Chapter 8: Sean

My cock plumped in my pants as I watched Claire Goodman saunter her cute ass out of my office. I licked my lips like a hungry wolf watching a lamb grazing casually in a beautiful meadow, imagining the taste of her on my lips and tongue when I went in for the kill.

Everything about her turned me on.

Her eyes, her lips, her tits, her ass, the way she carried herself, the way she spoke, the way her eyes lingered on mine, and how she squeezed my fingers when we shook hands. I picked up her resume and brought it to my nose. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I could smell faint traces of her perfume on the paper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I opened my eyes to see my old man standing in front of my desk with his hands on his hips and his tongue sticking through the gap in his teeth. He rubbed a knuckle under his nose and grinned. “You want me to leave the room so you can rub one out?”

I set the resume on the desk and rolled my eyes. “Did you see her?”

“Oh, I saw her,” he said. “I assume she got the job?”

“You assume correctly,” I said. “You can rest easy now, pops. Your new secretary starts on Monday.”

* * *

I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock. My pulse quickened knowing that Claire Goodman would be arriving soon.

I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the back wall of my bedroom walk-in closet. I had on a dark navy blue Armani suit and white shirt with gold cufflinks, a gold Rolex on my left wrist and my Harvard class ring on my right hand. I smoothed back my hair and checked my teeth.

Not bad, I thought.

Not bad at all.

I made sure the housekeeper left the bedroom neat and tidy (women hate a slob), then walked into the kitchen where Jean Paul, the personal chef I’d hired to prepare dinner, was putting the finishing touches on the evening meal.

I had asked for filet mignon and whatever he could come up with to go with it. I’m no gourmet. I’d rather eat at Denney’s than Delmonico’s, but I wanted this dinner to be just right. He assured me that the dinner would be delicious and impressive. For five grand it damned well better be.

I poured myself a glass of wine and sipped it as I walked through the rest of the penthouse to make sure everything was set. Jean Paul’s assistant was setting the table. There was a bottle of champagne chilling on ice and little trays of hors d'oeuvres had been set out. I wasn’t much for fancy finger foods (give me pigs in a blanket any day), but whatever the black stuff on the little crackers was, it wasn’t bad. Beluga caviar, I think Jean Paul said. Fishy tasting, expensive as fuck, but not bad.

In the living room, I fiddled with the fancy stereo equipment for a moment, punching buttons and turning knobs. This fucking setup cost twenty grand and didn’t do anything my iPhone couldn’t do, other than pipe music into every room of the house.

I flipped switches and kept pushing buttons until I finally got the Michael Buble CD to work. I turned it up just loud enough to serve as background music. If there was dancing later, I’d turn up the music and the lights down then.

The doorbell rang precisely at eight. I glanced at myself in the hallway mirror on my way to the front door. Perfect. I put my hand on the knob, quietly cleared my throat, plastered on a smile, and opened the door.

There stood Claire Goodman, radiant in a little black dress that showed off her long legs and ample cleavage and would be easy to slip out of if the night ended as I hoped it would.

She was carrying a little clutch purse. She held it at her crotch, between her hands, like she was protecting her pussy. Smart girl, and nice try, but when I set my sights on a piece of pussy, I usually get my way. When our eyes met, she smiled.

“Hi, am I on time?” she asked.

“You are,” I said, stepping aside and holding out a hand to welcome her in. I inhaled her scent as she passed. It was intoxicating. My nose wanted to follow her like a bloodhound on the scent of something wonderful. “Please, go on into the living room.”

“Am I early?” she asked when she walked into the living room to find no one else there. She turned to give me a suspicious look.

“Well, little change of plans I’m afraid,” I said, working up a concerned look. “Boozie wasn’t feeling well, so we had to call the whole thing off at the last minute. She’s been undergoing chemo, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” she said, glancing around the room as if she thought other people might magically appear. “So, the party is off then?”

“The party is off, but dinner is on.”

She frowned as her eyes went around my face as if looking for any signs of an evil plot that was afoot. She clutched the little purse to her breasts as if she thought I might try to steal it.

She said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The chef had already prepared a lovely dinner,” I said, pouring a glass of champagne and holding it out to her. She didn’t take it at first. She looked at the glass, then looked at me.

I said, “I would hate to see so much expensive food go to waste, so I thought you and I could have dinner and get better acquainted. That way you can hit the ground running on Monday.”

She hesitated for a second more, then took the glass of champagne and slowly brought it to her mouth. She took a small sip and licked her lips.

Smiling at me with her eyes, she said, “How do I know this wasn’t just a ploy to get me alone in your apartment, Mr. O’Connor?”

“Please, call me Sean.”

“How do I know this wasn’t just a ploy to get me alone in your apartment, Sean?”

I thought about feigning innocence, but what the fuck. I didn’t give a shit about dinner. And fuck the pretense. What I wanted to sink my teeth into was not on Jean Paul’s menu. It was inside that little black dress. I brought the champagne glass to my lips and gave her a “busted” roll of my eyes.

“Would that have been so terrible?” I asked. “Wanting to have dinner with a beautiful woman?”

“It depends on where you expected things to go after dinner,” she said, giving me a stern look. “I’m no whore, Mr. O’Connor. You can hire me to work for you, but my pussy is not for sale.”

I nearly shot champagne through my nose. I snorted and coughed for a moment, then wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

“I didn’t think you were a whore, Miss Goodman,” I said, giving her the smile that usually got the chicks in the clubs to go dreamy eyed. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on her. “And I certainly didn’t think your pussy was for sale. However, if it is as remarkable as the rest of you, I am sure it would be worth every cent, regardless of cost.”

She narrowed her beautiful eyes at me, then the hint of a smile curled at the corners of her luscious lips. She said, “You could have just asked me out you know.”

“Would you have said yes?”

She shrugged her bare shoulders and took another sip of champagne, then said, “I guess now we’ll never know.”