Executive Package

by Cleo Peitsche

  She loved her life.

  She pulled the sheet higher, sighing as she detected the mingled scents of her lovers’ aftershave, and carefully rolled onto her side. The wetness between her legs had been slowly dripping out since the men left her. She slipped a finger along her slit and shuddered. There wasn’t any rule against masturbating, but she knew it wouldn’t be as satisfying as when they were there. Still… she gathered slippery wetness and glided her fingertip around her clit. The come of all three men inside her. There was something darkly forbidding about it.

  Light from the street filtered in around the edges of the blinds in her bedroom window. Light pollution, Nolan had derisively labeled it after one especially restless night at her place.

  He hadn’t been impressed with her modest digs, but then he’d grown up in the lap of luxury, surrounded by quality and perfection. Nolan’s life was something that most people couldn’t imagine. People didn’t even fantasize about being that rich. It was simply inconceivable. And they were all wealthy, her dominant bosses. Obscenely wealthy. Even Jonathan, who she’d finally learned was the poor man of the three, was worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

  Considering the bubble Nolan had grown up in, it was a wonder he wasn’t more spoiled. Private schools, private jets, private islands. It was beyond fantasy. Even if he weren’t exceptionally attractive, he could have had any partner he wanted. That kind of money could turn even the most principled woman’s mind toward reflexive, animal greed.

  Frowning, Elle grabbed her phone from the bedside table and sent Nolan a text.

  What’s this about you dating supermodels?

  Her phone rang. She smiled, not surprised but thrilled nonetheless. Cunningham rarely bothered to answer his texts, and Jonathan would respond when he had time, but only Nolan would call her immediately. With the access that his money bought, people knew not to keep him waiting, and so he’d never learned—or couldn’t be bothered—to play hard to get.

  “Why are you calling me so late at night?” she asked, unable to keep the smile from her voice.

  “Checking that you’re on your back like a good little brood mare,” he said.

  Elle’s pussy quivered. “You know I am,” she whispered.

  “Are you getting cramped and stiff?”

  “It’s less fun by the minute,” she admitted, “but I’m being good.” And mostly, she was.

  “Yes, I’m sure you are. You would never disobey one of Cunningham’s orders, no matter how ridiculous.” Something like pique tinged his words. “Actually, I thought you’d want to hear the details of all the women I’ve slept with.” He was kidding, most clearly kidding, but jealousy dug its pointed claws into Elle’s stomach.

  “Manipulative bastard,” she said.

  “Oh… it sounds like they’ve already told you about me.” He was silent, and Elle could hear the sound of his even breathing. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Tired. Anxious.”

  “Why?”

  She shifted her head farther back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “I want us to live together, but I don’t want things to change.”

  “You realize that makes no sense.”

  He had a point. She took a breath and tried again. “The way we are together. I’m happy, and if we mess around with things… maybe it won’t work anymore. We’ll get familiar. Settle into routines. Get bored.” She nibbled at her lip and accidentally nipped away sensitive skin. “I’m only one woman. You’ll all get bored.” Her mouth stung, and the faint taste of blood forced her to reach for a tissue.

  “Elle,” Nolan soothed. “We don’t want things to change, either.”

  “Then why do I have to choose one of you?”

  He sighed. “For financial reasons. For legal reasons.”

  She shook her head even though Nolan couldn’t see it. “Then tell me, what’s the hurry?”

  “See it from Cunningham’s point of view. He’s never been into relationships, and then he meets the woman of his dreams. She spins him off-balance. He wants to keep her… to make it official.” His voice lowered a notch. “I swear that tonight was proof that Cunningham is having fantasies about knocking you up. Even if your birth control makes it impossible, of course.”

  Her pussy quivered again, and she drew the tip of her finger to her clit. Was it possible that her boss wanted to possess her so badly that he would get her pregnant if it added to his claim? “What if I don’t choose him?”

  “What do you mean ‘what if’? You’re going to choose me,” Nolan said, his voice louder. “I’m better for you. I’m more careful. I’m richer and younger and, lets face it, I’m better looking by an order of magnitude.”

  Elle rolled her eyes. “What you are is cocky.”

  “But Elle, it doesn’t matter which of us you marry. We’re a package deal.”

  “So if I pick Jonathan…”

  “Then you marry him. And you take his name, if you want. And if he ends up in the hospital, you get to sit by his side, and he can do the same for you. That’s it. Nothing else changes.”

  Elle turned that over in her mind. “So I should marry whichever of you is most likely to end up sick?” She sat up and felt wetness gush down her thighs. “That’s romantic.”

  Nolan started laughing.

  “Not funny,” she said.

  “No, of course not. And really, the rest of us would just pretend to be relatives or pay off a nurse to get in there. My point is that nothing would change.”

  “If nothing would change, we should flip a coin.”

  “Well…”

  She pushed away the damp sheets and scooted down until she was flat on her back again. “So it does matter. Because if it doesn’t matter, let’s leave it to fate. And if it does matter, I really wish everyone would stop pretending otherwise, because it makes me feel like I’m making a big deal out of nothing.”

  Her phone buzzed with a text, and she glanced at the screen. It was Cunningham. I’m at Nolan’s right now. Just so you know.

  Instantly, another text appeared. You could have disagreed about him being better looking…

  “Oh my gosh. You guys are unbelievable,” she breathed. “I’m going to sleep, and not on my back. I might even get up and take a shower. See you tomorrow.” She hung up, then made sure her ringer was off and turned the phone over so that when he called back, she wouldn’t see the light.

  That night she had horrible dreams that they did flip a coin, but no one actually wanted to marry her, each hoping she’d pick one of the others. And then she ended up alone, all because she couldn’t choose between them.

  She overslept the next day, took a fast but absolutely necessary shower, and almost forgot to rinse the conditioner out of her hair.

  The closet bulged with expensive designer clothes. Before she’d started working at the company, it had been difficult to piece together a single acceptable outfit. Now she had dozens of tailored pieces with matching shoes and accessories. Nolan was the one who usually picked them out. He was the most fashion-conscious of the men, yet he wasn’t a graphic designer; in fact, he’d been working the receptionist’s desk when she met him. “Working” being very loosely defined.

  That had been some strange punishment, mostly self-inflicted. Perhaps Nolan remained there for so long because it filled a hole in his life. Or maybe he’d found the sex games worth the drudgery of an office job. What she knew for certain was that he’d changed a lot since their first meeting, when he gave her bitter, cold coffee and generally acted like a jerk.

  She chose a light purple lace bra and matching panties, then quickly settled on a dark purple tunic dress and heeled booties accented with a swirl of citrine-colored stones. Cunningham preferred her in garter belts and thigh-highs, so she picked a pair with a three-inch lace top.

  Cunningham disliked sloppiness, which was why he usually avoided her place. His need for order was also the reason she dug in her lingerie drawer and pulled an extra few pairs of stockings. The su
pply in her desk drawer was running low. Maybe she worked long hours, but she also spent a significant chunk of time doing things that were most definitely not work.

  Things that made runs in her stockings and ruined her panties.

  Panties… She dug out an extra pair and added everything to the large, stylish hobo bag that Jonathan had surprised her with a few days earlier. When she had gawked at the label, realizing this designer’s pieces often ran into the tens of thousands of dollars, he told her that this series was limited edition, thirty bags total, and they weren’t for sale yet, but that the designer had been flattered by Jonathan’s interest. By the time he finished, he made acceptance of the extravagant gift feel like a favor she was doing him.

  By deciding to let her hair air dry—and why not since the slightly unkempt look matched the nouveau eighties vibe of her outfit—she was only a few minutes late getting downtown. She pulled her sports car up to the curb, and one of the parking attendants smiled and opened the door for her.

  “Good morning, Miss Elle,” he said as they changed places.

  The booties weren’t comfortable for walking fast, but she moved as quickly as she could, hoping to reach her desk before Cunningham realized she was late. She didn’t want to start the day bent over his desk and paddled.

  “Elle!”

  Startled, she turned toward the unknown voice and found a camera shoved into her face.

  “Are you really sleeping with all three of those men?”

  More cameras pushed toward her, clicking loudly. “How long have you known Jonathan and Nolan?”

  She stumbled back, bringing her hands up. One of the building’s security guards came from nowhere, taking her elbow and quickly guiding her into the safety of the lobby.

  “You ok?”

  She looked into his avuncular eyes but couldn’t find coherent words for a few long moments. Finally she gathered herself and turned. There was now a small herd of paparazzi milling in front of the building, safely on the far side of the glass. Another security guard seemed to be yelling at them, although she couldn’t hear anything. “I’m ok,” she said, but her voice shook.

  The guard helped her bypass security, then waited with her until the elevator opened. “You want some advice?” he asked.

  She wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded.

  “Get ahead of the publicity. Give them what they want and they’ll have no reason to chase you.”

  She looked at him, dubious, but managed to mumble her thanks for his suggestion.

  By the time she stepped off at Cunningham & Associates, the adrenaline had worn off and she was exhausted. Her legs were rubbery, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl under a table and hide there for oh, ten years or so.

  Nolan’s replacement at the receptionist’s desk surged to her feet, concern in her eyes when she saw Elle’s face. “Are you ok? Can I get you anything, Elle?”

  She shook her head and mechanically walked down the hallway and to her desk, where she sank into her chair and closed her eyes. Her phone chirped with a text, but she didn’t answer it. A moment later, it rang.

  She pulled it out of her bag. It was her sister. She sent the call to voicemail. Then the phone buzzed with another text.

  They were both from her sister. Is it true? Are you dating all 3 of those hot guys? I’m so jealous.

  The second one said: Call me!!!!!!!!!

  Elle stared at the first message, her cheeks flaming. How could her sister know? And the photographers outside… where had they come from? How did they know where she worked? Almost everyone at the company had their own reasons for privacy. No, her coworkers wouldn’t have leaked anything.

  With a foreboding sense of doom, she opened her computer’s browser. The homepage was an international newspaper that was half news, half gossip. She was about to type her name into the search engine to see what would come up when the sight of a woman in a tight red dress, flanked by three tuxedoed men, caught her eye. The headline said “Meet the beauty who snatched up three rich hotties.”

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. She clicked on the story and read it, her heart pounding so hard that it felt like someone banging a drum inside her.

  The story itself was surprisingly flattering, though heavier on the details than she would have liked, including the names of her high school, her alma mater, and where she worked. There were photos of a teenaged Nolan holding hands with a household-name supermodel, and there was some mention of the work that Cunningham and Jonathan did, including directing companies that Elle didn’t realize they owned.

  She read the comments at the end of the article. The first one made her smile.

  I can’t even hold onto the losers I meet at the bar. This woman needs to give lessons.

  She scrolled down.

  Pleeeeze someone “accidentally” release a sex tape.

  She giggled, her nervousness turning into relief, and continued scrolling. But halfway down the page, the tone took a decided turn for the worse.

  What a f-ing slut. This is what’s wrong with women today. No self respect.

  The next one drove the air from her lungs.

  Bet her parents are real proud. Can you imagine? Whoring herself out instead of working for her job like a decent human being. If she were my daughter, I’d chain her slutty ass up in the basement til she came to her senses.

  A few people responded, calling the poster sexist and frigid, but there were an awful lot of up-votes on the original comment.

  She closed the browser and rested her head on her forearms. Elle’s mother wasn’t the most open-minded woman under the best of circumstances. Mama reveled in harsh snap judgements, and even though she’d been in therapy lately, Elle didn’t believe for a second that this would go over well.

  Burning tears came out of nowhere. Elle stood, holding her breath so that she wouldn’t sob and attract concerned coworkers, and walked toward the bathroom, dazed, hardly seeing where she was going.

  Jonathan stepped into the hall, whistling. Even though it wasn’t even 9:30, he’d already removed his jacket and tie, and his shirtsleeves were casually rolled up, revealing muscular arms lightly covered in dark-blond hair. The moment he saw Elle’s face, he caught her up in his arms. His touch took away the last of her composure, and she broke down, strangled noises heaving up from her chest.

  He pulled her into his office and shut the door. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Ok,” he soothed as he stroked her hair. “When you’re ready, you’ll tell me and I’ll fix it, whatever it is.” The determination in his voice made her feel terrible, because there was nothing he, or anyone, could do.

  “You… can’t…” she stuttered between gulping breaths.

  “I can fix anything, baby. Go on, now. Let it out first, then we’ll talk.”

  His sweetness only made her cry harder. She was getting tears and snot all over his clean shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice. She tried to pull away, to spare him, but he made a disapproving noise and held her closer, wrapping her in his love, surrounding her with his comforting fresh, crisp scent, and rocking her gently until she was finally drained.

  He produced a tissue and she wiped her eyes and nose. Great. Her eyeliner and mascara had run. She probably looked like a raccoon.

  “Feel better?”

  She nodded. “A little.”

  “Good. You’re going to tell me what happened, and I’m going to fix it just like I promised.”

  The door opened and Cunningham barreled into the room. Elle turned quickly so that he wouldn’t see her face.

  “The clients are waiting,” Cunningham snapped.

  “Then they’ll wait. We’ve got a problem.”

  Cunningham must have realized that there was something wrong with the way Elle was turned away from him, because he closed the door. He went around and squatted in front of her, and when she raised her eyes to his, she saw that he was pissed.

  She knew he couldn�
�t possibly be mad at her, but an unhappy Cunningham was a frightening Cunningham.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  It was impossible to open up to someone scowling like Cunningham was at that moment. There was a reason Jonathan dealt with matters that required delicacy. Jonathan took her hand in his, feeding her strength with his touch. “Take a deep breath,” he said encouragingly.

  She quickly told him about the photographer outside, the texts from her sister, and the news article. When she was done, Cunningham raised a baffled eyebrow. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I… I guess that everyone knows.”

  He frowned. “Of course they know. That’s the idea. We’re together and everyone knows. So what?” There was a warning in his voice.

  “This can’t be easy for her,” Jonathan said, his voice firm. “You’ve had high-profile relationships. She hasn’t, and her first experience is about as unconventional as possible.”

  “They called me a whore,” she said. Even as she said it, she realized that the insults didn’t bother her the most. It was a fact that they were together, and why should she care what people thought?

  She sensed that the next words out of Cunningham’s mouth would be to question her commitment to them. He didn’t give a damn what anyone thought so long as it didn’t erode his power, his position or his wealth.

  “Who’s your favorite female singer?” Cunningham demanded.

  The unexpected question caught her off-guard, and she answered reflexively.

  His lips pressed together, Cunningham tapped on his phone, then showed Elle the screen. There were thousands of pages calling the singer a slut, along with lots of colorful adjectives.

  “Who’s your favorite actress?”

  “Ok,” she said, dredging up an exhausted smile. He really was trying to be helpful. “I get your point.”

  Shaking his head, Cunningham returned his phone to his pocket. “When you walked into this office, my first impression was that you were insecure. Despite everything I’ve done, your confidence hasn’t improved enough.”