Rainier
I don’t even realize I’m staring at her. Miss Petit, my assistant, rifles through the top drawer of a sleek wooden cabinet in my office. She’s silhouetted perfectly in the bright window behind my desk. The roundness of her ass is so wonderfully accentuated in that pencil skirt. It’s a shock and a shame that her breasts are always smothered away in annoyingly professional blouses. She flicks through my files, peering over the rims of her square-framed glasses. Warm cinnamon-colored hair is gathered into a strict topknot on the crown of her head, and she looks so sexy right now. Normally, I don’t go for the librarian type; I prefer bombshells. But if you took off her glasses and pulled down her hair... if you unzipped her tight little skirt...
Miss Petit finds the file she needs and whirls, then shrieks and staggers back into the cabinet, closing it with her shoulder blades. Her liquid hazel eyes widen in shock.
“Mr. Howell, it’s you!” she exclaims, pressing the manila folder against her tits and exhaling in relief. I wish I wasn’t such a dirty man with this girl. I really do. She’s only twenty-two, and she doesn’t deserve to feel like a piece of meat—no matter how hard my mouth is watering. No matter how hard my—
“I was just getting the last of your files in order for when you get back from your Thanksgiving trip. I’m so sorry I didn’t get your permission to be in here first.”
“Bad girl,” I murmur, striding closer to her. I wonder what she wears under the skirt. Thigh highs? Or just wet panties? I bet she smells delicious between her legs and I thicken without meaning to or wanting to. “Somebody ought to teach you a lesson.”
“Wh-what?” Miss Petit stammers, blinking up at me.
I shake my head, clearing away the fog of lust. It’s been a few months since I blew my load inside an actual flesh-and-blood woman and it’s starting to affect my work performance. The invitation from Mystique Island couldn’t have come at a better time, honestly. Poor Miss Petit is about to be thrown against my desk and have her clothes ripped off.
“Sorry, Miss Petit.” I pull in a deep breath and my cock relaxes. “Just kidding. That was inappropriate.”
A deep blush flowers on Miss Petit’s cheeks. “You can call me Ella, sir.”
Fuck. I get rigid again. You can call me Ella. She’s never said that before, and we’ve worked together for four months now.
Hm. That’s how long I’ve been fucking celibate, too.
A problem I seek to rectify this weekend.
“Ella.” I repeat her name deeply, enjoying the way it rolls off my tongue.
A little flame leaps in her eyes and I see the way her body shifts, like she’s just begging to be grabbed.
“So,” she says, swallowing. “Where are you taking your holiday this year? Rex told me you’re always jetting off to mysterious islands.”
I settle into the leather chair behind my desk, even though Ella is very close and now my eyes are level with her ass. Still, I like this position. I feel powerful, like I could grab her hips and yank her into my lap any second. I smooth a hand over my black and white suit and notice that I’m visibly erect. There’s no way to hide it from Ella, but she pretends like she doesn’t see it. I touch at my flawlessly styled black hair and then leave it. I know sometimes the tiniest touch can make everything unravel...
“Rex, huh?” I prod, not answering her question. The last thing she needs to know is Mystique Island. “You two old friends?” I wonder, raising a thick eyebrow at her. I’m not jealous. Just amused. Rex is my partner at Howell & McKenzie, our six-billion-dollar property enterprise.
But Ella is my assistant. Not his. And I’m not jealous. Just amused.
“Er, no,” Ella corrects me, blushing harder. The hot pink on her fair cheeks only highlights the adorable diamond-shaped structure of her face. Her jaw is delicate, but her cheekbones are so sharp, they could cut a bitch. Paired with those pouty lips and that elegant nose, she doesn’t really belong in clerical services. She belongs on the front page of Cosmo.
Or Penthouse... with her dewy thighs spread open and her glasses off, nibbling at them like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.
I need to get out of this office and pound into a woman pronto, before all this untapped masculinity ends with Ella suing the company. With just cause.
“He just asked me to call him Rex,” she explains lightly. She turns and organizes the new file with some other folders on my desk, then pulls out a Post-It and presses it to the folder. She plucks a pen from its holster and jots down a note for me. “He was being nice,” she continues, but I’m staring at that juicy ass in my face right now. My cock pounds for her, and I know I can’t talk him down this time. He’s beating as hard as my heart.
I come to a stand behind her. Her hips run parallel with mine, and I can tell that, if I leaned into her, the crack of her ass would nestle perfectly against my hard-on.
“Am I not nice?” I wonder, my voice thick with restraint.
Ella glances over her shoulder at me. “Not particularly, Mr. Howell,” she breathes.
“Nor will I be,” I promise her. “My tombstone is going to say Mr. Howell on it.”
She laughs, a light, musical thing, and stands upright, turning to face me. There’s a rainbow of color-coded envelopes on my desk. She really would be the perfect woman—if she didn’t work for me, of course. And if she wasn’t so meek and clean.
“I think I’m all done here,” she says, “unless you need me for anything else.”
Unless you need me for anything else.
I imagine myself buried inside her mouth, her hair loose and wild in my lap, my load pulsing down her throat in hot rushes of relief. She knows I’m hard right now. Is she trying to suggest something, or is my brain so full of testosterone, I can’t think straight anymore?
“Nothing,” I croak. “I guess you’ll be with your family this Thanksgiving, like everyone else.”
“That’s the plan,” Ella answers brightly. “The rest of us will be at home, eating turkey and bickering about politics, while you’re on your Mystery Island.”
My jaw clenches and I wonder how much Rex seriously told her. The identities of the partygoers at Mystique Island are confidential. It’s the kind of thing that could never ruin a billionaire... but it could certainly create an unnecessary ripple in the Twittersphere.
“Rex doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I assure her, reaching out and smoothing one flyaway wisp from her bun. Her chin tilts up responsively. A submissive. I knew it. Not recoiling from my touch but bending to it. I remove my hand and her eyelashes flutter like she’s waking from a daydream. “There’s no Mystery Island. Just a timeshare at Sandals. I carry a lot of stress in my shoulders, and it helps. Jamaica this year,” I lie.
“I wish I could come with you.” Her eyes have never looked bigger.
You can. You can come with me right now.
“You don’t mean that,” I assure her. “Everyone needs to be with family.”
“I’ve been in this office seventy hours a week for four months,” she answers me. “Sometimes it feels like this is home.”
I bite my tongue from extending an invitation to Mystique Island to her. I want to be inside her, between her legs, to the hilt... but I know I just need to get into someone. It isn’t her. She’s just a beautiful woman, always bending over in front of me. That’s all. But she’s not my type, and bringing her on an extravagant sexcapade would only break her heart in the long run.
Mystique Island is very selective, anyway. I couldn’t just bring her, even if I wanted to. They run STD screenings and pregnancy tests and everything.
“Maybe next year,” I tell her, even though I know I’m lying. “I’ll bring you back a souvenir, though. What do you want?”
She gazes back at me and says nothing.
“Anything your heart desires,” I add.
She sighs and answers, “Sand in a bottle. Sand from Jamaica.”
I wink at her, feeling generous. I will bring her back sand from Mystique Island. It’s the least I can do. Ella is such a good girl for me, and I do work her hard. “You got it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Howell,” she says. “See you next week.”
I watch her walk out, suddenly famished.