Bossy Christmas Party: CEO Older Man Taboo Office Romance Read online

  Bossy Christmas Party

  A CEO Office Party Older Man Romance

  by

  Mia Madison

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the rights of the author.

  Copyright © 2016 Mia Madison. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Version 2016.10.18

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  Bossy Christmas Party

  Chapter One

  Four days into this job and I feel like ripping my skin off from boredom. My dad thought he was being helpful, calling in a favor from a friend of a friend of a friend. Digging up a job and some Christmas cash for his deadbeat daughter.

  But two weeks of unpacking musty boxes and collating old papers while the regular clerk takes off over Christmas and New Year's to get married on a beach has me feeling desperate. Leaping off the Brooklyn Bridge comes to mind except I'm on the subway. Jumping onto the tracks would be unfair to commuters battling through winter rush hour in the midst of Christmas shopping season. Although if their jobs are as mind-numbing soul-destroying as mine, I'm sure they'd thank me for the delay.

  Jeez, I'm getting morbid at this special time of year.

  All of Manhattan's twinkly lights and frenzied crowds dashing from store to store have sent me full-on Grinch. Has no one heard of internet shopping? I cross the street, walk up the block then cross back, just to avoid the red-suited dude wagging his bell at me every morning.

  I almost want to beg Santa to make me one of his charitable cases. I'm living with my parents in the untrendy part of Brooklyn. I haven't worked since I graduated with an apparently useless degree in political science more than half a year ago. And perhaps the worst thing, at least in terms of my humor, I haven't gotten laid since I left my Chicago alma mater.

  Now I'm waiting on an interminable line to pay for an eleven dollar container of macaroni and mayonnaise. At least the deli's gifting a free coffee with my pasta salad although I really wish I'd hit Starbucks. Blown my lunch budget on a candy cane frappuccino with double whip and screw the damn calories.

  I'm so hungry I pop the clam-shell package open and sneak a bite of the creamy carbs, garnishing a look of disdain from the older woman behind me for shoving the twists ravenously into my mouth with my fingers.

  “Ooooh.” A soft fizzle of wondrous delight passes along the waiting line.

  Great.

  Fat globules of snow have started dancing on the other side of the loaded store window. By the time I leave the office tonight, the streets will be a total mess.

  You can tell the office workers from the shoppers passing the glass. Pasty faced cubicle rats bundled in layer upon layer of fleece and wool against the freezing wind between overheated office, transit and lunch counter.

  All except one.

  Just as I get close to the register, a guy in a suit, no coat, strolls in, trailing a whoosh of icy air in his wake. He butts right in front of the woman ahead of me. The fine wool lapel of his exquisitely fitted suit is sprinkled with bulbous snowflakes. The woman at the head of the line is too stunned by his blatant cutting in to say anything and I'm too pissed not to. He may be wearing a five thousand dollar suit and have the classic good looks of one of the billboards over on Times Square but fuckit he can wait his turn like the rest of us mere mortals.

  “Excuse us,” I pipe up. “We've been waiting ten minutes.”

  Nothing.

  Like I'm one of the little snowflakes melting to nothing on his collar. Nothing gets me more riled up than being ghosted.

  “Excuse me, there's a line here, don't you know?”

  Still nothing and what the fuck, the clerk is serving him instead of blasting him back. She jiggles as she turns to find whatever he's asked for and comes back with a simpery little flutter of fake lashes. Even though she sees a line of people that have been waiting an age. Ordinary little people, not rich jerks dripping with power, definitely not stunning hunky males.

  “Georgia, that attitude will not get you far in this world,” my mom still scolds me in hushed tones whenever I came out with some feminist political stance.

  She's afraid I'll become an old maid. Alone and unloved. I guess she's right because no man asks me out and no job interview in the last nine months has resulted in an offer. Which is why I'm dredging through papers in a back office, make that box room, at Wellman Finance. A hostile takeover arbitrage place that's three steps away from a ponzi scheme. That is, everything I hate about the business world.

  “Hey, Buster,” I shout now, receiving a terrified glance from the woman ahead, concerned about whether I'm about to get chaotic. “Were you never taught to treat women with care and courtesy? Or do you always act like an entitled jerk in public?”

  I don't notice the hush falling over the entire store as the decibel level of my voice moves higher and higher. My insult is hurled at such volume the shoppers down the block on Fifth Avenue couldn't have missed it. But still nothing from the arrogant douche, who receives the package of high-strength ibuprofen, drops all his change into the tip cup and is gifted with another flirty grin from the fluttery-lashed clerk. It seems he's going to totally blank me as he turns on his way out the door. Then his eyes latch onto mine and he halts.

  I feel like I've been strapped into a straitjacket.

  His gaze takes me in. And a red rash of heat rises to my frigid cheeks. I don't think I’ve ever seen a man so gorgeous. No, now that I see him head on instead of only from the side, I can safely say he is the most delectable lickable hunk in the history of all things sexy. Black hair of the kind you dagger fingers through, dark eyes that seem to glow in the deli's fluorescent glare, setting me alight with a delving stare. His perfectly trimmed beard, just skirting past scruff is perfect for friction where it counts. No wonder the clerk was mesmerized into serving him and forgetting about an entire store of low blood sugar customers.

  He'll be populating her dreams tonight. And I regret to say, mine too.

  His eyes pinion me to the ground. I couldn't speak or move if there was a five alarm fire at the hot counter. Heat rises from the tops of my thighs through my core straight to my nipples. I want to laugh like a girl, I'm so discombobulated by his enveloping eyes. His tongue reaches to the corner of his full enticing lips, as though he's thinking through a solution to the puzzle of what to do with me.

  Ohmigod

  His hand lifts to my face and his firm thumbpad scrapes lightly along the underside of my bottom lip. He takes a second pass with the tip of his index finger as his tongue touches the same point on his own, much thicker lower lip. That tongue sets off explosions of sparkling light. I want that tongue plundering my mouth just once in my life. It takes every effort not to part my lips around his sensuous fingers as they stroke along the bulge of flesh. Not to suck him in and milk his fingers dry. When he lifts from my lips, I unconsciously send my tongue to replace his provocative touch.

  “Mayonnaise.”

  His motorbike gang husk
y voice makes that one word sound like sex in a back alley. He holds up his hand as proof. A dab of creamy dressing sits on his fingertip. My face lights up like a cheap bauble, which amuses him enormously. I want to sink into the floor.

  “Sorry for thrusting in,” he addresses the line, although his eyes continue burning through me. “Raging headache.” He holds up the painkillers as further proof. He must be a lawyer.

  Everyone on line mutters some version of, 'No problem, feel better'.

  Seriously?

  “Big meeting and I'm doubled parked,” the suit dazzles with a smile that illuminates the entire world.

  Another glance through the tinsel strewn window reveals a stretch town car at the curb, the liveried chauffeur waiting to open the door, trying not to shiver.

  “Capitalist douche,” I mutter, then realize it emerged from my humiliation just a little louder than I intended.

  “Merry Christmas,” The Suit calls to the crowd on his way out. Offering another of his panty-melting grins and receiving a flurry of responses in return.

  His eyes delve into me one last time, probably committing my face to memory for any future government sweep of red rebels. And for some bizarre reason all I can do is take note of the fact that he's left handed and that there isn't a ring on it.

  “Dat be the hottest man I saw in this city, ever,” the clerk squeals as she pulls the notes from her tip cup. He left her a twenty and a five. “So generous,” she adds loudly for the line to take notice, right as my turn to pay comes up.

  I storm back to the office, not appreciating the crowd snapping selfies with the giant tree on Rockefeller Plaza. When I arrive my heart sinks to my frostbitten toes. Everyone has emerged from their cubicles to take over the huge sleek reception area in preparation for the Christmas party.

  “Really?” I snarl at the receptionist. “You'd think a hugely profitable company like Wellman Finance would blow some cash on their employees in the season of goodwill.” And by employees I mean slaves.

  “Oh, it does. Mr Wellman is the best boss ever,” she gushes. “He hosted a huge thing at The Morgan. Very swanky. Now he lets us have this office party to shake off the cobwebs.”

  I’ve never heard such adulation for a corporate slave-driver. I wonder when I'll get to meet this kindly old gentleman, Mr Wellman.

  “He occasionally drops by the party early. We give him a roast and a silly gift. Then he splits so we can all let loose. And believe me we do. It's gonna get cray in here tonight but Mr Wellman encourages it. Oh, by the way, Andrea left a box of paperwork on your desk that she needs finished up by end of day.”

  No one thinks to invite the office temp to shake off her cranky cobwebs so I head back to the dingy storage room to get down to my overtime with dust bunnies for company.

  Chapter Two

  My so-called office is down a service corridor behind reception, where they store extra chairs and other non-essential detritus. I'm alone in a tiny airless room while the staff share open plan trendy cubicles allowing them to enjoy frequent interaction. I fall into an excess carbohydrate funk all afternoon.

  The box that Andrea, Mr Wellman's PA, decided is so important seems to gloat at the fact I'm going to have to stay late to get it done. The snow coming down thick now will have piled up on the sidewalks and maybe the subway tracks. Getting home will be a nightmare. Plus I took a chance and wore heels today instead of sensible boots.

  No one suddenly remembers to invite the temp to the party, but I do get to listen to the increasing orgiastic jubilation filtering down the hallway. Around 7.30, I'm starving. I only had the pasta salad and that was hours ago. Not having planned on working late, I'm not stocked up with snacks to get me through the tedium.

  I don't care if I'm not a real guest, I'm heading out to the canteen to grab coffee on the pretext of swiping up a couple of sliders from the loaded party trays I saw being spread out earlier.

  The transformation of the office in a few short hours is shocking. The usually serene cream and exotic wood reception area looks like Armageddon. As though a swat team of over-sugared toddlers has marauded through the elegant space. I head toward the buffet spread and notice some kind of dark red-brown slash across the plush pale carpeting. But it's chocolate sauce rather than blood. How do you manage to leave a trail of chocolate across a very expensive floor treatment?

  Oh, I get it. One of the girls is chasing a guy through the crowd wielding a squeezy bottle of Hershey’s. The back of his pristine white shirt is squirted with black and red and mustard yellow streaks making him look like a Jackson Pollock painting on the run. They're both squealing so I guess he's enjoying himself as much as she is. Someone's getting lucky tonight.

  Dang, that makes my clit twitch and throb because it's not gonna be me. How can I live in the most exciting city in the world and not have had sex since I left college? Because this city has two buttons – work and after-work. Without a job and no money to hit the social scene, I'm out of the loop.

  Visions of the hottie from the deli float up in my head before I can squash them down. His solid body under the fine white shirt, sculpted by the classy suit. No one could fail to notice the hard round globes of the ass-hat's ass as he rushed off to his cozy waiting limo. That was a man to fuel a thousand fantasies. He's going to be living in mine when I get home and get myself off before passing out asleep.

  Discarded on life's scrap heap before the age of twenty two, I step up to one of the two bars set up in opposite corners and surreptitiously nab a tequila shot.

  “Adios motherfucker,” a smart looking guy falls in beside me.

  “Coming right up,” the bartender replies pouring some violent blue liqueur into a glass.

  “There's a cocktail called adios motherfucker made with Windex?” I ask.

  “Curacao,” he replies.

  I watch the bartender add gin, vodka, rum and tequila to the garish blue liquor. Holy shit. I serve myself a second tequila.

  “And lemme get a liquid Viagra,” the confident young guy orders.

  The bartender nods the okay and pours a mix of Jagermeister and Red Bull. No doubt that Mr Confidence will be up all night.

  “You new? I haven't seen you around. Deke.” He offers his hand.

  I sneak another peek at his face. Cute. Too cute. The scrubble on his chin looks like it took him three weeks to grow in. His skin is too doughy soft. He's only around my age and reminds me of the fresh eager jocks from college always on the prowl to get their dicks dipped. Too unsophisticated. Undeveloped. They're all exactly the same. Same lines, same boring routine. Like they're still growing a personality.

  “Georgia Jury. I'm a temp for Christmas.”

  “Well damn, Georgia Jury, I'd like a temp for Christmas under my tree.”

  Is he hitting on me? Just like that? That's cocky.

  He grins and stares at my chest then takes in my ass without a scruple. He's totally hitting on me. Jeezus, I'm going to start charging.

  An image floats up before my eyes. Of the gorgeous hunk at the lunch counter today. That guy definitely didn’t need 24 hours to grow in his model stubble.

  Shit. Why do I keep thinking of that asshole?

  I have a third tequila. Downing it swiftly before anyone important like the boss's assistant notices. The warmth suffuses through my tense core.

  Much better.

  Now for something to mop up the damage. I'm finding the buffet spread far more appealing than flirting with a kid right now. Just then, the catch-me-if-you-can players rustle past. Deke grabs me and pulls me in front as a shield, sure that his co-worker won't dare. He grips my arms and ducks out either side of me, tease-tempting her with his moving target.

  She does dare.

  The liquor has taken over the corporate girl and spat out a daring monster.

  A squirt of mayonnaise lands across my chest, the slash traveling over the hump of my breast.

  “Dammit you two,” I shout, but they're already off, screaming and laughing as they h
urtle around the reception. I sound like I'm uptight when really I'm just not drunk enough.

  I weave to the buffet and stuff some mini tacos. So good. There's a creamy cheese ball covered in S'mores which is amazing. The cheeseburger dip is nothing short of tastebud climax. I have to tell my Mom about this one. Before I'm noticed like the beggar that busted in off the cold streets, I grab a handful of crab puffs and spring rolls. I pile on some nachos and then I see the jumbo shrimp which I skewer onto cocktail sticks five deep.

  My flattened palm is piled high and precarious as a Jenga tower and I need to steady the pinnacle with my other hand before I add my mark to the trashed carpet. Beside me a woman is seated in a chair deep-throating two vodka bottles, held in place between her lips by a pair of smart young executives. She's furiously double butt-chugging the liquor, trying not to gag on her laughter while conveniently hanging onto both men's belt buckles, her fingers buried underneath.

  Things are about to get sticky around here. And I haven’t had nearly enough tequila. I lift a discarded shot and throw it back.

  Before being hip-checked again, I duck into one of the service offices to scarf my precarious treasure.

  The photocopy room should be safe. Except that of course everyone has seen Fatal Attraction. But that's so last century and instead of sitting on the glass plate to photocopy her butt for the entranced guys around her, the blond from accounting is riding the machine like a bucking bronco. She's in the saddle, leaning forward, her palms clinging to the edge of the machine, pressing her ample cleavage with her upper arms. The light moves back and forward along her splayed thighs, rendering a ghoulish glow on her skin as she makes a hundred copies of her spread pussy mouth.

  One of the guys grabs the stack of paper from the tray.

  “Way to go, Jessie,” he whoops. “Ride that cowboy.”

  He admires the murky picture of her open hole and hands a copy to everyone. When my turn comes and he thrusts one at me with a leer, I shrug away indicating my already stuffed hands.