THREE
Stella
This place is bananas.
Clayton Castle’s condo looks like something out of Architectural Digest. It’s the epitome of modern with its marriage of straight lines and smooth, pristine surfaces that I’m hesitant to touch.
God forbid I leave a smudge on something, because he’ll know exactly who did it.
My feet pad on the plush carpet as I carry his dry cleaning into his massive walk-in closet and hang it up. He’s got rows and rows of suits in dark, muted colors, and racks of dress shoes that make the whole closet smell faintly of leather.
I walk back into his bedroom, amazed at the view. I think 50% of this condo is made of glass, judging by the floor-to-ceiling windows in almost every room.
Makes me wonder if he’s worried about peeping toms.
Suddenly remembering the groceries I left sitting on his counter, I hightail it to the kitchen. He’s got one of those smart fridges that syncs up your grocery list with your phone, so I was able to download his list without bothering him.
Brenda gave me his number, and vice versa, but said he’ll contact me when he needs something done, so I took that to mean “speak only when spoken to.” And so far, all he’s asked me to do is pick up his dry cleaning and go to the store.
I’m still putting away his groceries when I hear the front door close.
Shit.
I was supposed to be gone by the time he got home.
Hoping he’s not too pissed, I say over my shoulder, “Sorry! I’ll be out of here in just a second, Mr. Castle.” It’d be just my freaking luck to get fired on my first day.
Grabbing the jar of olives from the island, I turn to put them in the fridge as my eyes land on my boss for the first time. They say hindsight is 20/20, and right now I’m really kicking myself for not Googling Clayton Castle beforehand, because then I would’ve known my new boss is the man I ran out on last month.
The one who slipped his hand up my dress and publicly fingered me on a balcony at work. The one who showed me pleasure unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
I gasp as the jar slips out of my hand, shattering on the floor. He stares back at me, his brows furrowed as he blinks and looks down at the mess I’ve just made all over his pristine floor.
“I take it you’re Brenda’s replacement,” he says coolly. “Miss Moretti, right?”
My face feels like it’s a million degrees as I look for something to clean this up. “Yes, sir.”
“So far I’m not impressed.” He turns and walks away, leaving me alone in his kitchen.
Apparently it’s his turn to walk out on me. Can’t say it’s not fair.
***
It’s almost midnight and I can’t sleep. I keep going over this evening in my head, cringing every time I think about it. It’s been hours and I’m still red from embarrassment.
I roll onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut as I try and force sleep to come to me.
It doesn’t.
Just when I start to contemplate taking some Nyquil or something, my phone dings on my nightstand. I reach over and grab it, jerking upright when I see a text alert with Clayton’s name on my screen.
I press the home button and unlock my phone, reading his text:
Are you awake?
My fingers tap out a quick response.
Yes, sir. What do you need?
Three little dots appear as he types, and when the text bubble finally shows up, I nearly choke.
I need to come.
I lick my lips as my thighs instinctually press together. What am I supposed to do about that?
And more importantly, how the hell do I respond to something like that?
Me: How can I be of assistance?
CC: Assist me in getting off, Miss Moretti.
He texts me a picture of his cock and my jaw drops.
Fucking Christ, he’s huge. My pussy instantly throbs as my eyes drink him in, my panties growing wet as I imagine all the dirty things I’d like to do to him.
Me: Why should I help you? If memory serves, you still owe me an orgasm. Sir.
CC: People call me that every day, but hearing YOU call me ‘sir’? It makes me rock fucking hard.
Me: I can tell.
CC: You want your orgasm? Come and get it. You know where I live. You know the code to my front door.
Me: And if I say no?
CC: Then you’ll leave my cock and I very disappointed.
I bite my lip, debating what to do. On one hand, it’s not very professional of me to fuck my boss. Especially on my first damn day. But on the other hand… Well, I really fucking want to.
Bad.
And we already crossed that “professional” line long ago, when I fooled around with a customer at work. I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but that doesn’t stop me from climbing out of bed and slipping into some clothes.
I agreed to be his personal assistant, after all, and he needs me to assist him. Personally. If you look at it that way, I’m just doing my job.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I drive over to his place.