Chapter 11
11
KYLIE
I actually have the full weekend off. It’s Sunday, and Mr. Monroe hasn’t texted me or called me into the office at all.
It’s been so nice to spend time with Benny. We went to Eataly in downtown Manhattan. For the first time ever, I could afford to splurge on groceries at their market.
My parents were both Italian. Not off the boat—that was their parents. Both sets of grandparents died rather young from health complications. My mom was great in the kitchen. I remember watching her make so many of her favorite childhood dishes.
But those meats and cheeses aren’t cheap. I haven’t been able to give Benny the same experiences I had.
With a renewed sense of self-discovery, I pulled out my mother’s recipe cards and am going to give some of the recipes a shot.
I’m not great in the kitchen. That’s what happens when all you’ve made for the last five years are spaghetti with sauce from a jar and boxed mac and cheese.
I’m standing in the kitchen, listening to music, with a glass of red wine in my hand while I look over the recipe card for homemade lasagna.
“Are y-y-y-y-y-you sure you c-c-c-c-can make it?” Benny asks while he stands next to me in our kitchen, which is the size of a bathtub.
I chuckle at how concerned he sounds. “I don’t think it can be that hard. Mom did it all the time. She never had a hard time with it.”
I hear his sigh behind me. “M-M-M-M-Ma knew how to cook.”
“True. But there’s no time like the present to learn. Remember what your therapist said, by the way. Slow down when you talk. Take some deep breaths.”
“I … know. Sometimes … it’s … hard,” he replies. “I … don’t … want … to … take … too … long … and … annoy … you.”
I turn around and give him a stern look. “You’ll never annoy me, buddy. What do you think about Gretchen’s temporary replacement? Are you comfortable with them?”
His face lights up as he tells me all about how the therapist used to have a stutter when he was younger. It brings me so much joy to see my brother with a smile on his face. There were years that I don’t think he smiled for anything.
“I found a pretty decent place in Greenwich Village. It’s closer to work, bigger, safer. You would have to switch schools though. What do you think about that?”
His eyes gleam with excitement. “I … would … like … that. If therapy … works … I could … make friends.”
My eyes glisten with sadness. I turn back to the tray so he doesn’t see how much his words tear me up.
“That would be great. You’re an amazing kid. Anybody would be lucky to call you a friend. I’ll take a look at the apartment this week.”
Sometime during my cursing out the lasagna noodles, which I cooked slightly before layering, Benny escaped to his room to read. I pop the tray into the oven and close it with a huff. I don’t remember my mom looking this out of sorts and exhausted after cooking. This took it out of me.
I glance around the kitchen. It’s like my kitchen has staged a rebellion against me. Flour explosions, detonated pasta sauce, cheese everywhere. But I’m far too tired to clean it right now. I’ll make Benny help me after dinner.
I grab the book I got at The Ripped Bodice the other day. It’s a billionaire romance book. I haven’t read a billionaire romance in years. For a while, I was stuck on the small-town romance books. As of late, I’ve been finding them kind of boring. The hero is too sweet and says the same romantic things over and over. I need something different.
I only manage to get through a chapter before my eyes begin to feel heavy. It’s not until a buzzer goes off that I’m pulled from my sleep on the couch. I look around to gather my bearings.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself as I run to the kitchen—all five steps that it takes to get there—and open the oven. “Oh,” I sigh, “thank God.”
It actually doesn’t look bad. The cheese on top has the perfect display of golden patches, giving it just enough of a melted but not burned look. I grab my oven mitts and pull it out.
By the time Benny and I are sitting at the table, my stomach is growling. I skipped lunch, trying to make this damn dinner.
I’m touched when he tells me the lasagna looks really good. He says it slowly and without a stutter. I’ve lost count of the number of times I thought I was failing him as a guardian. To see things begin to turn around for the both of us, it’s everything.
And to think, it’s all because of that grumpy CEO who has somehow been willing to let me keep my job despite finding out I have zero qualifications and a big mouth.
Benny and I manage to clean the kitchen a lot faster than I anticipated. I suppose it looked worse than it was.
After a shower—short and cold because our building sucks—I get cozy in my pajamas and jump under my fleece blanket on my bed to warm up.
I pull out my book, my eye catching on the man on the cover. He’s wearing a business vest, and his forearms are the center of the cover. The veins that run along his arms remind me of Mr. Monroe’s. He actually looks a lot like Mr. Monroe. From the dark hair to the stubble on his face. Not too long, but long enough to show he’s man enough to grow one.
I shake the thought from my head. I don’t know how I feel about Mr. Monroe sneaking into my thoughts when I’m just about to dive into my dirty book.
I do my best to push him to the back of my mind and start on chapter two. But the similarities between the two of them begin to make it impossible for me to picture anyone but him.
As I read about this sharp man in a suit, who is an enigmatic and brooding CEO, Lincoln is front and center in my thoughts.
It’s him.
My billionaire boss.
The descriptions hit me in the gut and travel south. The strong jaw. The way he can command a room. His icy eyes that can make one forget their own name with one glance. A sexy smirk that promises he can do naughty things to reprimand someone for their fiery responses.
My cheeks burn as I get further into the book. The writer starts describing the way his hands move possessively along the heroine’s collarbone. Then they start to dip down until they graze the top of her breasts, teasing her with what they can do. Wetness pools in my panties as I read, each line more scandalous than the last.
I look around the room like someone is about to catch me doing something I shouldn’t, but I know I’m alone. What would it feel like to finally let myself give in to these urges? For years, I’ve worried about Benny walking in because he had a bad dream or couldn’t fall asleep. As a result, I’ve deprived myself of the simple pleasures of being human.
Not once have I experienced what an orgasm is like, though I’ve read about it in excruciating detail in my books. The way the woman clutches the sheets and arches her back. How she says it starts low in her belly, then explodes throughout her body like a tidal wave.
I continue to read about the hero as he crawls down her body. The way he talks so dirty to her, telling her the things he’s going to do to her.
I can only think of him .
His hands. His voice. His eyes on me. His devilish smirk before his mouth descends on my most intimate area. The man would probably say the most wicked things.
I never knew how much the possibility of someone talking like that to me could turn me on—until now. Or maybe it’s not so much the words as much as the man behind them.
The moment they describe his hazel eyes watching her as his tongue sweeps across her pussy, I slam the book shut. My breaths are like ocean waves coming quickly as I try to control the effect the words are having on me.
My hand drifts under my shirt and rests on my belly. Maybe I should just try it and see what it feels like. I drag my hand down my stomach until it dips into my panties.
With my eyes closed, I imagine it’s him. His hand reaching into my panties and slowly grazing my clit. My hips shoot off the bed, the first touch already feeling thrilling. I dip my pointer and middle finger further until they are at the entrance of my pussy.
I don’t know how to gauge what is normal, but I am really wet. When I drag my fingers back up to my clit, I glide them around a lot easier with the moisture now. I explore different rhythms and speeds as I let my mind go where it wants to.
I picture myself on his desk with him between my legs. His sleeves are rolled up again, giving me a full view of the veins on his arms as his fingers work my clit.
My heart is pounding against my chest as my breathing accelerates.
The pleasure continues to increase until I’m not sure I can handle the sensations I’m experiencing. Then it hits me—an explosion unlike anything I have ever felt before. The most intense part of it is around my pussy, but I feel it everywhere.
It’s not what the books describe it to be. It’s even better. My entire body feels completely satisfied. Not one muscle feels tense or stressed. Why don’t they prescribe masturbating if you’re feeling stressed? It certainly feels like a good solution to the problem. At least right now, it does.
I just know that I’m going to sleep well tonight. I can’t even regret thinking about Lincoln because I’m too satiated and relaxed to care.
The next morning, I can barely look him in the eyes. Every time I do, I picture them looking up at me while he’s between my legs. I blush like crazy and scurry away like a scared little koala bear.
I think I’ve effectively avoided him until he calls me into his office at the end of the day.
He looks me up and down in a way that has new meaning in my eyes. “I have to go to LA this weekend for a conference. It will have panel talks, lectures, interviews, and a gala in the evening. I’m the keynote speaker. I need you there with me.”
My first thought is how impressive it is that he was selected as the keynote speaker at such a big event in the industry. It shows the power and influence the man has, even outside of this company.
Then I realize what he’s asking. He wants me to go to California with him for the weekend. What am I supposed to say? This is clearly part of my job. But I’ve never left Benny alone this long.
“Is there a problem?” he asks impatiently as I stand in silence.
I gulp down my fear. I guess I have to tell him eventually. “It’s just … my brother.”
He furrows his brows. “What about your brother?”
“He, er … I’m his guardian. He’s only twelve. I’ve never left him alone for an entire night since …” I stop, not sure how much I want to share with him.
“Since?” He leans forward in his chair, his curiosity evident.
“Since my parents went missing five years ago,” I manage.
His face freezes. The usual mask of indifference is gone for the briefest moment. For a man who always commands the room, who never stutters over his words, he seems speechless. It dawns on me that I’ve only ever told my neighbor Angela about my past. I don’t have any friends to spill my sorrows to.
“You’ve been raising him on your own?” he finally asks, voice lower and less sure of himself.
I nod my head. “Since I was sixteen. That’s why I only have my GED. I convinced the court to give me guardianship if I worked during the day and took classes online to finish school.”
“And insurance money?” he asks.
I almost chuckle. His mind is never far from money.
“I never got any. They’d never found their bodies, so the court told me I had to wait seven years. I couldn’t afford a lawyer to help me fight it.”
A hint of anger shows on his face. Along with … admiration? I can’t tell.
As he leans back in his chair, blowing out a breath, I see a possible crack in his armor. Small but there.
“Very well. I suppose I can go alone this weekend.”
Whatever moment of honesty I thought we were having seems to be gone. The closed-off CEO is back. But I know I need to do this. I need to figure out how to get away for the weekend for work. It’s something that will continue to be necessary in order to keep my job. I will just talk to Angela about helping out.
“No,” I say adamantly. “I can make it work. I just need to talk to my neighbor.”
“Here.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Then he hands me a black card, which I know only few people in this world have. “Use this. There’s no limit on it, like your work card. Spend as much as you’d like for outfits for the weekend.”
“What?” I gasp as I hold it in my hand like it’s fragile and it might break. “I can’t possibly use your money. I can buy my own clothes.”
The sharp edge of his stare sends chills down my spine. It makes me think of my thoughts last night, and I feel moisture pool in my panties. Shit.
“This is a work event. And the event is extremely formal. I need you to be dressed accordingly. I will give you the contact number to my stylist. She will help you. It’s not a suggestion, Kylie.”
There it is. A nice gesture, followed by a dick remark. Apparently, my clothes aren’t nice enough for him to be seen with me, and he’s making it known this is an order.
I nod my head and walk out of his office. I’m torn between wanting to smack the guy for his demanding ways or … well, I’m not going to go there.