward. Brazenly, I sweep one hand down further along his hip, then along the inside of his thigh to cup his manhood. “I’d end it with a bang.” I grin.
He laughs and wraps his arms around me, hugging me close. I revel in his embrace. I have no idea where things will go from here, but I’m willing to take a chance.
“I have to admit that I’m relieved, and more than happy to hear that’s what you want,” he says.
I feel his hand lifting my chin and his lips lower toward mine. We kiss; not a desperate kiss, but a gentle, tender, and heartfelt caress that has my knees going weak. Finally, with my pulse throbbing in my neck and my breath hitching in my throat, he leans back.
“I still want to publish your book, Ashley, but we still have to figure some things out.”
“We can talk about all that later,” I say. “Right now, I just want my happy-ending.”
And a happy-ending I got.
I hope you enjoyed Craving My Boss. Turn the page to start reading The Playboys Secret Virgin.
Sneak Peek: The Playboy’s Secret Virgin
Chapter One
Jane
“Taxi!”
I tuck a long strand of chestnut brown hair behind my ear with one hand as I fight to flag down a cab with the other. Just my luck that there aren’t any Ubers available when I decided to splurge on a ride to my new job so I won’t arrive all flushed. I wave my arms to get the attention of one of the many passing cabs, but it’s no use. After only a few months in the city, I haven’t yet learned the art of making a cabbie notice me.
“I guess it’s the subway,” I mutter to myself and try not to curse. There’s still plenty of time. I’ll even get there early.
Nothing can get me down today. Sure, it’s Monday, and the faces of the people I pass on the way to the station reflect their total lack of excitement over starting another week. But I’m not starting just another week. I feel like announcing to everybody that this is my first day of work at a job that isn’t retail. Maybe they’ll wish me luck. Then I catch the eye of a lady with a stroller, and she shoots me a dirty look before hurrying off. Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t bother.
My first day working at one of the fastest growing ad agencies in Manhattan. I still can’t believe my luck. I only went to the job fair because I had nothing to lose. I was hardly making anything in my first job out of college, and to say I was bored working as a mail room clerk would be a drastic understatement. I figured since I had good grades in school and a decent resumé—an advertising major, strong references, knowledge of graphic arts, expertise with design programs like Photoshop—that I had a pretty good shot, and I was right. The HR representative from James Enterprises called three days later to offer me the position as assistant to Anthony James, the son of the founder.
Anthony James. I’m sure panties dissolve at the mention of his name all the time. I’ve heard a thing or two about him, but nothing concrete. He’s sort of a bad boy, but aren’t most rich kids who never have to work for a thing in their lives? They grow up too fast and get into trouble. I guess that’s his story, but I don’t exactly pay attention to the social pages. I have better things to do than follow a rich boy’s antics.
Still, I can’t walk into the job with any preconceived notions of who he is. I have a bad habit of doing that, letting my imagination spin out of control, and generally in the worst way possible. One of my foster moms used to tell me I’d have an ulcer before I turn twenty-five. Four more years to go before that happens but have my fingers crossed that she’ll be wrong.
I’m not letting myself down that road with my new boss. I’ll give him a chance so long as he’s signing my checks. I’ve never had a job that pays as much as this one—my last job barely paid enough for me to afford my shoebox of an apartment. Then again, that’s the way life goes in New York. Pay through the nose for a closet-sized apartment and just be grateful for the chance to live in one of the biggest, most incredible cities in the world.
I sigh as I step onto the subway car and immediately pitch forward when a big, burly guy in a Mets sweatshirt slams into me from behind. No apology, no anything. Go figure. I grab onto one of the metal poles and fix my gaze somewhere off in the distance, the way everybody does when they’re on the subway. Don’t look directly at anybody, just sort of gaze out at nothing. Eye contact might be misconstrued as an invitation to chat, and this isn’t like back home where most people already know everyone else and it’s rude to not want to have a three-hour conversation about the weather. Talk to the wrong person here and it can lead to trouble.
Big city life has many rules to remember, and I still have trouble keeping it all straight even after living here for almost eight months. Manhattan is not far away from where I grew up in rural northeastern Pennsylvania. Less than two hours by car, but it might as well be the other side of the planet. Maybe on another planet entirely.
The frantic energy, the honking horns, the constant activity like bees in a hive. The people, everywhere, packing the streets and sidewalks. And the way they somehow manage to ignore everybody else around them! The first time I saw a group of people crossing the street on a red light without even looking to see if cars were coming, I screamed. The craziest part? Nobody looked around to see what I was screaming about.
I’m okay with the noise, at least. That’s one thing I had to get used to at an early age, living with up to four or five other foster kids at a time. I’m already a pro at ignoring noise filtering through thin walls, so living in a crowded apartment building and hearing everybody else’s business is no big deal.
Neither is living in a small space. I never had a bedroom of my own until I moved out of the college dorm—my entire life, I’ve had to share. Living in a shoebox is actually a step up. So what if the bathroom is really just a tiny walled-off section of the apartment, which is really just a single room with a sink and small stove? I learne
d early on that “studio apartment” means “we took a single room and now pretend a person can live there comfortably.” I’ve also learned how much food I can fit in a very tiny fridge.
I catch sight of my reflection in one of the grimy train windows. The waves I took so long to curl this morning are still looking good, spilling over my shoulders and onto my chest. I’m wearing a long black Chanel coat I could never have afforded anywhere other than at the consignment shop where I found it. The gray suit and light pink blouse are new—I don’t know how the office runs, what the dress code is, but there’s no way to go wrong in a suit. I can always dress down if I need to. Besides, the pink brings out color in my cheeks and makes my gray eyes sparkle. I figure I can use all the help I can get to make Anthony like me.
Speaking of people liking me, Mr. Mets Sweatshirt is nudging me a little more than he needs to be. We’re not even shaking back and forth, yet he keeps making contact. I let it go for a stop or two, but when he flat-out rubs up against me, I turn to him.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask in a clear, loud voice, looking him straight in the eye.
He shrinks back, cheeks staining red. “No.”
“It’s just that you seem to be having trouble keeping your balance.”
“No, I’m good.” He looks down at the floor. I roll my eyes and go back to staring out the window. That’s the thing about most creeps. Once you stare them down, they back off.
I suppose growing up where I did have its advantages when it comes to dealing with creeps.
The train lurches to a stop at my station, and I manage to elbow my way out the door and hurry up to the sidewalk. After a quick look around to orient myself, I head over to the nearest Starbucks. A little kissing up never hurt anybody, I tell myself as I wait in line. What does he like, this Anthony James? I try to picture him in my head, based on the few pictures I remember seeing. Tall, with a strong-featured face. Square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, dark hair wore swept back from his forehead. I saw him once in a picture from a cycling race, and he had a body to kill for. Broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. He’d be at home on a billboard advertising underwear. I’d look at that billboard. I’d stare at it all day.
