by Cynthia Sax
“Close your eyes,” he instructs and I comply, trusting him. The darkness heightens the brush of my fingers over my breasts, the grind of my pussy against the hard wooden slats. I moan softly, swiveling my hips.
“Imagine I’m straddling your chest,” he rumbles. “Do you feel the weight of me? The warmth of my skin?” I nod, trembling. I’m close, so close. “My big cock slides between your breasts in and out, in and out. I squeeze you around me. My hands are rough and scarred.”
“Yes, please.” I rock, ravishing my breasts with my hands, tugging, squeezing, twisting my nipples. My curves are bared to this stranger, to anyone who enters the park. Only a hedge separates us from the bustling city streets. I’m exposed, vulnerable and completely his, trusting him to keep me safe.
“You do please me.” His words flow over me, adding fuel to my flames. “My balls are aching and I want to come over your beautiful white breasts, over your pink nipples.” The tremors rolling up my body grow more and more powerful, my arms and legs shaking. “But I can’t come until you do, kitten. Tell me what you need from me to get you there.”
“Smack my clit.” I breathe heavily.
“Yes.” His approval warms me. “Reach under your pretty purple skirt and smack your clit for me. Smack it hard.” I hesitate. This is wrong. We’re in a public park. “You need this,” he adds.
He’s right. I need this release. My emotions are too close to the surface, too unmanageable. Once I come, I’ll feel calmer, more able to cope with my eight o’clock appointment.
“Okay.” I sigh my surrender and slide my right hand under my skirt, between my thighs. My desire builds, escalating higher, my body stretching tight.
I position my hand over my mons and slap the heel of my hand against my clit. The pain breaks me, shards of pleasure shooting over my body, color and light bursting against the darkness of my closed eyelids. I bite down on my bottom lip, silencing my screams, and arch and buck and writhe, shameless in my satisfaction.
Gradually I return to reality and to the realization of what I’ve done. I’m sitting in a public park with my skirt hiked up and my blazer open, my face flushed with ecstasy. He sees me like this. I avoid my stranger’s gaze as I pull down my skirt, adjust my bra, and button my blazer, my movements sharp.
“You’re beautiful, kitten,” he says softly.
He must think I’m completely uninhibited, a woman without any morals. “I’ve never—”
“I know you haven’t done this before.” He raises one of his big hands, stopping my explanation. There’s no judgment in his dark eyes, only an understanding. “Why did you choose this morning? Why here? Why with me?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. A combination of factors might have contributed to my insanity—the stress of the new job, the sadness haunting me, and him, the most magnificent man I had ever seen. “I trust you.”
His eyes harden and his jaw juts. “You shouldn’t trust me. You don’t know me. If I had been someone else—”
“If you had been someone else, I wouldn’t have done this.” I bend down and wipe the dust off the toes of my lavender pumps. “Don’t you feel the connection between us?” I cover up my insecurities with a smile.
My sexy stranger sighs. “Yes.” He slides his tablet into his inside jacket pocket, stands, tosses the coffee cup in the garbage can, and takes three steps forward. He’s even larger upright, his form over a full foot taller than mine. “I’m walking you to the office.”
I check my watch and my eyes widen. “It’s five minutes to eight.” I jump to my feet, my cute heels crunching on the gravel. “I’ll be late for my first day at work.” I place my coffee cup beside his in the garbage can and sling my tote over my shoulder.
“Are you nervous?” The stranger walks beside me, matching my shorter stride.
“Of course I’m nervous.” I slide one of my hands into his and his fingers close around mine, his palm grooved with deep furrows. “I’m a new intern and interns are chosen by their executives. What if no one chooses me?”
“You’ll be chosen.” My behemoth’s grip on my hand intensifies. He smells of lemon and cedar. Not a hint of cigarette smoke spoils this pussy-moistening combination.
“I left the experience section of the application blank.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I helped my father, but I didn’t know if that counted as experience and I didn’t want to lie.” I lied about my last name. I didn’t want to lie about anything else. “My father always tells me business deals are built on trust and trust is built on truth.”
My stranger turns his head and meets my gaze, his forehead furrowed with thought lines. “Your father always tells you that?”
I nod.
There’s a long pause in our conversation, as though he’s giving my father’s words deep consideration. “He’s right,” my mystery man finally concedes, his voice gruff.
I beam at him, liking him even more for agreeing with my father. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I want to see him, very much.
“Yes,” he rumbles. I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t. He slows and then stops. “I’ll leave you here.” He reluctantly releases my hand, his fingers slowly sliding along mine, his scarred skin rough.
I tear my gaze away from his, stare up at the building belonging to Blaine Technologies, and frown. “How did you know this is where I’m working?”
He doesn’t answer. I glance to my right. He’s gone, his distinctive scent lingering on the morning breeze. I breathe deeply, inhaling that part of him, square my shoulders and stride into the building.
Chapter Two
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, I sit in the orientation room with my hands folded on the gray tabletop, my spine straight and my knees primly pressed together. I haven’t been chosen and there are only five of us left—a clench-fisted extremely angry boy, a tall skinny kid with a stutter, a prissy Asian girl wearing the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen, a green-haired girl, and me, a big-breasted blonde with no work experience.
The door opens and yet another dark-suited executive enters the room. He looks over the available intern stock. I smile at him. He smiles back and I silently cheer. He doesn’t mind big- breasted blondes.
The executive flips open the personnel folders the human resources lady left on the front desk and reads. He looks at me, glances back at the folder, and frowns.
Shit. He doesn’t like my lack of work experience.
The executive closes my folder and pushes it away from him, dismissing me. He chooses the angry boy, the stutter kid, and the Asian girl.
I wish them luck in their new jobs. The Asian girl sniffs as she follows her executive out of the room, her chin held high, her white orientation binder pressed against her flat chest.
“Bitch.” Camille, the green-haired girl, scowls at the closing door. “She acts like she’s better than us just because he chose her.”
“She’s probably better than me,” I admit. “I don’t have any formal work experience.”
“We’re interns, princess. No one cares about our work experience.” Camille rolls her eyes. “You haven’t been chosen because you’re wearing purple.” She waves her hand at me. “The prep letter said specifically to wear a black suit. Blaine Technologies is tight ass about the dress code.” She smirks.
“I don’t wear black,” I flatly state. This is nonnegotiable.
“Then you’ll eventually get fired.” Camille flounces out of her seat, her cheap black suit pulling across her hips. “But what’s their problem with me?” She pauses, her eyes widening. “Other than . . .” She shakes her head, her green hair sleeked back into a ponytail. “No, they couldn’t have found out about that.” She opens her folder.
“Camille, I don’t think we should look at our folders,” I caution, knowing she won’t listen to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She opens my folder also. “We’ve both been assigned to the dragon lady.”
“Miss Yen?” My stomach twists.<
br />
Camille nods, her face pale. She’s scared. I am too. Miss Yen, Blaine Technologies’ top lawyer, is SERIOUS with all caps. She doesn’t take crap from anyone.
“My father says she’s a real ballbuster.” I search my brain for the positives he says are in all situations. “And she’s a great negotiator. We can both learn from—”
The door swings open and a tiny Asian lady rushes into the room, her skin flushed, a thin silver scar skimming along one of her cheeks. “Can they choose a more inconvenient time for these things?” Miss Yen glances at us and her beautiful face contorts into an ugly grimace. “Two rule breakers—that’s exactly what my legal department needs.” She rolls her eyes. “Purple, Green, come with me.” She flicks her slender fingers, pivots on her heels, and storms out of the room.
I look at Camille. She looks at me. I hustle out of my seat and we follow her, joining the fast-talking executive in midsentence.
“. . . have precedent. The buyout is important and we’re already understaffed.” Her words are clipped, her tone edged with irritation.
“I heard Volkov is a shrewd negotiator,” Camille pipes up. I say nothing. My uncle, the Volkov she’s likely referring to, is a shrewd negotiator. That’s the reason I ended up here.
“We don’t pay you to hear things, Green,” the woman snaps. “His spies are everywhere.” I’m suddenly glad my uncle insisted I use my mom’s maiden name on my application. “We’ve been working on the Volkov deal for years. If you open your big mouth and scuttle these negotiations, I’ll walk you out the front door myself.”
“Because Volkov Industries is important to Blaine Technologies,” I declare with pride. Volkov Industries, our family business, was founded by my father and his brother.
“I said that already, Purple.” Miss Yen turns into a row of dismal gray cubicles. “I don’t have time to repeat myself.” She stops in front of a desk. “This is your seat, Green. Purple, you’ll sit behind her.” The head of Blaine Technologies’ legal team studies Camille and then gazes at me.
“Have you ever worked a shredder, Purple?” she finally asks.
My smile spreads. “I have experience with shredding.” I shredded my father’s confidential documents. I also drafted most of his executive memos, managed his schedule, and sorted his incoming e-mails.
“You shredded paper and survived? There’s hope for you yet.” My new boss laughs. I wait patiently. I have blond hair and big breasts. I’ve heard all of the jokes before. “See that row of boxes?” She points to the wall of boxes blocking the windows and I nod. “All of that is to be shredded. The room is located down the hall, to your right.” She flings her hand in that direction. “And Purple?”
“Yes, Miss Yen?” I stand straighter.
“I don’t ever want to see that suit again.” She wrinkles her nose. “It might be acceptable at other offices, but not at Blaine Technologies.” My boss meets my gaze. I stare blankly back at her, playing the dumb blonde. She shakes her head. “Green, walk with me.”
They leave. I set my tote and orientation binder on my new desk, fix a smile on my face, and pick up a box, groaning under the weight. It takes all of my strength to heft the box to the shredding room.
I peel the files apart and slide the papers into the industrial machine. The constant hum of the shredder drowns out any noise coming from outside of the room. The scent of ink and dusty paper tickles my nose.
My big behemoth was right. I was chosen. I feed legal briefs and employment contracts into the machine. This isn’t my dream job, but it’ll give me formal work experience, and the next time I apply for a position, that section won’t be blank.
I stuff too many papers into the shredder and it jams, grinding, then stopping. Cursing softly under my breath, I yank out the papers, separate them, and feed them one at a time. Time passes. I retrieve more boxes. My thoughts return to my mysterious man.
I’ll see him again tomorrow. My toes curl in my pretty lavender heels as I think of my behemoth, of his broad shoulders, striking face, commanding gaze. Am I in his thoughts also?
I imagine he sits in an office somewhere, leaning back in his seat, remembering this morning. He hardens, his cock head pressing against the rich fabric of his black dress pants. Unable to deny his need for me, he closes the door, unzips his pants, and releases his big cock. He wraps his fingers around his shaft, his skin hot and firm against his scarred palms. While he strokes himself, he envisions his shaft sliding in and out, in and out, of the valley between my breasts.
A hand grasps my shoulder and I jump, pulling the paper away from the machine. The shredder stops and the room grows quiet.
“Are you daydreaming on the job, Purple?” Camille grins. “It’s lunchtime and we scored.” She holds out two white slips of paper. “The dragon lady gave us vouchers for the cafeteria. We can have all of the bland tasteless food we can stuff into our ignorant pie holes.”
“You make it sound so delicious.” I leave the box of files by the shredder and we wander down the hallway. “I’ve eaten in quite a few cafeterias.” I’ve eaten in hospital cafeterias, but I assume they’re similar to office cafeterias. “Let me guess. They’ll have French fries, chicken fingers, and Jell-O.” My ears ring and my skin feels grimy, a layer of white dust covering me. “Red Jell-O.”
“Ohhh . . . good calls,” Camille cheers a bit too loudly. A gray-haired middle-aged guy in a black suit shakes his head as he passes us. “I’d amend that to green Jell-O.”
“Slime,” we say together and laugh. A short serious woman wearing thick glasses hisses at us.
“I think we’re on the quiet floor,” I observe. No one else is talking.
Camille’s walk is defiant. “We’ll change that.” She pauses in front of the stairwell. “Stairs?”
“Ummm . . .” I thought the human resources lady said something about the stairwells being for emergency use only, but I hadn’t been paying close attention to her monotonous spiel. I was too worried about not being chosen. “Sure.”
We clomp down the stairs, our heels ringing against the concrete. The supremely clean and brightly lit stairwell smells of stinky socks, the stale air making me dizzy. Camille appears unaffected by the stench. As we descend, she sings happily, her song choices being a collection of increasingly vulgar hip-hop songs.
We reach the second floor and Camille tugs on the door. It doesn’t open. She scans her passcard over a small black security box. The light remains red. “Shit on a stick.” She scans it again. Nothing happens. “Unbelievable,” she fumes.
“Let me try.” I wave my passcard over the sensor. The light remains red and Camille curses. Her vocabulary makes me blush and, as I’m a native New Yorker, that’s an impressive feat for her to accomplish. “We’ll try the ground floor,” I suggest.
We trudge down to the ground floor. This door is locked also. Camille tries her passcard. It doesn’t work, prompting another stream of colorful language from my new friend. I try my passcard. It’s as useless as Camille’s.
“We’re stuck.” I state the obvious, slapping the metal door, ignoring Camille’s ranting. “Do you have a phone?”
“Do I look like I have a phone?” Camille pivots in a circle, her arms outstretched. “Besides we’re in freakin’ Fort Knox.” She pats one of the walls. “These babies must be shielded to hell and back.”
“The doors are thick also.” I slap the metal door again, my palm stinging with the impact. “Hey.” I gaze upward. “They have cameras.” I point at the black lens positioned above us. “Security must be monitoring the stairwells.” I wave my arms at the camera. “They’ll send help.”
“If they’re real cameras, they’ll send help,” Camille scoffs. “Didn’t you hear about that girl in Westwood? She was trapped in a stairwell for four whole days. That stairwell had cameras too: fake cameras, installed to discourage thieves. She ate her fingernails down to bloody nubs.”
“Four days,” I repeat, staring up at the camera. It looks real, but I guess that�
��s the point. Fake-looking cameras wouldn’t fool thieves. “We could pull the fire alarm.”
“If we do that, we’ll get ourselves fired.” Camille shakes her head. “They’ll evacuate the building and we’ll look like dumb asses. Oh.” Her face becomes animated. “I could pick the lock.”
I stare at her. “Can you do that?”
“I’ve picked locks before.” She beams, acting as though this is a skill to be admired. “Let me have a look.” Camille shoves me out of the way. She examines the door, rattling the handle and poking her fingernail into the lock. “Do you have a piece of wire?”
The only piece of wire I have is attached to my bra. “Wait a second.” I unbutton my blazer for the second time today, unhook my bra, and pull it through the armholes. Jiggling the underwire, I try to poke it through the fabric. “I need scissors.”
“If we had scissors, I could jimmy the door open.” Camille eyes the lock. “And our problems would be solved.”
“You scare me.” I bite my bra, tearing the lace, and slide the wire out of the cup. “Here’s your pick, as I believe you criminals call it.”
“A few minor misdemeanors does not make one a criminal,” Camille mutters, taking the wire from me.
“Actually, I believe it does.” I sit down on the steps, the concrete cool under my ass.
“I freed information.” Camille straightens the wire and inserts the end into the lock. “This is America. Freeing information shouldn’t be a misdemeanor.”
“Sure, sure, tell it to the judge.” I watch her work, hoping to learn something.
Minutes pass. I don’t know anything about picking locks, but I do know how to read people and Camille is struggling with her assigned task, her curses growing louder and more colorful.
“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” I lean back on the stairs, spinning my bra around the tip of my right index finger. This is much more interesting than shredding paper.
“I’m not deliberately screwing the pooch,” Camille snaps. “This is a high-end lock.”
