“Sure,” I say, pulling back my shoulders so my breasts strain against the front of my white shirt. “I can answer a quick question or two if it’ll help Donald.”
The man raises his eyes from the folder to me, and for the first time, there’s a reaction on his face. Except it isn’t what I’d hoped for. It’s not that wild, desperate need to please that men often get when confronted with a pretty blonde of
Playboy
proportions.
It’s amusement. And as I didn’t just tell a joke, there’s no way that’s a good sign.
“There are twenty items of questionable merit,” he says as he peruses a list I’m too far away to read. I get the sense he’s enjoying this. “Hair salon. Receipts totaling $400.” He looks up at me.
“What’s the question?” My palms have gotten clammy, and each breath feels like a struggle, but I do my best to keep it from showing.
“How is that a deductible business expense?”
I throw my smile at him again, and like the previous one, it bounces off without any effect whatsoever. “I see the confusion now,” I say airily. “I was hired to bring in new clients, you see—”
“As are all of our sales associates.”
I run my fingers down a handful of hair. “I’m not a natural blonde.” I say it in a stage whisper, like I’m letting him in on a secret.
“Obviously,” he says, giving the first indication that he’s even noticed what I look like. He picks up a pen and clicks the top to expose the ball point. “However, it’s not a company expense.”
“But I sign more business this way.”
“I’m sure you’d do fine with red hair or purple hair or whatever your natural color is,” he says dismissively. “The expense is disallowed.”
“What does that mean?”
“That I’m not allowing you to take it.”
At that moment, I officially hate him. “I know what the word means,” I say through clenched teeth. “What happens with disallowed expenses?”
“You’re liable for them, of course,” he says.
“Of course.” I would be hissing, but this arrogant man obviously has quite a bit of power over me. Getting fired is one thing… I expect I’ll be cleaning out my desk after he gets done with me. But disallowed expenses… I can’t afford to pay the company back right now.
The worst part is that none of this should be happening. I had believed that I would have another three weeks before the expenses were reviewed. By then I could have returned to my previous town of residence and emptied out my safe deposit box there. Then it would have been easy to write the company a check and apologize for accidentally using the corporate card.
But I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. The jerk has finished making a note in the file, and he’s running his finger down the list of expenses again.
Then, out of nowhere, it gets weird. He’s an exceptionally good-looking man, but he’s obviously a dick. I don’t like assholes, and believe me, I meet a
lot
of them over the course of a day. Assholes turn me off.
But I’m so
not
turned off right now. Instead, I’m wondering what kind of thrusting power he’s got, and what that broad chest would feel like under my fingernails. I want to see a crack in his armor. I want to shatter his calm exterior.
Twisted, even for me, and I shake the thought off.
“Nail salon visits for $120.” He looks at me. “Were you possibly hoping to sell them an automated assembly line?”
Asshole
.
“I bite my nails if they’re not painted,” I explain. “Not only does it make for an unkempt appearance, but I tend to do it indiscriminately throughout the day. Clients don’t find it charming.”
Blue eyes stare at me a long moment, and I think maybe he’s going to let this one through. All I need is one… just one to prime the pump, to get him on my side. I hold my breath.
“Disallowed,” he says. He makes his note.
“If you already know you’re going to disallow everything, why do I have to stand here and listen to you do this?”
“I’m not disallowing everything. Here, we’ve got gas expenses.” He looks up and smiles, and he’s so gorgeous it’s unfair. “I’ll allow those.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He doesn’t react to that, but a moment later he’s frowning. “Agent Provocateur. $650.”
“I couldn’t get through the day without their support,” I say quickly and confidently. I feel beads of perspiration break out all over.
“It’s a lingerie store,” he says. “Men aren’t as clueless as you seem to think. I’m disallowing—”
“But…” I successfully interrupt him, but I’ve got nothing to say in my defense, no follow-up.
And he just stares at me, his face that mask that makes me seethe.
He’s enjoying this.
I don’t even think about it, but I find my fingers on the small, cool buttons of my blouse. I slowly undo the top button and I pause, waiting for him to tell me to stop, to ask what I’m doing.
He doesn’t, though. He’s just watching me, his eyes on my face of all things.
Fine
. Jerk.
So I continue. The third button is right between my breasts.
I’m angry now, so I keep going. At least that’s what I tell myself, because I’m enjoying it. Even if he isn’t watching the growing amount of soft, bare skin on display, he’s also not looking at that damned folder and yapping about my expenses.
When the blouse is completely undone, I slowly pull the shirt open, baring my chest to him. I’m wearing a pink bra with lace on the underside of the cups. The bra thrusts my breasts up and together, making an impressive display of cleavage that is
nothing
like what nature gave me. Like I said, I know how to work with what I’ve got.
Now his eyes dip down, but just for a moment. The triumph that flashes through me pales in comparison to the sudden rush of attraction I feel when I look down and see that Mr. Disallowed is pitching a family-sized tent.
Not so immune after all. I consider saying this to him, but he speaks first.
“What are you doing?” His firm voice doesn’t sound upset or unsettled.
“Well, I can’t pay you back. And unlike the nail polish and hair dye, at least I can surrender the bra.”
“You can fling it into the trees for all I care, but the expense is still disallowed.”
“In the employee handbook that I was given on my first day, it clearly states that the sales force must be presentable at all times. You want me going on calls with my nipples poking through my shirt and my tits bobbing up and down whenever I say a three-syllable word?” I underscore this by gathering up my breasts—I can’t believe I said
tits
to a man—and hefting them once. “You’re saying I should contravene the handbook?”
“Well, Lindsay, it seems we finally agree on something.”
“We do?”
He turns around to stare at the bookcase behind him, and I see proof that he’s got excellent thrusting potential. His ass is drool-worthy. Firm. I wonder what sports he does. I can just imagine him, his shirt translucent with sweat and clinging to rippling abs and biceps…
He grabs a blue binder and turns back around. The
Sunrise Imports Employee Handbook.
He drops it onto the desk, opens the cover and flips through. Then he whips the binder around and taps at the page.
“I want you to read this aloud,” he says. “Section 22-107. Expense accounts and personal usage. Come.”
It’s an order, and the way he says it makes me feel warm and itchy, like I have to obey.
Of course I have to. If I can get him to allow even one or two of those extra expenses, it’ll make my life a lot easier.
So I walk over to the desk. Up close, he’s even sexier. He’s got a light five o’clock shadow darkening his rectangular jaw. I think I can smell his aftershave, too. A little spicy, very manly, extremely expensive.
I like the way he smells.
“Read,” he says.
The handbook is photocopied pages set in a three-ring binder. We’re not talking stately legal documents here. I place my hands on it, my fingers curling around the sharp plastic edges, but instead of picking up the binder, I find myself bending at the hips.
My ass pushes out, and I allow my breasts to graze the tabletop. It’s hard to see a damned thing like this, my nose pressed to the paper, but that’s not the point.
He taps the binder again. “Read,” he orders.
Why the hell does this jerk get me so turned on?
I pull my head up a bit and slowly begin. He moves his finger along as I read aloud about inappropriate uses of the company credit card that I was entrusted with.
His hands are large. Strong. I see thick callouses on his fingers. My guess is they’re from lifting weights; several of my ex-flings have callouses that follow a similar pattern, though based on what I know of them, it could be from too much jerking off.
He continues to point to the words, like I’m illiterate. His behavior is completely condescending, but I stay where I am, mumbling through the sentences.
“Now,” he says, “if you’re done acting childish, fix your clothes and let’s finish this. I’ve got things to do tonight.”
“Childish?” I straighten and stare defiantly into his eyes. My tongue wants to moisten my lips, which feel dry, but I don’t dare; I don’t want to find him attractive, and I
really
don’t want him to know. “That’s no way to speak to a coworker,” I say.
“I’m not your coworker,” he says.
“Then why am I wasting my time in here?” I demand. My fingers fumble with the bottom of my blouse.
“Bend over,” he says, and my hands freeze. “Bend over!”
My heart thudding in my throat, I do it. I think he wants me to read the handbook again, but then he pulls it out from under my nose and slams it closed. The loud noise makes me flinch.
“If you’re going to act like a naughty little girl, then I’m going to punish you like one.”
I don’t have time to question what that means when I feel the full force of the binder slam up against my ass.
My face flushes hot in shock, and I push myself away from the desk.
“No,” the man says. “Stay where you are.”
And I find myself bending over the desk again, my hands braced against the unyielding surface. Nothing happens for a long time. All I can see is the desk, the chair behind it, and the curved edges of the man’s muscular thigh covered in what looks like expensive silk. He must be Donald’s boss, I decide.
I wonder what he’s thinking.
I wonder what he’s looking at.
And I really wonder what he’ll do next.
He steps away, and when the binder slams against my buttocks again, I have my answer. This time the blow is harder, but I don’t flinch.
The next strike has my inner muscles tightening. I arch my back and lick my lips. I’m adventurous in the bedroom, and I’ve gotten kinky a few times. Maybe more than a few times. But this is a lot more fun than BDSM games. Maybe that’s because it’s not a game. I don’t even know this man’s name. There’s no prearranged safe word. Hell, I’m not even undressed.
Strictly speaking, it’s not at all sexual, but goddamn if the next and final blow doesn’t give me something close to an orgasm.
If he continues, I’ll be a panting, gasping mess. I bite my lower lip so hard that it hurts.
I have never wanted anyone inside me as much as I want him, right now. I hate him for it, and I hate myself, too.
He drops the handbook on the desk and crosses to the window. “Get out,” he says.
I straighten and notice my legs are trembling. “What about the rest of my expenses?” I ask his rigid back as I fumble closed the buttons of my shirt.
He doesn’t turn to look at me. “Your personal expenses will be taken out of your paycheck until the company is repaid in full. I’ll make sure that no more than twenty percent is deducted from any single check so that you have enough to live on.”
I can’t believe I’m not fired, but maybe he’s worried about a lawsuit. I take a final look at the man’s imposing form before slipping out of the office.
There’s only one thing on my mind when I arrive at work on Monday. I have to know who that man is. He’s been the only thing in my thoughts since Friday evening. He seems to have taken over my dreams, too.
Even though I’ve been working at Sunrise Imports for five weeks, I still don’t know everyone because I’m so often on the road, doing sales calls. Obviously a man who looks like my mysterious spanker would have caught my attention.
But as far as I can determine, there isn’t anyone in the accounting department matching that description, and Donald is on vacation for a full week. When I stop by, his office is empty. I notice the employee handbook has returned to its shelf.
I’m not even specific when I ask around. I whittle it down to, “Tall, dark hair,” because that’s as far as I get before Delores, the office manager, shakes her head. “No one like that in accounting,” she says. “It’s mostly women, and the men are all average height. And Donald reports directly to the owner.”
The man I’d met is most definitely not George Tarraget. For one thing, he’s half a century too young. “Maybe in another branch?”
She frowns as she thinks, then she shakes her head again. “Why do you ask? What do you need?”
“Oh, it’s a long story,” I say. I want to ask if we have a secret Toronto office, but she’s already giving me a funny look.
Then I have to drive almost two hours away to make a sales pitch. It starts off well, but I’m distracted, off my game. It’s so bad that I excuse myself during a lull so that I can go to the bathroom and do my dominant pose. I stare at myself in the mirror, and I know that I look like an idiot.
I stretch so hard that I’m starting to bend backward. I extend my fingers as if the world is mine for the taking, and I smile until my cheeks hurt.
In the end, I sign the client, though I take a hit on my commission and also promise some things that won’t make the higher-ups happy. Still, it’s all within acceptable parameters.
Time to head back to the office. This time I go straight to Quackk’s, but the room is still dark.
“You looking for Donald?” A woman whose name I don’t yet know has come up behind me. I’m vaguely aware that she’s part of the accounting division.
“There was a man in here Friday night,” I begin. “After Donald left. He was tall, dark hair, nice suit.” I leave out the bit about his impassive demeanor in the presence of disrobing women.