Maybe if I call my aunt now, she can move me to the kid table. That will be fun.
I grimace at the thought as I make my way along the street to the building where I work at a real job. When I enter the building that houses the offices of Buchanan and Willis, a pharmaceutical distributor, my mind is hundreds of miles away. Out of habit, I squeeze my way into the coffee shop.
"Caffe vanilla light frappuccino. Venti," I say while making mental notes: it's Tuesday. I need to be in Indiana on Thursday. I haven't asked for time off. I don't have an airline ticket or a dress or a date. My mind's a blur as the barista hands me my coffee and I turn, bumping right into him.
"Shit!" I say louder than I intend.
"Miss Jones."
I look from the steaming coffee that managed to mostly stay within the confines of the cup—thank God for lids—and stare as some trickles down my hand and a small drop lands on my white blouse. My gaze goes to the floor. In front of me are his dark leather shoes. My eyes move upward: his grey slacks that narrow at his waist. I suck in a breath at the way his suit coat hangs from his broad shoulders. Finally, our eyes meet.
Gritting my teeth, I force a smile. "Mr. Willis." I search his suit for evidence of our collision. "Did I..." I motion with a tip of my head.
Mr. Willis grins as his deep voice drowns out the crowd. "Near miss, I believe. No harm, no foul." And then he steps around me.
Shit. Can this day get any worse?
Mr. Willis is half of Buchanan and Willis Pharmaceuticals. He and Michael Buchanan started what has become a multibillion dollar company. It's not that he's smart and rich—even if he is. It's that he's sex on a stick. The man should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of our office. The way he wears his tailored suits on his over six-foot frame should be illegal. With jet-black hair and stunning green eyes, he can melt panties with just a smirk. No doubt, mine are currently nothing but hot wax.
Not that any of that matters. He hardly knows I'm alive, other than when he wants me to do some menial task: book a hotel or check on an invoice. His requests never involve anything in my actual job description. That doesn't mean I tell him no. From what I've heard, no one ever tells him no.
I admit that there have been more than a few times I've imagined him asking me to do other things. Things that go against company policy. Things that include his large hands and cock.
I don't actually know how big his cock is, but in my imagination it's huge.
Shaking my head, I make my way to the elevator. Minutes later I go from the elevator to my cubicle. Leaving my cup of coffee on my desk, I decide to attempt to save my blouse. Maybe if I can wash the coffee stain away, my day will start to improve.
Not wanting to strip to my lacy bra in front of half my female coworkers, I go on to one of the smaller employee bathrooms, one hidden down a hallway with only two stalls.
Any other day I'd be irate about the coffee. After all, this is one of my favorite outfits, a white silk blouse, navy pencil skirt, big red chunky necklace and red high-heeled fuck-me pumps. It would seem like the shoes would be uncomfortable, but surprisingly they aren't. Besides, I love the way they accent the red.
My white lace bra barely contains my DD breasts as I carefully lower my blouse under a cool stream of water.
"Yes, in here..." A woman's voice coos near the bathroom door.
Shit. "Of course," I mumble, clenching my blouse to my bare stomach and moving into a stall. As I shut the door, the outside door crashes open.
"O-oh," the female voice pants. "Y-yes. Let me show you."
I shake my head. Really? It isn't bad enough that I have the whole mother-wedding thing, now I get to listen to two people fucking in a bathroom.
"A-ah, God..."
I sit on the toilet with my wet blouse on my lap. I might as well get comfortable and try to ignore what's happening beyond the stall.
"Oh. Oh!"
Holy fuck! Whoever they are, they're going at it. OMG. It's like eight in the morning. I'm not against morning sex, just not in the company bathroom!
The breathing gets heavier.
I should stop this. I work in HR and this is definitely against company policy, but damn, it's hot. Besides, I don't have a blouse on. I can't exactly run out in my bra and yell stop! And it's a great diversion from my sucky life. It'll give me something to fantasize about during my upcoming shitty weekend.
I haven't heard the man's voice yet, just his breathing.
Oh fuck!
I see female legs, blue pumps and a skirt as she falls to her knees.
A zipper. I hear a fucking zipper. "Don't do it," I plead mentally. "Don't do it."
My mind may be disapproving, but the hotter it gets, the more my body agrees. Moisture builds between my legs as I let my imagination take over. Without thinking, my fingers move under my skirt and push the crotch of my panties aside. Damn, they're wet.