She tosses her hair and leans over to whisper something in the ear of the woman standing next to her, and then they both smirk and laugh quietly.
Now, I want to be her boss, just so I can give her the nastiest job in the joint. I’m sure someone here has to scrub the floorboards with a toothbrush, right? Might as well be her.
I finally wind down my rehearsed speech, only having to refer to my cards occasionally as I talk. I can talk convincingly and plan strategies to take down my enemies at the same time.
And that brunette? She has it coming. She won’t know what hit her.
The employees applaud as unconvincingly for my speech as they did for Mr. Isaouk’s but I don’t care. Fuck ‘em. I own their asses now. I signed the paperwork last night, and then celebrated with three gorgeous women in my private Jacuzzi.
Which is why I was late waking up this morning—fucking three women and bringing them all to orgasm takes a lot of skill and stamina, you know, and so when my private limo got a fucking flat tire on the way to Blush, I had no choice. I had to jump out and try to flag a taxi cab. I mean, I’ve been in a taxi before, sure. It’s been a while; I don’t slum it just to try to keep some street cred or something. I’ve worked hard to be worth billions and I don’t have to justify my lifestyle to anyone, but I’ve been in one before.
I can’t say that I’ve had one stolen from me before, though. Not many people dare to stand up to me, and they sure as fuck don’t laugh at me and hang their heads out of the window of a cab, waving gleefully at me as they do it.
Mr. Isaouk walks me to my temporary office—just this small, piece of shit office with only two windows in it and not a decent stick of furniture to be found—and apologizes for the humbleness of the office as he backs out, bowing as he goes, promising I’ll be able to move into my real office tomorrow.
Fucking right I will, whether its current occupant wants me to or not.
I stride over to the floor-to-ceiling window by the cheap oak desk and stare out over the city.
I need to get myself under control. I can’t have that little slip of a girl fucking me around like this. I spent the last hour thinking-not-thinking about how much I’d like to spank that round ass of hers and really, I can’t let her control that much of my focus. I should probably call up Tiffani tonight and see if she’d be wiling to do a round—or three—of some nasty BDSM games. Tying her up and—
The knocking on the door interrupts my thoughts. Cursing under my breath, I turn and call out, “Come.”
I don’t want to sit on that nasty leatherette chair at that piece of shit oak desk, so I stay standing instead, arms folded across my chest. Whoever it is, they damn well better have a good reason for ruining my daydream about spanking Tiffani like the slut she is.
The door slowly opens and around the corner, in peeks her.
The taxi thief.
The fuckable brunette.
The one I’m going to make clean the baseboards of the building with a toothbrush.
I instantly feel myself grow hard as she slips into the office and closes the door behind her quietly, her tits shoved up underneath her chin, her skirt hugging every curve she has, and I don’t know why she’s in my office, but I do know I need to get my cock under control.
Because the other option, the option that my cock is pushing for real hard? It’s to bend her over the desk and fuck her from behind.
And I’m not going to do that, I don’t care how much my cock begs me to.
I stare at her, and wait for her to speak.
33
Ashley
You heard when I said Wolf of New York, right?
Like, you were paying attention and remember that, right?
This guy is a major player in EVERYTHING.
He owns the Biltmore Hotel in Soho. The Susan Duran fashion line. I think he bought the football team, New York Nailers too.
I mean, you see him on newspapers. You see him on TV.
Duh, no wonder he seemed kinda familiar.
So, I’m like fucked. No, actually, I think I’m dying. Like, really dying. I’m thinking that my heart is gonna jump right out of my chest, it’s pounding so hard and I can’t breathe right and—
I straighten my back, which incidentally pushes out my chest, which can never hurt, right? And I push back my hair.
I can do this. I may die before I get everything out, but I can do this.
“IjustcametoapologizeforstealingyourcabthismorningandI’mreallysorryaboutit.”
Whoosh. Okay, so he may not have understood anything I just said, but I said it and so that’s what counts, right? I have a clean conscience now. I’m good to go. I can—
I start backing slowly toward the door, feeling for the knob with my hand outstretched. It has to be here somewh—