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Dinner is as it usually is: filled with pleasantries and superficial conversation. Why I continue with these dinners after all these years, I'm not sure. It's not like I was ever really married into the family. It started as a request of Mrs. Anthony after her daughter died. She’d wanted to remain in contact and, at the time, I couldn't tell a grieving mother no. I also couldn’t tell her the truth about her daughter. Or the truth that our relationship, our engagement, was crumbling.
The concierge greets me as I approach the elevator to head up to my penthouse. I nod my greeting to him, retreat inside the lift, and wave my access keycard in front of the panel. I watch the floor numbers increase the higher I rise until I finally reach the top floor. My floor.
I walk into my home and breathe deeply for what feels like the first time today. Sure, I’ve been breathing all day. The average number of breaths a person takes in a day is roughly 23,040. However, I know there are many instances throughout the day when I held my breath. Whether it was on purpose or just a random moment, or whether it was simply because I was around Bella, I'm not entirely sure. But now I feel like I can finally relax and breathe freely.
I approach the bar in the living room and pour myself a glass of Jameson, a taste that I developed for when I was in college and continued into my adulthood. Never wanting to sip on hundred-dollar liquor to show my wealth as I sit in the middle of my couch. The lights are still off, but the moonlight and city lights provide enough glow in the main room to not need a light. I settle into the comfortable sofa, stretch my feet onto the ottoman, and take a light sip. The subtle vanilla flavor hits my tongue, followed by a burst of citrus. Then I swallow, sending a nice burn down my throat. I breathe out and relish in the warmth flowing through my body.
This.
This is what I’ve needed all day. Two, maybe three, fingers of Jameson while I kick my feet up and not think about a fucking thing. Well, not a fucking thing except Bella.
I shouldn’t think of her, and I’m pretty fucking sure she doesn’t think of me. Why would she? I’m a bonafide asshole. She probably goes home after work and thinks about anything but me.
But I definitely think of her. How soft her skin must be, how her hair smells, and especially how delectable she would taste. I wonder what sounds would emanate from her throat as I touch her.
I swallow some more of the amber liquid and relish the warmth again as I lean my head back against the couch.
I close my eyes and groan.
I’m fucking horny.
It’s been a number of years since I’ve fucked anyone. And the fact that I’m thinking intimately about my new assistant isn’t helping. She works for me, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her. Since it's been years that I've had this desire, I don't want to completely ignore it even though I know one hundred percent that I should. But she gets me. She gets through to me. She's not afraid of me. And yet, I'm completely afraid of her.
I imagine that her skin would be silky and smooth, that her breasts would fit perfectly in my hand, and that her heartbeat would quicken as my hand trails from her knee up to her apex. Her mouth would open slightly as my fingers dance across the edge of her panties and then she would moan softly when I breach her entrance and fuck her with my fingers.
My cock is so painfully hard that I need to let it out of the confines of my slacks. I fist myself and stroke my shaft as I resituate myself in the cushion of the sofa. Imagining having my fingers inside Bella amps up my need. I have to get myself off in order to get my cock under control.
Fuck! The amount of times that I've jacked off thinking about her is innumerable.
I pump vigorously, squeezing and tugging as my hand moves up.
The crown of my cock is sensitive, so I use my other hand to squeeze the tip slightly. I pull my head forward and watch my hands work myself over until come spurts out. Some spills onto my dress shirt and falls around my fist. I use some of my own fluid as lubricant as I stroke the last of my orgasm out of me.
Then I sigh.
I'm almost satisfied.
I would be more satisfied if my cock was experiencing the real thing.
And by that, I mean Bella.
My assistant.
Chapter Three
Benjamin
I walk through the building in silence, past cubicles and offices. I notice the employees with their heads down and their eyes forward as I walk by. I know it’s because they fear interacting with me or looking at me in a way that I wouldn’t like. I’ve seen that the staff aren’t always so enamored with their work when they’ve thought that I wasn’t watching. I also know it’s because they are afraid that I will turn to them and fire them for just looking at me, as I’ve done a few times since I’ve taken over. At least that’s how they perceived the terminations. As long as long the employees do their work and stay out of my way, then I’m happy and they keep their jobs.
Maggie keeps telling me I should be nice to the employees; After all, my father was a well-loved owner. My standard comeback is that I am not my father. He was everybody’s friend. I give them paychecks for the work that they do, and they should be happy with that.
I make my way to my office, open up my laptop, and pull up my calendar.
Three months have gone by since Bella was hired as my assistant. She’s lasted longer than any of the others, has done exceptional work with what I’ve asked of her, can take head on projects with excellence and best of all, she shows no fear when it comes to addressing me, or my moods. In fact, she seems to push through them and even manages to get me to calm down and actually speak to her rather than yell at her. She’s masterful in the way she handles me, like that of a football coach, angry but also applauding. She gets me to zero in on her beautiful blue eyes and focus my mind in order to calm down. I think that it's clear that I like her.
We’ve had many one-on-one meetings wherein previous assistants would have cowered in their seats, perhaps even shed tears.
Not Bella, not a chance. She meets me head on, with the gentlest of touches and the sharpest of fangs.
