The Boss

Chapter 1

Alessa

Finally . The weekend. No classes. No intern errands that make my calves swell in muscular size but break my ankles in the heels I wear every time I enter Bradford & Marcon. No late dinners of leftover Chinese and cold pizza left out for two days straight.

I may be twenty-one, but the amount of responsibility foisted upon me weighs so heavily on my shoulders. More than my bra straps when I’m stuck at a desk all day. Not like I have a damn choice, though. Education is too important to slack off on, and “job experience” is a must, although what it constitutes is a joke. If it weren’t for the loans that will screw me a few years from now, I wouldn’t even be able to go to school. It’s the Catch-22 from hell.

“Calm down, girl,” I say while stepping out of the shower. “The world’s problems will have to wait for you to get your shit together. Maybe lose your virginity? Ever think about that?”

The sun is setting, and the view outside my small studio is amazing. A pink and orange-hued sky, something you rarely get to see this time of year in Portland. Usually, the skies are a dreary shade of gray that depresses you until you’re diving inside for the rest of the season. This past winter has been especially harsh. At first, I loved the snow. Then it refused to go away, and a city that couldn’t handle it to save everyone’s life completely shut down. I was going to miss those measly paychecks from my shitty job.

Too much drama hanging above my head. Ex-roommate trying to take me to small claims court over unpaid electric bills at the last place we lived. Mother hounding my ass about “networking,” because my college classes and my prestigious internship aren’t enough. Dad blowing up my phone because he wants me to show his niece around the city – a niece I love as much as a nice corn on my toe. And my bosses! Oh, both halves of Bradford and Marcon are pieces of work. Pieces of deliriously gorgeous work, mind you, but that barely lets them get away with all the demands they put on their lowly interns.

I walk into the other room and gaze longingly at my bed. Maybe I should sleep early tonight. Pop on some Netflix and chill with myself. Speaking of which, I got some mail today. Something I’ve been highly anticipating.

The package holds no damning information on the labels, but even so, I have turned it upside down and thrown my scarf on top. I don’t live with anyone else anymore. Nobody has the key to my place, so what am I trying to hide? My embarrassment? Should I be so embarrassed to have purchased a sex toy off the internet earlier this week?

As my hair dries on the towel wrapped around my shoulders, I grab a knife and slice open the packing tape. I already know what is inside, but my heart still quickens when I see the picture on the front of the box.

I must find some humor in this moment. I’ll hate myself later if I don’t!

“My first real vibrator. I have grown up!” Laughing, I pop open the top and pull out the plastic packaging. Uh…

Wow.

Maybe I should have bought a smaller one? Because I’m not sure my poor body can take this hefty thing dropping into my hand.

Apparently, my eyes had been bigger than my genitals when I went shopping. What can I say? I spent an hour in the bath thinking about one of my hot bosses. Wouldn’t it be nice if a woman like that asked me out, wined and dined me, and then made sweet, thrilling love to me? I’ve never had something like that. I’ve barely been on real dates. Never had sex, although I’m eager to try it. Except, do you know what dating is like in this city? A girl can only take so many manbuns from the guys and a lack of deodorant from the girls before she runs away screaming. Or, in my case, runs to the internet to buy a sizable vibrator to make up for the lack of a love life.

Imagine me curled up in bed with popcorn, a beer, and a webpage opened to some of the raunchiest toys you’ve ever seen. Until now, my masturbatory expeditions have only included my hand or the occasional makeshift vibrator.

However, my imagination had been too kinky to be realistic. Guess I thought that if I was buying a new toy then I should make it worth it. This will be the closest I get to losing my virginity in a while, probably. You know, if we don’t count that lackluster fooling around with my exes… which I guess technically counted, but I’d rather forget.

No, what I want is the feeling of being topped. Overpowered. Taken. Too bad this vibrator can’t do other things. Only a real woman can touch me, spank me, nibble on my ear, and make me come so hard that I’m shuddering for a week.

Look at me, giggling like I’m twelve and discovering an old Harlequin for the first time.

None of that matters right now, anyway. I’ve got a vibrator to play with, and it won’t treat me like a kid or a quick lay meant to be forgotten. Complimentary lube is in the box, thank goodness. I had forgotten to get some when I was in my lust-induced haze the other night.

What had me so worked up? I work in an office of hot people in expensive outfits…

The temperature is good for me to think about those stunning people. The bed is so comfortable beneath the weight of my body. All I must do now is breathe and brace myself.

And think of really, really hot moments I’m probably never going to have in real life. That’s why they’re called fantasies, right?

My pajama shorts are on the floor. My legs are spread. Images of my bosses are in my head, but I’m not scandalous enough to fantasize about them both. I need to pick one. That way there’s at least one person who doesn’t make me want to die of embarrassment when I see her.

Presley Bradford? Or Julianna Marcon?

Oh, like there’s a choice! They’re different kinds of hot, and one does it for me more than the other.

Julianna. Ms. Marcon. The more standoffish, icier of the two is more likely to bite my head off than slather on the positive reinforcements. She’s in charge of the numbers at work, and me? I work on the numbers that eventually pass her huge desk in her corner office. More than once she held my work up in front of the class (excuse me, staff meeting) and talked about how we need to follow better protocols because the work is shit. The woman needs a Xanax, but damn is she fine in her bespoke pantsuits and silky blouses. And those tight pencil skirts! Do you know how many times I’ve thought about straightening her hem for her? Walk up and play with it while talking to her? She’d probably put me in a headlock, but it would be good while it lasted!

In my fantasies, Julianna Marcon channels that attitude into the bedroom, where she makes me feel like the dirtiest girl in a city full of the filthiest freaks you’ve ever met.

The vibrator teases my slit. I’m already wet from thoughts of Ms. Marcon. Doesn’t take much for the soft material to press into me. Bit by bit… ah, shit! This is good!

No, I did not tell my phone to ring. With a ringtone that tells me it’s work-related.

Who the hell is calling me on a Friday night? Damnit. With the vibrator still halfway inside me, I reach over and grab my phone. I answer it without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello? Who is this?” Can they feel my ire on the other side of the line? ‘Cause they interrupted something pretty important and can put up with my sass.

A pause. I swear to God if this is a wrong number or someone masking a sales pitch…

“This is Julianna Marcon.”

Oh, shit.

Are you kidding me right now? Damn me and my short temper! This is the kind of shit that gets a girl fired right when the weekend starts!

“Ms. Marcon!” I jerk up, forgetting I’m holding half of a vibrator between my legs. Am I… wetter? No way. Like Ms. Marcon’s voice can’t do this to me… Yet my fantasy has summoned this woman from the depths of her office to call me on a Friday night! “What is it?’

“I need a folder,” she says with her usual briskness. Authority oozes from the audible presence of Julianna Marcon, a woman worth millions and used to getting her way. She wasn’t one-half of one of Portland’s biggest corporations for no reason.

I wait for her to explain, but the irritation accompanying her tone only makes things worse. “Which folder?” I bring five of them home any given night. Sometimes I’m convinced I’m going to get ahead on my facts and figures, but I’m always fooling myself. Yeah, right. Not when I can watch my favorite TV shows, take baths, and screw myself silly for hours on end.

My voice shakes more than I anticipated. You see, I rarely talk directly to Ms. Marcon. She’s more likely to send out a memo or use one of her direct underlings to approach me about one of my screw-ups. As for seeing her? We work only one floor apart, but the only time I go up to her floor or she comes to mine is when she needs a correction. Nobody likes the corrections… because then someone’s job is on the line, and it’s not hers.

“Bring whatever ones you have. I’m told you’re the most likely candidate to have what I need right now.” Shit! Do I ever wish she was talking about something else! “Get here now.” She hangs up before I can confirm I’ll do as she orders.

I stare at my phone in utter disbelief. Doesn’t help that a vibrator is still buzzing away against my crotch. Fuck it. I turn it off and set it aside. Why is my body shuddering? Is it from the sensations of the toy? Or from Ms. Marcon’s voice?

Anyway, there are folders I’m supposed to hunt. Most of them are in my bag, but I left one under a stack on my coffee table. Where the hell is it? I’m stumbling around my apartment in a total daze. This shit must be important if Ms. Marcon is directly calling an intern like me.

I scramble for everything I can find, praying it’s what she’s looking for. After throwing my work clothes back on and fixing up my makeup – never mind, I can fix it on the MAX. Also, just my luck that I don’t have a car. If I did, I could be there fifteen minutes faster. I feverishly hope that my boss knows that I don’t have a car.

Talk about my world exploding. This is what it feels like, too, ever since Julianna called me. A billionaire tycoon calling my cell phone. What the hell can go wrong?