The Billionaire's Assistant Page 7

  Every word of hers is fuel for the fire simmering in my gut and groin. Shifting in my chair relieves the pressure against my pants zipper—barely. “Are you touching yourself now?”

  She whispers, “You didn’t give me permission.”

  Pleasure flings to the edges of my skin and warms in the passing seconds. This woman knows exactly how I operate. “I’m giving you permission now, baby. Touch yourself.” Using a term of endearment toward a woman I’ve never met should scare me, but it seems right in the moment.

  Two breaths pass while I listen to her small sounds through the phone. Then I ask, gruffly, “How does it feel?”

  “It feels… amazing.” She inhales deeply. “My hand is moving into my pants now.”

  A satisfied smile creeps up my face. “And whose fingers are petting that gorgeous pussy of yours?”

  “Yours.”

  Fumbling to remove my belt, I say, “Keep going. You’re such a dirty little girl, aren’t you?”

  Her moaning is the only sound.

  “Aren’t you?” I snap out, pulling out my rock-hard cock.

  “Yes.” Her voice dissolves into a whimper.

  “And whose dirty girl are you?”

  “Yours.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Yours. I’m yours.”

  I almost come, right then and there, and I’ve hardly even touched myself. Do I consider Rose to be mine? Yes. Does is scare the shit out of me? Yes. She pulls my deepest, darkest fantasies to the surface, responding so well to my commands. I’m going to ruin her for every other man out there.

  When the fire abates beneath my skin, I give myself one long stroke that causes my back to arch and my head to tilt back. I work myself in steady strokes, my mouth parted, a rumble catching in my throat. “I wish you could see what you do to me,” I hiss out as I swipe a finger through the fluid leaking from my slit and use it to enhance the glide of my hand. “I’d show you Rose, were you here. I’d splay you out over my desk and love on every inch of your body.” My hand spasms as a shockwave of heat gathers in my groin. This is going too fast. Light speed.

  I need to distract myself. So I lighten my grip on my cock and focus on her pleasure instead. “Describe to me where you are, Rose.”

  “Um.” Her voice shakes. “My living room. I’m sitting on my couch.”

  “Are you naked?”

  “No.”

  “That displeases me, Rose. Take off your clothes.”

  Over the phone, I hear her rushing to obey my commands. A minute later, she breathes out, “Okay. Clothes are off.”

  That’s better. “I still think about that picture of your body splayed out for me,” I say, and it sounds more like a confession than I’m comfortable admitting. Pushing away from my chair, I return to standing in front of the windows overlooking the city, pants unbuttoned, dick in hand. An illicit thrill runs through me. Anyone in a neighboring building could look over and see me. It only heightens my arousal.

  “Do you get yourself off with your fingers, Rose?” I say. “Or do you use a vibrator?” My balls draw up tight against my body. It’s a smooth, slippery glide, but I wish it was Rose’s mouth instead of my hand. I’d shove her up against the glass and fuck her mouth for the world to see.

  “Sometimes I’ll use my vibrator against my clit. I like the vibrations—”

  “Not when I’m with you,” I interrupt. Nothing but my touch will get her off.

  “Are you saying we’ll be able to meet, at some point?”

  Is that what I’m saying? The thought doesn’t freak me out as much as I thought it would. Some part of me trusts this woman, though I know nothing about her aside from her love of pineapple on pizza.

  “Turn over onto your stomach, Rose.” I’m not ready to answer that question, not yet. But I am ready to hear her gripped in the throes of climax.

  She flips over on the cushions. “Ready,” she says.

  “Spread your legs.” If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I’m in the room with her. Her sweet ass lifted toward the ceiling, the smooth skin of her back awaiting my kisses. I still don’t know what she looks like. But the strangest thing is, it’s Leila’s face I see instead, her hazel eyes darkened by desire, the inside of her thighs glistening with the clear fluid leaking from her pussy.

  “Rose, I want you to start rubbing your clit against the cushions.”

  It’s quiet save the sound of rustling fabric. Then the sound of Rose’s sexy moans, her whimpers, fills my office. She goes slow at first, then increases the tempo. I wish like hell I was watching this in person, not listening to it over the phone. I don’t like how there’s a barrier between us.

  “Oh. I’m close.” She whimpers again and her voice catches. Meanwhile, I’m twisting my wrist each time I reach the head of my cock. My other hand drifts down to my balls to play with them for a while before eventually finding my hole. The puckered skin is ultra-sensitive, and I allow the pad of my finger to skim every bump and groove before sliding it inside me a bit.

  “Please,” she begs.

  I tighten my grip and watch another blob of precome dribble out the tip. “Not yet. You don’t come until I say so.”

  “It’s too much.”

  Holy shit, the orgasm builds like a crescendo. My chest hollows out. My ears rush with blood. And suddenly I can’t wait a second longer. “Now, Rose. Come for me, you filthy slut.”

  She screams through the phone. I tug on my dick once, twice. And then I blow.

  My roar is loud enough to shake the windows. Release fires down my spine, and I’m spurting ropes of come as I jack myself fast and hard, watching the white splatter against the glass and ooze down. Shivers wrack my body. It feels like my body explodes into dust and then comes back together. It’s a heady feeling, standing bare before the world, looking out at my city, my cock on display for anyone to see. I’m in control. I’ve already been in control.

  But as I come down from the high, listening to Rose moaning through the throes of her own release, I wonder how true that is. Because this woman, whoever she is, is starting to worm her way into my cold, cold heart.

  Chapter 11

  Leila

  “Ms. Engleton.”

  I look up from responding to an email. Byron Schaffer stands in the doorway to my office, one hand in his pocket, legs braced apart. His dark gray slacks mold to his long, lean legs, just as his wide shoulders press against his suit coat beautifully. His near-perfect appearance is almost blinding. People should not look this good. It’s a crime, I tell you.

  “Yes, Mr. Schaffer?” I say with a polite smile, folding my hands atop my desk. I’ve learned a thing or two about how he likes things run here at Solonay. Whatever you’re doing, it’s not as important as giving him your undivided attention. I can respect that.

  “There’s an issue I believe you’re capable of dealing with. Are you free?”

  Wait, he’s asking me if I’m free? As if I have a choice? Maybe he’s not so bad of a boss after all.

  After a brief pause, I say, “Are you sure it’s me you’re looking for and not Peg? I don’t want to mess anything important up.” Not like yesterday, when I emailed a client named Mr. Shifter and typed in Mr. Shitter on accident. I thought Mr. Billionaire was going to burst a blood vessel.

  “Trust me, you’re the only one who can get the job done.” He smiles at me warmly.

  A tingling sensation moves through me. Wow. He’s really laying on the praise. And I’m not against it. Not at all. “Of course, Mr. Schaffer.” Standing, I come around the desk, noticing the way his eyes travel over me. It takes a lot of self-control on my part not to preen like a cockatiel. I spent extra time getting ready this morning. I even used the blow-dryer on my hair, but that’s because it looked like a nest of rats had taken residence in the brown mess. My slacks are clean, in like-new condition, and fit
perfectly—a rare find from a thrift store. My blouse has interesting blue patterns on the sleeves. My makeup is light, but tasteful.

  His eyes linger a second longer before he waves me down the corridor. I follow him at a steady trot, since his legs are so much longer than mine. I also suspect he’s walking faster than normal to see if I can keep up. Ha. Little does he know I’m going to catch whatever he throws at me.

  I’m not sure what to expect, but it’s certainly not the bathroom. He stops and turns to me. I tilt my head back to look at him. His gaze is intense, like a lick of heat on my face. I can’t believe my body is betraying me like this, but my breasts actually start to swell the longer his eyes remain on me.

  Opening the bathroom door, he looks inside.

  “Mr. Schaffer,” I say to his back, “what exactly do you need me to do?” I peer around his shoulder and see standing water on the ground. It smells noxious in there. Like shit that’s been sitting for a good hour.

  He points from me to the overflowing toilet. “Deal with this.”

  “What?” The word is sharp as a point. Is he joking? “I’m not cleaning this up. It’s not even my fault!” I thought he was going to give me an important task. Something that would demonstrate my worth to the company, something I could use to prove I’m not a complete fuckup when it comes to office work. Instead, it’s… cleaning shit.

  How utterly mortifying.

  “I don’t care if it’s not your fault. And yes, you’re cleaning it up. Maintenance is at lunch. Someone has to do it.”

  “Then get Karen to do it! She’s the one who stunk it up!” The volume of my voice is too loud for inside spaces, but I don’t care.

  “But she doesn’t have custodial experience. You do.”

  What I want to do is punch the smirk right off his face. It’s true—I put my former job as a custodian on my resume. They say it’s not good to have gaps in unemployment. Now here I am, about to clean another damn bathroom. I can’t escape from it.

  Cheeks flushed, eyes livid, I growl out, “You can’t treat people like this. Like they’re nothing. Our purpose in life isn’t to serve you.”

  “At Solonay, it is.”

  I could spit on him. I really could. “Get me a mop and some gloves.”

  His smile broadens. Mr. Billionaire is thoroughly enjoying this and I want nothing more than to kick his ass. I hate myself for staring at the way it shifts beneath his pants as he walks away to gather the supplies I need.

  Meanwhile, I inspect the mess that is the staff bathroom. God. It smells rank. Fucking Karen. I know it was her. She was complaining yesterday about that Chinese she had for lunch. The woman is a witch. Doing anything and everything to climb the ladder. Guess what, Karen, you’re not going to get far. I may not know a lot about the corporate world, but I know people like her don’t get promotions. That would require a little more IQ.

  The only thing she’s good for is gossip. For example, I learned from her that Mr. Billionaire basically abandoned his mother to a nursing home. How horrible can you be to do that to your own mother?

  Mr. Billionaire returns with a bucket and mop, which he—gasp—apparently carried over all by himself.

  “I better be getting a raise for this,” I say to him as he sets the supplies outside the doorway. The puddle of dirty water has crept to the threshold.

  “How about this. I won’t fire you for insulting my client yesterday. Sound good?”

  Harsh, man. I frown at the mop and bucket. “If I’m cleaning this disgusting bathroom for you, do you at least have some different clothes I can wear?” My nice blouse and pants aren’t going to cut it. I’m already low on professional clothing as it is.

  He tilts his head as if considering the question.

  I sigh, my neck starting to burn. “Look, I don’t have a lot of money, and I don’t want to ruin my nice clothes.” I pause. His eyes have sharpened on my face. I flush further under his scrutiny. “It’s not every day you can find well-fitting slacks at a thrift store, so if you have an extra pair of jeans or something…”

  A single nod, and he disappears.

  I blow a piece of hair out of my face. That was embarrassing. Less embarrassing than him seeing my granny panties though.

  Byron returns with a pair of sweats and a gray t-shirt. I hold them up to my body. They’re huge. “Whose are these?” The shirt will likely hit me at the mid-thigh. The sweatpants will need to be rolled up.

  “Mine.”

  That stops me. Incredulity, bafflement, and disbelief—take your pick, I experience them all. “You’re giving me your clothes to clean up shit?”

  A corner of his mouth twitches. It’s most likely not a smile. “I’ll buy more. They mean nothing to me.”

  Well when he puts it that way, I don’t feel bad about mucking up his clothes. Though I wonder why he has them here. To sleep in? That seems the most likely scenario. Sleeping in a suit sounds uncomfortable. He probably has a cot here too. Such a businessman thing to have at your office.

  “Have fun,” he says, and goes off to conquer more of the world.

  Bastard.

  Cleaning the bathroom takes me two hours. I’m haunted by my past with every sweep of the mop, every splash of dirty water. With the toilet clogged, I’m forced to scoop the shit into a plastic bag to throw away. It feels like the stink is sinking into my pores. As soon as I get home, I’m taking a shower.

  When I finish, the office is mostly empty, as everyone is at lunch. Well, thanks guys for letting me know you were leaving! I’ve yet to be invited to one of these group luncheons. Not that I can afford it, but it would still be nice to feel included. Instead, it’s a peanut butter sandwich and a bruised apple for me.

  As I pass by Mr. Billionaire’s office, the bag of shit in my hand, I pause. The room is empty. Mr. Billionaire is in a meeting. His treatment of me is humiliating, degrading, and demeaning. This wasn’t the job I applied for.

  I’m not going to accept this. If Byron Schaffer wants me to work as his assistant, fine. I’m doing my best. I’ll continue to do my best. If he wants a plumber, he can damn well call one himself. Mr. Billionaire thinks he sets the rules of the game. But starting now, I’m no longer playing.

  With a quick peek over my shoulder, I slip into his office and shut the door. I wait a few seconds in case someone randomly decides to pop out from behind the desk. Nope. Totally empty.

  This will teach you not to mess with Leila Engleton!

  Crouching behind Mr. Billionaire’s desk, I take the plastic bag full of poo and untie it. The reek immediately makes my eyes water. I choke, gag on my own spit. I lift the bag, keeping the layers of plastic between my skin and the defecation, and smear some on the underside of his fancy-shmancy office chair, the one he likes to hold court in. I don’t do a lot, just a small amount so the scent will drift upward. He’ll think he stepped in shit on the way to work. He won’t find it though. It will drive him crazy.

  That done, I slip back into the hall and, casually, drop the bag into the trash.

  Chapter 12

  Byron

  Truth be told, I have a bit of fun messing with Leila. After having lunch with her last week, I wanted to see her cheeks pinken in indignation. I wanted to see exactly how far I could push her. A flustered Leila is a delightful Leila.

  It’s with some surprise I find myself thinking of her during the meeting with my international team. It’s evening in the UK. Liam speaks from the large projector screen while I and the other five employees sit around the large oak table. If I were a smarter man, I’d have asked Leila to take meeting minutes instead of cleaning the bathroom.

  Ten minutes pass, and the more I think about it, the shittier I feel. It was a pretty crappy thing for me to ask of her—no pun intended. And the way her face got red when I brought up her past employment history… It was supposed to be a joke, all in good humor. I don�
��t think she took it that way though. She looked embarrassed about it. Borderline humiliated.

  I really am an asshole.

  I shift in my seat, wondering what I can do to fix this. Take her out to lunch again? Bring her coffee? No. She’s still my employee, and I’m still her boss. This is what happens in the business world. Those lower on the pole get taken advantage of. It’s not something I fought when I was in her position years ago. Still, it’s not right, and now that I’m the one doing the squashing, it makes me feel dirty.

  Maybe I should apologize. But doing that would undermine my power. My word is law at Solonay. Anything to sabotage it will weaken the company.

  I sigh, then startle when someone grabs my arm. I turn to Heather sitting beside me. “What?” I snap.

  “We’ve been trying to get your attention for three minutes.”

  She has? I look around. Every person at the table studies me in either confusion or amusement. On the screen, Liam snorts and shakes his head.

  Like I said, anything to tarnish my image of the cold, cruel, and calculating businessman needs to go. So I promptly push Leila Engleton out of my mind.

  The meeting goes on for another hour. Now that I’ve butted Leila out of my mind, I start wondering about Rose. I think about having phone sex with her the other night. Hot, filthy phone sex. I’m remembering the sight of Rose’s body from the picture she sent me weeks ago. The swell of her hips. The delicious dip of her waist and her curling pubic hair. It’s been too long since I’ve had an orgasm that good.

  I’m still concerned about my identity being revealed, but the paranoia has eased. My cell number isn’t public information. She thinks I’m a pizza delivery guy, for Christ’s sake. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Which makes it a great cover were we to continue this… fling.