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The woman puts on a show tailor-made for me. Every time she refers to me as “sir” in that soft whimper, my cock jumps needily. The little hitches in her breathing mirror my own.
By the time we get to my downtown penthouse, I’m wondering if my dick will ever go down. Not that I’ve made much of an attempt to help.
“Thanks, Boris. See you tomorrow at six.”
“Got it, boss.”
I take the elevator up to the thirty-fifth floor after punching in my private access code. The doors open directly into my penthouse.
I’m a busy man, so it helps me to compartmentalize my life. That goes for my properties, too. Some are for business, others for pleasure—and this one on Madison Avenue, the grandest of my skyrise real estate, is just for me.
I come here when I’m craving peace and quiet, when I want to be completely alone with my thoughts.
Or with my assistant’s filthy fucking fantasies.
There’s no peace and quiet to be found here tonight. The only thing swimming around in my head is Ms. Carson. Her pert little mouth. Those innocent almond eyes. The way her ass moves when it’s sheathed in a silk dress.
I’m not blind—I noticed her the moment she stepped into my office for the final interview. Her attractiveness wasn’t the reason I hired her, though. In fact, I’d hired herdespiteher looks. No man needs to have constant temptation walking around in high heels and a red lip.
But her credentials and experience were all above board and I was sick of the revolving door of morons that darkened my doorstep with their ineptitude and emotional baggage. The assistant who preceded Emma quit, right before she burst into tears and called me a “psychopath in Hermes.” I had Kirill get that printed on my business cards.
So when Emma stepped into the role, despite a few freshman kinks, it was like a breath of fresh air. She was smart, competent, and she didn’t complain.
Not that I didn’t knowexactlywhen she was pissed off or frustrated with me. Her blue eyes have this way of darkening and there is a vein in her forehead that twitches anytime I order her around or give her a task she considers beneath her.
It’s been my way of keeping her busy and far away—so that she didn’t end up beneath me.
Of course, now, I don’t have to imagine what she’d sound like if I were to pin her to the wall and run my fingers between her thighs.
I’ve listened to that damn voicemail twice already. Any more replays and I’m in danger of doing something stupid.
Like masturbating while I think about all the different ways I’d ravage her body.
Undressing, I walk to the leather recliner set up in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.. I manage to resist my phone for a full three minutes before picking it back up once again.
This time, when I start playing the voicemail, I put it on speaker.
Her moans fill what was supposed to be a blissful Zen silence. My cock braces against my pants, but I refuse to touch myself. I’m happy with the idea that I’m the star of her spank bank material, but I certainly don’t want her in mine.
But the way she cries out my name as she touches herself…Fucking hell,it’s the most erotic thing I’ve heard in my entire goddamn life. That and the sound of her fingers making contact with her pussy. The slippery wetness thrums just underneath her moans, getting faster and faster as she delves deeper into the fantasy.
“It sounds so fucking good, sir. Please do that. Please, please.”
“Blyat’!”I pause the voicemail mid-moan.
I need to fucking delete it. That’s the right move; I know that. But even as my finger hovers over the delete button, I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger.
Ishouldfucking punish her for this. Impaling her on my cock seems like a pretty fitting punishment right about now.
I fast forward almost to the end of the message and press play again. She’s well past moaning now. She’s practically screaming. I can easily imagine her tight little body shuddering as the orgasm rips through her. It gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction to know that I’m responsible for that orgasm, no matter how indirectly.
Her breathing flutters a little and then it hitches up again just at the very end. A thump. A shocked gasp. Muffled static—then, two seconds later, the message ends.
I’m willing to bet that my prim and proper little secretary had no intention of sending me that voice message. Hell, she probably had no idea she even called me in the first place.
What an irreversible mistake.
I wonder what else that mouth is capable of.
