Because as disgusted as I am with myself, I can’t stop the fascination at what I’m seeing. I witnessing something terribly intimate. Yes, I’m touching myself in front of him, but he’s doing the same. Just the thought and the sight of him so hard right in front of my face sends another wave of heat between my legs.
Because he’s not a dirty old man or some disgusting pageant judge touching himself in front of me. It’s Bryce Gentry. He’s gorgeous. He’s watching and waiting for my pleasure. Oh God, but this is still so wrong. My back arches again as the pleasure rises higher inside me.
His cock seems like it’s even bigger now, and I don’t think it’s just because it’s closer with him standing near the glass like that. I can’t stop staring. It’s long, with a thick vein running up along the underside and a pink mushroom head that he squeezes and twists every time he gets to it before pulling back down along the shaft.
“Your cunt is fucking squelching over there, isn’t it? Just from looking at my cock. You wish I had you up against this glass, don’t you?” He pounds at the glass wall with his hand and I look back up toward his eyes. They’re so hot with want. Is he going to open up the door and come around and fuck me? Surely that’s what all this has been leading up toward. I keep touching myself, having no idea what I’d do if he did.
“You’re creaming yourself just at the sight of me,” he says, voice elevated. “Tell me the truth,” he slams at the glass again. “Come, you fucking slut! Do it now!” He hammers again at the glass, looking wild as he pumps so hard at his dick it looks almost painful.
Oh Christ, we’re losing control together.
I’m panting so hard I can barely breathe and rub at my clit while pumping fingers from my other hand in and out of myself, imagining it’s his cock and I come, quick and hard—
A high-pitched squeal that barely has sound eeks out of me as my vision goes white. I feel it to the tips of my fingernails and the furthermost edges of my toes. Quick. Sharp. Like lightning, and then it’s gone, leaving a warm haze behind.
When I open my eyes, ready to see the shared experience on Bryce’s face, but he’s sitting back down in his chair.
Still rubbing his dick back and forth.
He didn’t come with me.
Instead, he pulls a cloth out of his suit pocket and lays it on his lap. Then, looking bored as he glances down at something on his phone, he keeps jerking at his cock. A few seconds later, he spews cum onto the cloth. Without another glance my way.
He cleans up his cock with the cloth, then drops it in a bin in one of his cupboards. He whistles while he packs his laptop in a briefcase and saunters toward the door of his office. Before he leaves, his voice comes through the intercom one more time—he must have it wired through his damn phone or Bluetooth or something, because I can’t see him pressing anything,
“Oh, and Miss Cruise, tomorrow I’ll need you to take out my dry-cleaning.” With that, he’s gone.
Four
I choke back the sob that’s trying to come up my throat and spin my chair away from his office. I stand up just enough to yank my skirt back down, sweat mixing with my makeup and running into my eyes until they sting.
It’s just from the sweat and the makeup in my eyes. That’s all. That’s the only reason I’m crying. Not because of him. I find the small container of tissues I keep in my purse and tug several free. I swipe angrily at my eyes until I can see again.
God. Is letting myself be humiliated like this worth it? But what the hell else am I going to do? I slink to the ground with my back to the desk and bang my head against it. Then I grab my purse and frantically reach for my phone.
I log into my banking app. Instead of the $44.53 that was my entire balance yesterday, there’s now a balance of $6583.76.
I sit up straighter and immediately wipe again at my eyes.
Holy shit. It’s real.
I lean back against the desk and breathe out. Holy shit. I mean, I believed the bastard when he told me the salary earlier, but seeing the number in my bank account. Sixty-five hundred dollars. Every month.
I let out a little laugh. That’s my paycheck after tax… holy shit.
The three-thousand-dollar retainer fee for my dream lawyer is suddenly… totally doable. As in, I can pay for the attorney and make rent. Or well, pay off some back rent, and be current within a couple months.
Oh my God. My chest feels like it’s filled with helium. When I laugh this time, it’s genuine.
And then I’m just shaking my head, because what the hell? I haven’t been wrung through so many emotions in such a short amount of time since… well, since I told David I was pregnant with Charlie.
I take in a deep breath and hold it as I get shakily to my feet.
Buck up, Cals. This is your life. I drag myself off the office floor. Yes, my life might be a string of one fucked up thing after another right now. Yes, I might be getting myself in what I’ll just sweep under the rug and refer to once I’m old and wise as ‘youthful indiscretions.’ But I’ll get through this. I’ll be able to fight whatever super-attorneys David and his wife throw at me.
One day at a time, one foot in front of another.
I throw my mascara covered tissues in the trash and open up the clothes cabinet at the back of my office. I fix my makeup in the cabinet mirror and smile at my reflection. It looks more like a grimace. I roll my eyes, grab an outfit for tomorrow, and shut the door tight.
The rest of the week, nothing happens.
Well, I mean, a lot of things happen. I’m thrown in the deep end as far as figuring out what the hell a personal assistant does.
Some of it is what you see on TV and the movies—getting coffee and the boss’s dry cleaning, but the rest of it is just mundane office stuff. Learning how to deal with Bryce’s personal and business email correspondence, i.e., copying and pasting similar polite responses with brief personalizations at the start and end, mostly saying thank you for contacting me but I’m very busy, blah, blah, blah. Or fielding requests for meetings, personal appearances, interviews, and managing his very hectic calendar. Along with the emails of the female variety wanting a follow up encounter for a rendezvous. When I ask Bryce about them, he only dismissively rolls his eyes and asks how they got his email in the first place. I very diplomatically do not mention that I can see from the email history that he and whichever woman have emailed back and forth several times—often with him initiating contact after he’s met the woman at some social event or other. At his bidding, I write a quick response requesting no further communication and then block their emails. I try to use the nicest language I can. But really, is there a nice way to tell someone you’ve been intimate with to fuck off and never contact you again? I’ve been on the other side of that and I know that no, there’s not.
But apart from the never-ending task of keeping up with his email, taking notes whenever he has meetings, ordering his schedule, and keeping him in hot, caffeinated beverages, Bryce doesn’t request any extras outside the scope of a normal PA’s duties. I’m both relieved and on edge every second waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At home each night I’ve started taking the hottest baths I can stand to loosen the muscles in my back and neck. I’m sore from being so tense all day, just waiting for the next crass demand from my boss.