by Juliet Woods
I never went back to Carl's floral shop after the day I ran out two weeks ago. As much as I love working with flowers, I couldn't face my boss again. And I'm pretty sure I didn't have a job any more after all the damage I caused.
I never even needed to pick up a last check. Carl always paid me at the end of every shift, because he didn't want me in his books. That way it was easier for the scum bag to not have to give me any employee benefits. And I'm sure he wouldn't have paid me for my last day there since he held me responsible for all the destroyed flower arrangements.
So he doesn't even have my address. Perfect. I never want to hear from him again.
Working with flowers never paid much anyway, and my rent was just raised last month. So I decided to fall back on my office work experience and look for an assistant job, as much as I hate it.
I worked in an office for a year right after high school, and I was miserable.
What's so terrible about working in an office, you ask? Well, offices are full of people – people who want to make small talk, who want to have conversations, who think you're weird if you get tongue-tied and flustered. Who talk about their full social lives, then ask you, “So what are your plans this weekend?”
And if you’re me, your plans revolve around staying at home. Not because you want to, but because you have panic attacks in new or even remotely stressful situations.
Not that I can't hide it fairly well. That's how I've made it this far, and not out on the streets: pretending. I can usually make people think I'm almost normal. The problem is that it takes a lot of energy to pretend. It leaves me exhausted, and I have to retreat to my empty apartment to be able to do it again the next day.
Social anxiety disorder. That's what the social worker told me I had before I emancipated and left the foster care system for good. She said I would need counseling, maybe medication. But I haven’t had time to look into all that. I guess I've had other things on my mind. Like surviving.
The image of my last customer at the flower shop flashes before my closed eyes. Again. His face, his body, have become regular fixtures in the landscape of my brain ever since that day two weeks ago, and I'm not sure why.
Part of it is humiliation. I'm decent at pretending not to be a socially inept person, but with him all my nervous tics came back – the stuttering, the pounding heart, the breathlessness.
But maybe it wasn't my run-of-the-mill social anxiety. Maybe it was something else.
He made me feel things no other guy has, just by looking at me. Not that I could call him a guy. He was definitely a man. A strong, powerful man. Not like the boys from school or the group homes, not like the bosses or co-workers I've had.
I want to see what's under that dress shirt and fancy blazer. I want him to pull me in close, where I can breathe in his scent and block out the rest of the world.
And he actually asked me out! On a date!
If only I weren't such a coward, I could have gone out to dinner with him. Or at least gotten his name. And to think he saved me. Carl didn't seem like a violent man, but he was so furious that day I wouldn't have put it past him to do something crazy.
But my inner demons drove me out of the shop like a scared little girl. It was utterly pathetic. I cringe just thinking of it.
And anyway, I need to focus on not screwing up this new job. I know I'll be an assistant at Prometheus, one of the big financial firms downtown. I have no idea who my boss will be. I just hope they'll treat me better than Carl.
I smooth out the wrinkles in my slacks and clear my throat as I enter the building.
I focus on my breathing as Bridget, my immediate supervisor, greets me at the door. Bridget's the 30-something office manager who interviewed and hired me. Her warmth and kindness put me at ease in the interview, and I can only hope my co-workers will be as friendly. Today, she welcomes me inside and shows me around the offices.
I can do this, I can do this. Just smile and look into their eyes when you shake each new person's hands. Nothing bad is going to happen.
She introduces me to about eight people. They all seem nice enough. See? Everything is fine, I coach myself.
“And now I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Davidson, the CEO,” Bridget says, picking up a phone and apparently asking him if he's ready to meet me.
The panic starts to bubble to the surface again, but I try to head it off. No big deal. He's just some rich asshole. He might be intimidating, but he's just a human like everyone else. Probably a balding, pot-bellied guy in his 70s who likes young women to serve him coffee. Nothing I can't handle.
“OK, he's ready for you,” nods Bridget pertly and gestures for me to follow her through the two giant, wooden doors.
I feel my eyes go wide as I enter the massive office. It's all dark wood with white marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan's Financial District. It's such an enormous office that I can only see a man sitting at the desk, but I can't quite make out his features.
“Good luck,” Bridget says as she turns to leave.
“Wait!” I hiss under my breath. I didn't know she was leaving me alone with the guy so soon.
“He doesn’t bite,” she says, winking. She urges me forward with a nod of her head, and closes the doors behind her. My heart starts to pound.
I begin to cross the floor, blowing air out of my pursed lips, the sound of my shoes clicking on the floor. As I get closer to the desk, I can tell the guy's not in his 70s.
Nor is he balding or pot-bellied. No, this guy is definitely hot, and probably in his mid-30s.
And then I stop dead in my tracks. My breath gets caught in my throat.
It's him. It's the sexy, jasmine-loving customer who has me all torn up inside.
“It's you,” he says incredulously, standing up.
We lock eyes for a moment. A long moment. Those smoldering brown eyes that seem to see deep inside me. Like he's known me forever. How is it even possible he's looking at me like that?
I realize I'm not breathing, and my mouth is slightly open. Warm air fills my lungs again as I blink a few times.
He crosses the distance between us.
“Lily,” he says, stopping in front of me to lean on his desk. “Are you my new assistant?”
“Yes,” I breathe, looking up at him.
“Small world,” he says, smirking.
His eyes survey me again, just as they did in the flower shop, and I feel my cheeks start to burn.
I can't help but check him out in furtive glances, too. His suit jacket spans the breadth of his broad shoulders, and fits him just perfectly at his tapered waist. That jacket alone must be worth more than my income last year. I suddenly feel so awkward and under-dressed in front of this immaculate, confident, powerful man.
“I looked for you, you know,” he says in a low voice. “Went back to that shop and talked to that sleazy boss. More than once. He claimed he didn't have an address for you.”
“He doesn't. I – uh, I was off the books.”
“Mysterious,” he says, smiling. “I hope you don't mind being on the payroll here?”
I laugh, hoping it doesn't sound forced. At this point I'm questioning every sound that leaves my mouth, so scared I'm going to make a wrong move. “Not at all, Mr. Davidson.”
“I guess you never did get my first name, did you?” He extends a beefy hand for me to shake. “Ethan Davidson. You can call me Ethan.”
I let my hand be engulfed by his, and a tiny electric spark surges up my forearm.
“It's – it's, uh, nice to meet you, Ethan.” His first name comes out as a whisper. I blush.
“You too, Lily – what's your last name?”
“Cairns.”
“Lily Cairns,” he says, and my name has never sounded so sexy as it does coming from his lips. “Lovely.”
His eyes trail down to my chest now, and I'm not sure what exactly he's calling lovely. I shift my weight onto my right hip, stealing a glance at his thick, crossed legs and the
bulge at his crotch.
Get a hold of yourself! My inner voice scolds me. I can't check my boss out. That's absurd. But it's too late, because the sight of his package has made my nipples rock-hard and pointed. Oh, please don't let him see them through my flimsy little blouse. That would just be too much.
And of course, I see his eyes flit down to my nipples, which are no doubt protruding through this cotton bra and blouse I'm wearing. I fake a cough so I can bring my hand to my face, covering my chest at least somewhat with my elbow. I'm dying of humiliation.
He seems to sense when the torture has reached dizzying heights, because he ends his obvious appraisal of my body and looks back up at my eyes.
“You'll do just fine.”
I have to wonder what exactly he means by that, but I'm way too nervous to ask. But I do conjure up the courage to speak of something else.
The words begin to spill out of me in a flustered stream of nervousness. “Mr. Davidson – uh, Ethan – I wanted to thank you for your help that day in the flower shop. I don't know what Carl would have done if you hadn't been there.”
“Don't think twice about it, doll,” he smiles at me. “That guy had no right to talk to you like that. What a little piece of shit.” His eyebrows furrow as a frown mars his perfect face. “I'm sorry you had to put up with that asshole.”
I nod, worried about how to bring up the subject of my freak out.
“I – I'm sorry I ran out – of the shop like that,” I stammer.
A look of concern appears on his face. “What happened? Why did you run out?”
I look down, clasp my hands together, and begin to fidget like a child. Which is exactly what I feel like right now.
“I'm sorry, it's an intrusive question. Forget it –”
“I guess I just got a little freaked out,” I whisper.
Shit. I'm not exactly looking like a capable employee right now. I'm going to lose this job before I even begin. “I, uh, I have some problems with anxiety, but I promise it won't be a problem here. I promise I can do this job.”
“I'm sure you can, Lily. And if you ever need to talk to someone, my door's always open.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that's the last time we have to talk about me running out in a panic.
“And Lily,” he says, taking a step closer, so that his mouth is inches from my ear, “I haven't forgotten about that date. And this time I'm not taking no for an answer.”
Oh my. I suddenly feel wet between my legs. Wet and on fire at the same time. My stomach does somersaults hearing those words.
He smirks. “Thank you, Lily,” he says, walking back around to sit at the chair on the other side of his desk. “We'll chat again soon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davidson – Ethan,” I whimper, and cross the marble floor to the door.
Chapter 4
Ethan
Lily walks slowly across my office, giving me a good view of her ass. Even her baggy, unflattering clothes can't hide that posterior. It’s round, perky, and tight. What I wouldn't do to that ass. The first thing that comes to mind? Bend her over my knee and spank her just to watch her ass cheeks jiggle.
She left just in time, because much longer and I wouldn't have been able to hold back from pushing her against the wall and pressing my mouth against hers. I'd have her begging for more.
The way she stood before me, letting me size her up that like, was such a turn-on. I know it made her uncomfortable, but I just couldn't resist. I caught her sneaking a peek at me, too, though she pretended not too. And there was no hiding those erect little nipples underneath her shirt, though she made a cute effort. I'd like to see just how hard I can make them with my tongue.
My cock swells against the fabric of my pants. It needs release. Release deep inside her sweet little folds.
I must be doing something right to have this kind of luck. She runs out of my life just as soon as she appears, then she's brought back to me, this time as an employee.
I quickly bring up the employee records on my computer and search for her. Cairns, Lily: 20 years old.
Yes! She's legal.
And more importantly, she's mine. She just doesn't know it yet.
The next day, I watch her walk shyly across my office to bring me coffee. She's wearing a variation of yesterday's outfit: plain dress pants and a button-down shirt. Neat and presentable, but dowdy. It's no matter, though, because my dick starts to swell just watching her hips swing from side to side and her breasts gently bounce as she walks.
“Do you have plans tonight, Lily?” I ask as she sets the cup in front of me.
Her face turns red and she takes a moment to respond. “N-no...”
“Good. Give me your address. I'm taking you out tonight.”
“Um, are you sure that's a good idea, sir? I mean, Ethan?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Because I'm your employee.”
“All the more reason for you to say yes.”
“But is that really, um, professional?”
“Well, Lily,” I stand up, drawing close to her. “I run this company, and if it's professional enough for me, I don't think you need to worry.”
She knits her eyebrows together in worry, her breath picking up in intensity.
“Don't worry,” I say in a lowered voice. “Trust me.”
“W-well, if you're sure it's OK,” she says.
“Positive. Now, what's your address?”
“But I could just meet you somewhere. I live out in Queens.”
“No, I'll pick you up.”
“OK,” she's nervous and it makes me want her even more. I watch as she writes the address in her feminine, loopy handwriting on a paper.
“Perfect. I'll pick you up at 7. Wear something to dance in.”
Her eyes go wide. “I don't know how to dance, sir.”
I pretend to act shocked, but really I expected her to say that. “Well, I'm a pretty good teacher. Don't worry, Lily, it'll be fun, I promise. We'll take it slow.”
She nods her head, biting her lip, and it's so cute I can barely stand it.
“OK,” she agrees.
And then she treats me to the sight of her backside as she walks back out the office.
The drive to Lily's place in Queens is long, but I don't mind. She's worth the trouble, and it gives me a chance to catch up on work calls as I drive.
As I approach the address she gave me, I shake my head in disbelief. Lily lives in a really shitty neighborhood. I just hope her apartment is secured well.
I turn the corner past run-down tenement buildings, and I see her standing there on the curb.
Wow.
She's wearing a turquoise dress, fitted at the waist and flared at her hips, and just low enough at the bust line to reveal some cleavage. She looks so fucking hot.
I’m relieved she didn’t opt for her usual style of work clothes. I knew those baggy slacks and button-down shirts were hiding a knockout figure. She’s just my type.
But I feel a pang in my chest when I realize she's waiting out here like this because she doesn't want me to see the inside of her apartment. I swallow down that worry and smile as I pull up beside her and hop out of the car.
“You look fabulous,” I say, rewarding myself with a close-up view. “But you didn't have to wait outside here like this.”
“Well, my apartment's pretty crummy,” she says. “I, uh, didn't want you to have to go in there.”
“Hey, I wasn't always a rich business tycoon,” I say, smiling. “I come from working class stock in Brooklyn. I'm pretty down to earth for a Manhattan CEO.”
Lily seems relieved to hear that, and she visibly relaxes. She smiles shyly at me as I hold the door open for her.
“So where are we going?” she asks after we're on the road.
“I'm taking you to a dance club,” I say proudly. “I go every week. Every night's a different style – ballroom, Latin, modern...”
I see out of the corner of my eye that she's fighting
back a smile. “You're a member of a dancing club?”
“Hey, nothing wrong with a straight guy who loves to dance,” I wink. “Laugh all you want, but dancing is kind of my thing. And dancing with a beautiful woman is incredibly sexy.”
“No judgment,” she says, a little flustered. “I just hope you won't laugh when you see how uncoordinated I am.”
“You just need the right teacher,” I smile meaningfully at her.
“Am I dressed OK? I don't have a big selection of dancing clothes.”
I smile. “That's perfect. Tonight's ballroom. It'll be a good introduction for you.” I start to put my hand on her thigh to give her a squeeze, but I think twice. Don't want to scare her off.
She does look pretty tempting though. The swell of her breasts, the way her chest rises and falls with her inhale, her pink, pouty lips... I have to look away before I get another erection.
“Did your daughter like her flowers?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Loved them. She's got good taste. And you have quite the skill with flower arrangements,” I say.
“Flowers and plants are kind of my thing, I guess,” she says. “I take after my mother on that. She always had a big container garden, and I guess I inherited her green thumb.”
“Do your folks live in New York?” I ask, looking at her, then back at the road.
“Um, no,” she looks in her lap, and says quietly, “they passed away four years ago.”
I feel a lump in my throat. “Oh, Lily, I'm so sorry.” This time I don't fight back the urge to touch her. I reach out and squeeze her arm. I want to take all her hurt away.
“It's OK. It was a car accident.” She looks out the window.
Lily and I have more in common than I thought. We both know loss. Maybe that's part of why I feel such a strong connection to her. But it's also more than that.
“Well, like I said, I'm always here if you ever need to talk.”
She sniffles quietly, looking at me again, and says in a heartfelt voice, “Thank you.”
