My father threatened to fire any secretary I laid hands on—otherwise, she’d have already been mine.
Short, slender, cute—she had a great sense of humor and a pair of thick, pretty lips. I wanted to go in there and just take her, taste her, hear what gorgeous noises she could make while I filled her with my eager cock. I was a little hard just thinking about it.
I’d earned a break.
Fixing my shirt, I relaxed and headed out to her.
The phone was ringing, and I wanted to throw it in the goddamned trash so that she’d have to talk to me instead.
Our eyes met as I headed through to my father’s office, and my resolve to hold off softened. Her face was bright pink, and she seemed hesitant to answer the phone.
Did I really fluster her that much?
I wondered what faces she’d make while I fucked her, what other parts of her body turned bright pink like that when she got excited. I wanted to explore every single one of them with my tongue and fingers.
I didn’t need her to lose her job over me.
There were too many ways that could go wrong.
I considered hiring her on as my own secretary, but there would be something worse if I was fucking my own employee. Although she was skilled, I didn’t need a secretary anyway.
Squeezing my cock with my palm through my pants, I tried to calm it down. I didn’t need to scare her away with my fucking need for her. I didn’t even know how this started, I just knew that I wanted her—but I also wasn’t going to leave her jobless.
Eventually, she’d be mine.
I listened to her voice intently as she spoke to a customer of my father’s. She sounded a little distracted, which wasn’t normal, but maybe I’d thrown her off. As she spoke, my phone buzzed a response from one of the clients I’d been speaking to.
“I’ll take you on,” it said simply.
Good.
Every client was worth at least a few billion. I could only make millions off of these elitists, but my money added up quickly. Although most art was wonderful, there were endless newly rich assholes looking for modern pieces to show they were deep.
Unfortunately for them, it was all a big sham between curators and artists.
I was able to sell a client of mine a large canvas that only had a small red circle on the bottom left corner of it, just a week before. He spent one million and sixty thousand dollars on it.
I never understood it.
Of course, I only got half of that money—but it was still an incredible amount for what could have been painted by a slug that got into a puddle of paint. I couldn’t complain when I benefited so clearly from it.
That didn’t mean I had no respect for actual art.
I owned a couple of Vanessa Bell originals and had a happy collection of numbered and dated Picasso sketches that I liked to pick up whenever I made a really good sale.
My father always joked that I was just a glorified conman, but I never sold anyone anything that they didn’t want. If in five years they regretted their choices and decided to get rid of the painting, that was on them. Tastes change.
Maybe I’d eventually stumble upon the next Cy Twombly, and make major bank.
Everyone I knew professionally was conceited, terrible, but Danielle … her voice caught my attention again, and I listened intently as she talked a customer through how they could apply for a small business loan. My father could have been considered a swindler too, but there’s no such thing as free money.
She went quiet, and I decided I should head back to my office.
She’d be off work in twenty minutes.
Those minutes flew by, and soon she was getting ready to leave.
I got ready to leave as well.
I’m no stalker; I’m not some creep. I just wanted to make sure she got home safely. Following behind her by a few paces, making sure not to seem too obvious, I enjoyed the view of her ass for just a few steps before I started to get concerned. Danielle was swaying. I watched as she weaved and swerved as she walked, moving slower and slower.
She stopped, and then started to tilt slowly over.
Giving up my guise of randomly following her, I rushed up and caught Danielle as she started to crumple.
She passed out.
Hard.
Confused, and concerned, I held my hand against her forehead and realized she was burning up. No wonder her face was so bright and pink—she was fighting off some kind of illness. Lifting her up into my arms, I held her against my chest and headed back for my car.
I was such a dumbass. How had I missed how sick she was?
3
Danielle
I had chills.
Not just fever chills, but the kind of chills I’d get after drinking an energy drink right after waking up. My mom used to say those would happen when someone was talking about you, but I was never superstitious. Shifting, I realized how soft the bed was beneath me. It was like memory foam had a baby with marshmallows and I was lucky enough to sleep on it. The sheets were soft, luxurious—I’d never felt anything like them.
Wait.
Where the hell was I? Bolting upright, I had to wince against morning sunlight as I looked around. I was in a bedroom, with aspirin and water on a table beside me. Confused, scared that I’d been kidnapped, I tried to remember anything about the day before.
I was sick.
Though I still didn’t feel great, I wasn’t nearly as feverish as the day before. Work came to mind, and I tried to remember leaving and going anywhere, but the last thing that came to mind was standing up to put my coat on. I gritted my teeth and felt my heart race like it was going to burst out of my chest.
The room was foreign to me—everything was too big and too nice. The bed I was lying on was too big to be considered even a California King mattress; it was like a North America King instead. The headboard alone probably weighed a ton.
I looked down and realized the clothes I was wearing weren’t my own. I was in a tee-shirt and some men’s shorts. What the hell? Quickly pulling at the waistband, I was relieved to see I was still wearing my underwear. That much was good.
Slipping my legs out of bed, I tried to find anything I could recognize. There was weird scribbly art in frames on the wall, but the room itself put off a very masculine vibe. The decor was minimal, and the sheets were a deep and rich navy blue.
There weren’t any picture frames with actual pictures in them, and nothing that looked like it would have a name or address. The idea that I might have been kidnapped sank back in, and I fought at it to go away. That was too scary, I wouldn’t be able to focus on getting out if that were the case.
A clock on the side table read out six-thirty in the morning, and my heart rate shot up for another reason. I hadn’t done any of my course work, and I was going to have to be in class in two-and-a-half hours. Damn it! Hopping out of bed, I’d just started toward the door when it swung open on its own.
“You’re up.”
My boss’s son?
His voice was deep from morning disuse, and his hair looked a little wild and curly since it wasn’t brushed down like it usually was. In his hands were two mugs of something I hoped was coffee.
“What am I doing here?” I couldn’t hide the anxiety from my voice.
“This is my home.” He motioned plainly. “Here, drink this.”
The mug he handed me was tea, not coffee, but I hid my disappointment and accepted it anyway.