Page 17 of Hating the Boss

I hooked the mesh fabric with my forefinger, leaving me bare as my heart began to beat faster. I ran my forefinger up my slick opening, and back down. I could feel my nipples strain against the fabric of the dress.

I imagined the gruffness of his voice as he talked me through exactly what he wanted to do to me. It sent a shiver up my spine, imagining the smirk that played across his lips as I dipped one finger in. I let out a whisper of a moan, slowly moving in and out of my aching opening. I slipped another finger in, slowly building a rhythm as my palm pressed against my clit firmly.

In my head, it wasn’t my hand. It was his.

Wanting.

Demanding.

I could already feel my orgasm building, my body feeling electric pulses as I moved my hand faster, anticipating release. I threw my head back against the mirror, a dull ache at the base of my head masked by the wave of pleasure crashing over me.

I wanted to shout his name, but I covered my mouth and released, my moans stifled by my hand.

Chapter 8 Brad

I stretched out on the large cream sectional and took a sip of my coffee, black and hot, steam rising from the emerald green mug I clutched in my hand. I closed my eyes at the strong taste and leaned my head back against the couch, the sound of the CNBC mixed with sounds of the traffic below as the soundtrack to my morning. I had tried to sleep in, but the morning sun crept its way between the shades and my window, stirring me awake.

Thoughts of Sarah had kept me up later than I had wanted, which was why I was on my second cup of coffee. I rolled my neck and looked toward the large flat-screen television mounted on the limewashed wall of my living room. Watching the numbers of stocks flash across the screen, I smiled with satisfaction to see Stellar Industries was up by three points.

My phone buzzed on the dark wood of my coffee table. I lifted my feet up and off it, reaching for the glowing screen. It was Anton:

Golf this morning?

I yawned, thinking about how there were other things I could get done. Despite it being Saturday, there was still business to be done. Not in the office, per se, but in connecting with business partners or potential business partners.

Aside from being dubbed a demanding asshole, I was also dubbed a workaholic. A title I wore proudly. If I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Taking time to enjoy the weekend wouldn’t kill my business. I knew that. I knew other billionaires took off for the weekend, enjoying the sunny beaches of the Bahamas or escaping to their oceanfront houses in the Hamptons. Not me, though.

Anton: It’s Saturday…

I rolled my eyes at Anton’s nudge to get me on the course with him. But then I had an idea that would appease him and my desire to make business connections. I could invite a potential business partner along, one I had been trying to land for the past few weeks.

Me: I’m in. I’ll schedule our tee time for 10.

Anton: Wow. Am I dreaming?

Ignoring his sarcasm, I quickly typed out a response.

Me: See you at Inwood.

I was surprised Anton was even up before 7 a.m. Friday nights were busy for any restaurant in the city, but especially pizza joints. Anton owned one of the largest chains in Manhattan, one that many a drunk clubgoer liked to go to after a long night of dancing and drinking. It was what made his business so successful, having a place for people with late night munchies to go to. Plus, his pizza was fucking delicious.

Owning a pizza chain wasn’t enough for Anton, though. Despite being the head of the company, he found the business side of things boring, which was why you could often find him in the kitchen late at night. He worked alongside the cooks, stretching dough and spreading his secret sauce, sprinkling toppings before popping the pizza stones in one of the large wood-fired ovens.

I thought that was part of the appeal of why people chose Anton’s over other pizza joints. He was hands-on, passionate about his product. People liked catching a glimpse of him in the kitchen through the small round window in the swinging doors.

It was the same way for any successful business owner. People’s curiosity got the better of them, wanting a behind the scenes peek. For me, it was just a little more intense, with the press looking for dirt and sneaky cameramen trying to capture me in compromising positions.

I scrolled through my phone to find the phone number for Neil Schwartz. He was the CEO of a start-up tech company that was taking social media by storm with his app, a combination of the old Instagram and current wave of TikTok, encouraging users to post videos in real time. I had obtained his personal number from his secretary by schmoozing the information out of her last week, when I paid a visit to his brick and mortar office.

Me: Neil. It’s Brad Ashcroft. I hope the weekend is finding you well. Care to join me for a round of golf at the Inwood Country Club this morning?

Neil: I don’t know whether to be pissed off or impressed that you have my cell phone number.

Me: You can let me know on the course at 10.

Neil: You’re lucky that I am an early riser and happen to love a round of golf.