1. Angie #2
But I can’t lose this job. The pay is too good, even if the work stinks, and I’m the one paying rent on the apartment I share with my mom, buying groceries, restocking soaps, basically doing everything an adult should do but that my mother is incapable of handling herself.
Crap, crap, crap. Gotta pull it together.
I take some deep breaths before knocking on Big Boss’s door.
A voice calls from inside, low and resonant, strangely sexy.
A chill runs into my toes. Come in. I get the feeling I shouldn’t be anywhere near here, like this is the start of a scary movie or something.
The interior of the office is surprisingly nice.
There’s a large set of windows to the left, a simple modern carpet on the floor, and a big wooden desk in front of a massive abstract painting.
The gold and silver trim screams elegance and seems so out of place for the rest of WashCo, which is about as corporate bland as possible.
The lighting is muted and there’s a pair of chairs alongside a couch to my left.
I take a step inside before stopping. Behind the desk is a man.
I know him from glimpses, but seeing him now, sitting there in the flesh like a king, it strikes me how he doesn’t fit in with this place.
Everyone at WashCo is so normal and boring, while this man looks like he wandered in from a modeling job.
His dark hair’s perfectly messy and curly.
His jaw’s square and his green eyes are startling and sharp under his heavy brows.
His dress shirt is open at the top showing off the dark tattoos scrolling along his tanned skin.
Muscles everywhere, shoulders to forearms, to chest and down.
His lips are full and pressed flat, and I can’t read his expression at all.
We call him Big Boss for a reason. It’s not just that he’s the owner and the CEO—but also because he’s massive, physically imposing, while his presence is also strangely charming and obsessive, like a painting meant to catch the eye.
I don’t want to gawk at him, but I can’t help myself.
“Uhm, hello, Mr. Maguire. You wanted to see me?”
He leans back. His chair creaks. I get a better view of him then, the way the shirt pulls across his defined chest muscles.
His tattooed fingers steeple in front of him, the tips pressing against his pouty lower lip.
My core clenches at the thought of that mouth on mine, of those powerfully strong hands gripping my hair?—
Stop it, Angie, this is your boss. It’s an HR violation to objectify him like this!
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ms. Bellandi.” The way he says it sounds illicit somehow. Maybe it’s my dirty mind.
I stand there awkwardly waiting for him to say more. It takes a lot of effort not to start twirling my auburn hair. That’s my nervous gesture and my mom always says it makes me look like an idiot. Her exact words are about as smart as a cat in heat.
The moment stretches. Big Boss stares at me, drinking me in, and I want to scream. What’s going on? What did I do wrong? Is he angry right now? I honestly can’t tell. His face is a mask, caught somewhere between boredom and annoyance.
Finally, I break. “Was there something wrong with one of my reports? I’m sorry, I double check everything, but if I made a mistake?—“
“Actually, yes, it was one of your emails.” His head cocks to the side curiously. “You work in accounting, isn’t that right, Ms. Bellandi?”
“Yes, that’s right.” My cheeks flush red with embarrassment. Oh my god, I’ve been so distracted by Brad the Douche that I’ve totally screwed myself. Now the sexiest and most terrifying man I’ve ever seen in my life is going to fire me.
“Do you enjoy your job?” He sounds genuinely curious, and it’s not the question I expected.
“Ah, um, it’s good, yes,” I manage to stutter. “I like numbers.”
I like numbers.
Jesus Christ, Angie, what the hell is wrong with you?
“That’s good. I’m glad you like numbers.
” Connor reaches for his laptop. “I get a lot of emails, Ms. Bellandi, but most aren’t interesting.
They’re numbers, as you said, and while they’re important, they rarely catch my attention.
But something you sent me earlier this afternoon broke through the noise. I’ve been staring at it for hours now.”
I feel like I might be sick. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Maguire. If I messed up that badly?—“
He turns the screen to face me.
“Did you mean to send me these?”
My jaw drops open. The world goes blank. All I can see is the image glowing like it’s the damn sun.
It’s… it’s me.
I’m sitting on my desk chair at home in front of my full-length mirror.
I’m in a pair of cute purple panties with lots of lace.
They’re my favorites. My legs are spread.
The lighting is dim, but it makes my pale skin seem almost tanned.
I’m topless, pressing my tits together, my pink nipples stiff.
My mouth is open, my tongue pressed against my teeth.
My expression is unmistakably: come fuck me until I scream.
Oh, no.
Oh… oh, god, please, no.
Connor taps the edge of the screen, his voice softening.
“There’s a lot more where this came from, but I liked this particular shot.
Let me ask you one more time, Ms. Bellandi, since you don’t seem able to reply.
” He leans forward, gaze smoldering into mine.
“Did you mean to send me an entire folder of nudes earlier today?”
Fuck.
I sent my terrifying boss Stock Photos.
And now my life is over.