BENTLEY Read online

  He didn’t hire me because he actually wanted to see more of me, even if that’s what I hope and fantasize about constantly .

  I have to stop thinking anything more. And that’s for the best, because it’s easier, cleaner this way. No messy entanglements. Nothing dangerous .

  Just work and focusing on my goals. Making enough money to get back to school, where I fit. Where things make sense .

  I pour a fresh mug of coffee in the break room. A couple of editors are lingering by the fridge, holding donuts and laughing. I offer them a smile, and they give me a polite one back, though I see curiosity on their faces. I came out of nowhere—didn’t even get interviewed, was just brought on as the assistant to the owner of the company. Something I didn’t think about when I took the job .

  How others might view me .

  I pour powdered creamer in my mug and a packet of sugar and stir .

  “There are donuts in the fridge,” the black-haired woman says to me. “Help yourself .”

  My heart swells at the small but welcome gesture. “Thanks!” I grab a powdered donut and take a big bite, grimacing when small white sugar flakes fall on my black dress top. “Ugh. I’ll never get this out .”

  The other woman, a brunette, laughs. “Better not let Boss Man see .”

  So she knows how much of a perfectionist Bentley is. Part of me wants to talk about it, to help continue the conversation and possibly make friends, but the other part knows he’d frown on being a source of discussion. I choose to remain prudent and skirt the topic. “I’ll wear lighter clothing on the next donut day .”

  The two women slip back into conversation with each other, and I grab a damp paper towel and wipe my top down, then blot it dry as best as I can. It’ll be fine by the time I bring his lunch in to him .

  I continue with my morning tasks, emailing Kim as questions crop up on how to handle one thing or another. She’s always kind and never gives me flack about asking too many questions, which I appreciate. In thanks, I ask her if she wants anything from the nearby Thai restaurant for lunch, but she declines .

  There’s a sense of anticipation in the air for me—sharing lunch with Bentley. It’s the first time this has happened. What does it mean? Is it just work as he says? Is it more? Am I being weird and overthinking it? Yes, of course I am .

  And the lunch hour proves it .

  Bentley barely even looks over at me, much less eats his meal. Which means I don’t get much of a chance to eat, either. I try not to glance longingly at my food, growing colder by the minute, as I take furious notes for him. When the hour is over, he dismisses me .

  I eat my cold Pad Thai at my desk and type more emails .

  And try to ignore the fact that I’m treading uneven waters when it comes to Bentley and what I’m feeling toward him .

  * * *

  “I n short, it’s weird,” I declare to Janelle. “I mean, it’s a great opportunity for me, but…my life has taken such a strange turn. And he’s impossible to read.” I sip on my glass of wine and settle into the cracked leather booth .

  Janelle randomly texted me after I got off work to see what I was up to, and we decided to go have drinks together and catch up. Honestly? I was so surprised she was even thinking of me that I couldn’t help but say yes .

  She smirks and takes a drag from her beer bottle. “Who woulda thought that quiet guy from the bar turned out to be a gazillionaire?” Her laugh echoes in the space between us, and a couple of guys peer over to find the source of the light sound. When she sees them, she winks. Ever the flirt. I can’t help but feel better around her. Having her attention is magnetic, even as a friend .

  “Yeah, color me surprised .”

  “So I’m guessing he hasn’t hit on you yet,” Janelle muses. “I wonder what’s taking him so long? He was totally into you from what I could tell .”

  I blink. “What do you mean ?”

  She laughs. “Oh, honey. You didn’t see the way he was staring at you that night? Like he was in a dark tunnel and you were a star leading him out .”

  “That’s beautifully dramatic,” I say in a droll tone. “And inaccurate. That man had eyes for nothing but his whiskey .”

  Janelle snorts. “Right. If you say so. I guess I must be blind .”

  “But…” A slow burn crawls up my throat and over my cheeks. “Even if he did act that way, it was probably just because of alcohol. He’s been frosty to me ever since .”

  With a sigh, she leans forward and pats my hand. “Sweetness. I guarantee you, if you throw the goods his way, he’s gonna take ‘em. No man looks at a woman like that unless he wants a taste. He’s probably just trying to be on his best behavior.” She eyes me. “That is what you want, right? For there to be no crossed lines ?”

  “Yes, of course,” I murmur, admitting the truth. Because it is. “I mean… Okay, admittedly it would be nice to know I wasn’t the only one who felt the attraction, even if we don’t act on it. Which is for the best, of course, but…” Shit. This wine is making me far chattier than I thought I’d be .

  Her triumphant smile indicates she’s picked up on my emotions. She leans back and says, “You just gotta know how to flirt the right way. Subtle enough that you send off signals without being overt. Then you’ll know for sure. Hell, I’ll teach you how to do it. And I bet you five dollars that he ends up boning you on his office floor .”

  My eyes fly open. “Janelle!” But I have to admit, the thought is tempting. Nothing will happen, of course, not really. A man like him has his pick of the most beautiful, sophisticated and sexy women on earth .

  My friend smirks. “It’s not even difficult. Men are easy .”

  “If you were to show me how to do it…you promise he wouldn’t know ?”

  She cackles. “Girl, trust me. You’ll have your answers and your plausible deniability .”

  It’s probably the wine talking, but I say, “Okay. Agreed. But now, let’s talk about something else. What’s going on at work ?”

  Her wide grimace makes me laugh. “Ugh, Chet is even more irritable than ever. And with his broken nose, he’s looking busted as fuck .”

  We spend a few minutes talking about her work, about how Janelle is working there as a single mom to support her son. I didn’t know she had a kid—she’s only a few years older than me, and she never brought him up at work. But given how awful Chet is, I guess I don’t blame her. When I ask her to show pics, I see her proud-mama face beaming as she scrolls through her phone with glee .

  “He’s my life,” she says as she shows off her adorable son, who looks to be around four or five. “I’d do anything for him .”

  “He looks just like you. Gonna be a heartbreaker .”

  Rolling her eyes, she says, “God, I hope not. That shit got me knocked up in the first place. I’m gonna give him a condom when he hits third grade.” At my shocked gasp, she laughs. “I’m kidding. But seriously, he’s not gonna be like me. Stuck in a dead-end job with a lecherous boss. I’m saving up and getting the hell out of there .”

  “What are you going to do when you are out ?”

  Her eyes soften. “I want to design clothing. There’s a small school where I could start next fall. Clay will be in elementary school by then, so I may be able to afford it .”

  “I really hope you can,” I tell her warmly. “I wanna go back to school too .”

  “Let’s make a pact,” she says. “Hold each other to it .”

  I stick out my hand. “It’s a deal .”

  She shakes it, then swigs her beer. “Okay, so it’s time to come up with a plan. Let’s see if the billionaire is really as strong and cool as he pretends he is .”

  Bentley

  T oday is going to be a long, long fucking day. Longer than usual. Back-to-back meetings during the entire business day, including going over financial specs for the last quarter and projecting our spending for next year. Listening to each department try to pitch me on why they need more money than the other departments do .
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  And then I get to stay late and take care of all my other usual work shit .

  Samantha’s in for a fun surprise. Welcome to being my assistant .

  I move around my penthouse, not taking in much of the sunrise casting warm pink color across the large open living room. I bought this apartment with cash, a testament to all my hard work. It overlooks the city with a stunning view. Filled with posh furniture and cutting-edge electronics. A kitchen a chef would kill for .

  And I’m never around long enough to enjoy it .

  I should throw a party, I think, then laugh at myself. Right. Who would I invite? I hate being around people. Forced to smile and act “normal,” act like I’m just like everyone else. Like I have a social life, friends, people who want to hang out with me outside of what I can do for them to advance their goals and aspirations .

  I shower in my slate-tiled bathroom, towel off, dress impeccably. If I’m going to insist on perfection from others, I must be willing to deliver the same. Not a hair out of place, nor an errant wrinkle .

  In the limo, I check emails and respond to all the ones I can before I start my day of hell. When I step inside the office, Samantha is already waiting for me, wearing a white button-down shirt and a black skirt that hugs her gorgeous curves. Her hair is pulled back in a bun with wisps around her face and neck. I can’t complain about the professionalism; she’s meeting my guidelines. But something seems different about her .

  Red lipstick. Her lips are fiery red, tempting me to kiss the lipstick off…or smear it in other ways. Fuck. The thought of those bold lips on my cock makes my blood stir, and I force that urge to go away .

  I’m not fucking doing this today .

  “Mr. Strongwell, I have your coffee and notes for your first meeting on your desk.” Eye contact, too. She usually doesn’t look at me this much, her gaze often skittering around the room or remaining fixed on anything else but me .

  Am I just imagining things ?

  “Thank you,” I tell her and spin, turn into my office. Maybe if I got decent sleep, I wouldn’t be reacting so strongly to her. Right .

  The coffee is made just the way I like it, the notes neatly placed in a folder on my desk. I like her attention to detail—that she’s picking up on things I want without me needing to say them. Starting to predict my desires .

  Which, of course, leads me down a dangerous path I can’t follow, so I open the folder and ignore, ignore, ignore the beast roaring to come out of me .

  I do three back-to-back meetings, then a lunch meeting with the editorial staff. Pop in for a baby shower, followed by more meetings. Through it all, Samantha doesn’t crack or complain once. She stays nearby but not intrusively so. Reacts quickly to my requests. Pulls up data and answers questions like a pro .

  Like she was made for this position .

  I have to admit, watching her work so smoothly makes me proud. Proud and turned on as hell. She’s so pristinely put together and I want to muss her up, see her weak and needy and aching for me to put her back together again. And those damn red lips…she’s never worn red lipstick before .

  It would really be crossing a line to tell her not to wear it again. Or to tell her to only wear it. I really don’t know which way I’m leaning right now. I’ve never felt this much lust for one woman…or been as intrigued on an emotional and intellectual level. Samantha is clearly naïve and vulnerable, but also stubborn and full of fire .

  And submissive .

  She may not even know that about herself yet, but it’s right there in the way she strives to please me. This goes beyond work. It’s how she takes pride in my praise. And Jesus, does it make me want to do terrible things to her. I can’t fucking stop thinking about her, wanting to possess her completely .

  Fuck her senseless. Make her beg for me to touch her, to make her come…to punish her when she’s a bad girl .

  But no good can ever come of this wicked impulse I feel that’s growing stronger every day. I’d only destroy her. I’m incapable of giving anyone the things they need .

  I quietly watch Samantha hand out papers to the members attending our last meeting. It’s early evening, and she’s slowing down, clearly fatigued but rallying to keep the energy going .

  She’s doing it for me .

  God, I fucking want her .

  And I will never have her .

  I realize everyone is looking at me now, and I clear my throat and pretend I was paying full attention to the topic at hand. Chime in on the forecasted up-and-comers on our list. The editorial team is excited, talking over themselves to gush about new authors we’ve acquired who we can position to make good money for us. The top of the pipeline .

  When the meeting is over and the last person leaves, Samantha goes around the room and tidies the conference table. Fuck me, her stockings have a seam right down the backs of her legs. Running up into that tight skirt and down to her black high heels .

  She bends over to reach a paper in the middle of the table, skirt hiking up those thighs, and my cock jumps. Christ, I want to grab the back of her neck, push her onto the table, rip the back of that skirt. Is she wearing stockings with garters? Why the fuck am I wondering this ?

  Because I crave this woman, that’s why .

  I need a drink. Just one. To take the edge off this tension that’s been in me all day. This ache for her. Being in close proximity has made my nerves raw .

  “Leave that,” I tell her in a gruffer tone than I intend .

  Samantha straightens and turns to me. Her hair is looser now in its bun, with more tendrils falling around her face and throat. I want to rip the bun out and thread my hand in her hair. And she has that damn gaze on me again, so directly. Like a challenge .

  That’s what it is. It’s like she’s challenging me somehow .

  “It’s not a big deal,” she says smoothly. “I can clean it up easily .”

  “Not your job,” I tell her. “Go to my office and pour two glasses of Bulleit. Set them on my desk, and sit in the chair and wait for me.” I need a moment to clear my head before I come join her .

  She worked her ass off today, and she deserves a moment to relax .

  A delicate pink flush works its way across her cheeks, and she gives me a small nod of agreement, then leaves the room, her ass swaying side to side .

  I am not going to fuck her. I am not going to fuck her .

  Bud goddammit, I’ve never wanted someone this badly in my entire life. She’s testing every last ounce of my self-control, and I possess a considerable amount of it .

  After a moment of repeating to myself that I will not fuck her under any condition, I leave the conference room and join her. Good girl, she’s done as asked, one glass in front of my chair and one in front of hers. The entire floor of our building is empty now. The only light in my office is the warm desk lamp .

  I close the door behind me, drop with a sigh into my chair, and loosen my tie, then close my eyes. Deep sigh .

  “Long day,” she muses. “Do you need anything else, Mr. Strongwell ?”

  “Just…” I open my eyes and look at her. “Just call me Bentley tonight, okay? I’m tired of being…on.” And I am, it’s true. But it’s also because I want to pretend for a little while that I’m just a man, enjoying a nice glass of whiskey with a gorgeous woman. No pressure, no strings .

  Her shy smile is sexy as fuck. “Okay,” she says softly .

  “You did well today,” I say as I take a sip. The warm liquid slides down my throat and leaves a fire burning in its wake. Instantly my limbs loosen. I strip off my tie and leave it on the far side of my desk .

  “Thanks. Kim did a great job training me,” she says as she sips her own drink .

  “She did,” I agree. “But in the end, you held those meetings together and kept everyone on time. You were a godsend.” I’m surprised at the praise flowing from me. I’m not normally this forthcoming. Am I just tired? Or does she evoke this from me ?

  “Are you hungry?” she asks me innocen
tly, eyes wide. She stands up and leans forward, reaching toward my top drawer where I keep the takeout menus. I told her on day one where they were. As she moves, a button on her blouse undoes itself, and I can see her lacy white bra, the tempting cleavage of her breasts. She doesn’t seem to notice, rifling through the drawer. “What are you in the mood for ?”

  Jesus fucking Christ. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was doing this on purpose. “I don’t fucking care,” I say and look away .

  I’m not going to fuck her .

  I’m not going to fuck her .

  Samantha pulls back and resumes her seat, a menu in hand. “Then we’re getting pizza,” she declares. “Because I know you won’t eat if you go straight home .”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “You’ve learned a lot about me in such a short amount of time .”

  Her lips part, and a dimple pops out as she smiles. “Well, I want to do the best I can for you .”

  Something in my chest loosens from the openness on her face .

  I take a deep chug of my whiskey. A light buzz works its way into me. “You’re not drinking,” I say .

  “If you want me to, I will .”

  “Maybe you should .”

  “Is that an order…Bentley ?”

  “And if I say it is?” I find myself asking in return .

  “I like to follow your orders .”

  She still hasn’t noticed the damn open button yet, and God help me, I’m not going to fucking point it out. Because I can’t seem to stop looking at those luscious tits. I want to touch them. I want my mouth on them. I am a walking lawsuit waiting to happen, and right now I’m struggling to care .

  Because it seems like Samantha is feeling something too .

  Her breasts are rising and falling in a ragged rhythm. Her cheeks are stained pink, and she’s practically chewed off all her red lipstick at this point. And she’s still fucking locking eyes with me .