Submission Specialist(Still a Bad Boy #2)(63)

The way she was holding herself, I could tell she was terrified. Those little arms crossed over protectively in front, as if she could hide behind them or something.

With a visible gulp, she closed the distance between the door and the chair I’d directed her to, and I watched her intently. She really was petite. I bet she was tight as fuck.

I was already undressing her with my eyes, looking past the clothes that were on the old side, and probably hadn’t been worth much when they were new. She reminded me of one of those chicks from those movies in the nineties, where the ugly duckling had a superficial makeover and suddenly became the hottest girl in school.

The best part about it was that she obviously had no idea how sexy she was. Damned if she wasn’t making me hard already.

I tented my fingers in front of me as I leaned forward and waited for her to sit. Scenes of me circling around to the other side of my desk and forcing her to her knees to suck my cock flashed through my mind.

As she sat in the chair, she immediately dropped her handbag, the contents spilling at her feet. That blush deepened as she muttered an apology and bent down to pick her things up, giving me a quick flash down her top at those tantalizing curves of her breasts, before her luxurious dark brown hair obscured the view.

No. This one was too good to just fuck straight away. I was going to play it out, just a little, make her so wet that she’d be begging for my cock. Then I’d make her wait a little bit longer, and by the time I finally gave it to her, she’d be so desperate that she’d hardly notice that she’d never spread her legs for a man like me before. Not until it was too late and I was already taking everything I wanted from her perky little body.

“Sorry about that,” she said, sitting upright again and stuffing everything back in except for a notepad and pen.

“It’s fine. So what can I do for you, Miss Brookes?”

“Well… uh… first of all… um… thank you for, you know, making the time for me. I, and The Weekly Enquirer, really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said.

She licked her lips and appeared to be desperately trying to think of something to say. I raised an eyebrow. Of all the journalists, reporters, and would-be documentary makers who had come running at the opportunity to interview me, only to fall victim to my long term plan to get them to fuck off, Kendall was easily the youngest.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Me? I’m… I’m eighteen.”

Teen pussy. Just what the doctor ordered. The corner of my mouth rose in a smirk that would have cost me the game if we were playing poker. As it was, it only seemed to strengthen my advantage over her.

“Aren’t you a little… green, to be handed an interview like this? You wouldn’t believe how many fuckin’ calls Violet out there fields every day about this very thing.”

Kendall flinched at my swearing, and my smirk grew. After all the shit I’d been dealing with all morning, karma had handed me Kendall. Not only was she a tight little package, she was a good girl too, whose idea of hard sex was probably missionary position with socks on and lights out.

“I… I…” she stammered.

I waved it away. “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing really well.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks. So, Mr. Barlow, you won a hundred and eighty million dollars in the state lottery. Most people seem to throw their winnings away, or retire. Nobody ever did what you did. Why didn’t you take your winnings and live out your life on a beach?”

I almost laughed at the understatement. Damn right nobody ever did what I did. This girl, man, she had no idea. She’d never been shot at, never killed a man, probably never even been in a fight.

I’d been doing all those things as long as I could remember. Every skull I cracked was one more step in my grand scheme, but I never could have planned to buy a lottery ticket on a whim, win, and fast-forward my plans by ten or twenty years.

Leaning back in my chair, I rested one foot on the opposite knee and laced my fingers together over my stomach. Fixing her with a look that had melted the panties off women far more wary than her, I gave her an answer that meant precisely fuck-all.

“Well. I had work to do.”





Chapter 3

Kendall

There was no way I was going to end the day without losing my job. This interview was going less successfully than skydiving with an anvil for a parachute. So he had work to do, he liked baseball, he grew up in a group home, he recommended a healthy breakfast. What else?

“Um… do you like art?” I pointed at the paintings on the wall and the sculpture in the corner.

“It’s OK.”