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

  “Way to go, Red,” he tells me. “Get your carbs in. Winter's coming, you need to lay down stores.”

  Everyone howls like he's the funniest comedian to hit the circuit. And I make my escape, humiliated but intent on feasting in the privacy of my stifling box room.

  I'm heading across the expansive reception, dodging the swaying drunks when an office door is thrown back and a naked man emerges. He hurtles through the crowd, lassoing a pair of bright red panties in circles above his head. When he brushes dangerously close to me, almost felling my pile, I can't help glancing down over his ghoul white skin.

  At least he's wearing a Santa cap on his cock because really, some guys should only ever undress in the dark. His streak nets a roar of approval from the crowd.

  “Feed me, Momma.”

  He pulls up beside me and crouches on his thighs just enough so he's looking up at me with pleading puppy dog eyes as he pants, tongue out, ogling my stash of snacks.

  I stagger away, desperate to get back to the anonymity of my broom closet. Another loud holler and I look up to see two guys with a girl sandwiched between them, sledging a tea tray down the wide spiral staircase leading up to the executive suite. They land in what looks like a painful pile-up at the bottom and roll around, too drunk to feel anything. The girl still has her legs tightly wrapped around the pelvis of the guy who headed up the sled. They writhe around on the floor to the full approbation of the crowd surrounding them.

  I've never seen a bunch of office workers let loose like this. But then this is the first Christmas office party I’ve ever attended. Aside from one I was allowed to visit at my dad's company once. Everyone enjoyed the food and a glass of wine, mingled politely with their co-workers like they didn't spend almost half their lives in each others company and then sped off home to their families.

  This party is totally out of control. And everyone is getting to know each other in the furthest way from polite.

  Everyone but me.

  Chapter Three

  Even after four, or is it five, tequila shots, I'm nowhere near caught up to this crew and I doubt I ever will be. They're pouring booze into their tanks like Nascar drivers in an oil strike. I pick my way across the expansive reception, heading back to my office down a dark corridor no one ever ventures into. Until tonight of course.

  The hall has morphed into a swingers club, with various couples going at it and at one locked door, two guys on one woman. Although it's not entirely clear from the tangle of limbs around bumps who is into whom. Not willing to navigate further into the depths of depravity, I wheel around and slam straight into a tall guy with dark blonde stubble carrying a pair of Vegas-giant shots.

  “Shit, damn, sorry,” he slurs, eying my stash of comestibles and then taking in my boobs. Which are now sporting a charming splash of golden brown stickiness across the tops.

  “1-900 fuck me up,” a drunken voice behinds me squeals. “That’s my shooter you're wearing.”

  A girl I've seen in the elevator lurches from the darkness behind me and falls into the blonde dude.

  She hangs onto his thick forearm like a life raft, grabs the remaining full shot glass from his hand and chugs it back. Not to be completely selfish, she offers up her mouth to share half the vile smelling drink with the cute exec. He locks on to her mouth and blindly hands off the glasses to me. My hands being full, I'm unable to help him out so he drops them to the ground so as to fill his palms with the blond's ass.

  I stumble back out to the main area, embarrassed about my huge pile of secreted snacks. A chant starts on one side of the room and soon spreads like a stadium wave.

  “Suck, bang and blow,” it goes and gathers more steam as everyone turns to stare directly at me. “Suck, bang and blow.”

  My face feels like fifty shades of violent purple with everyone shouting the obscenity at me. What am I going to be pressed to do? With my hands loaded up, I might have to unleash my stash on the cream carpeting. Then a secretary totters past holding a double hurricane glass, filled to the brim. Relief floods me as I realize this is night of the filthy cocktails. Ten straws go into yet another obnoxiously named brew and there'll soon be even more of the action the drink is named after going on in the side offices.

  I just want to sit down and eat. The spiral stair toboggan track looms in front of me and without thinking I head on up to seek some peace above this nonsense.

  I almost dash up the staircase, leading to the chairman's office. I move back along the walkway that runs the length of the reception, an open mezzanine allowing a curious watcher to observe the hijinks below. Mr Wellman's doors are closed. Only a small crack where the wide heavy door sits slightly ajar. Obviously the boss isn't planning on being a part of this shindig tonight. I'm surprised he allows this kind of debauchery in the office.

  The tequila has started to kick in now and the party doesn't appear quite as infantile as when I first emerged from my cave like a groundhog in spring. I hip check the door to the boss's office open. It's in complete darkness aside from a banker's light on the massive desk.

  Wow, this is some serious office for a real big time player. I bet nice Mr Wellman is a real ass, despite what the employees say about his generosity at Christmas. I recall the semester on South American dictatorships I took at college. How leaders buy up elections in the pueblos simply by throwing the people a free street barbecue.

  There's a black Christmas tree in the corner, with dark silver and black baubles. Jeez, talk about monotonous. Where's the gaudy Christmas spirit? The rest of the office downstairs is covered with red santas and flashing snowmen. Old Wellman must be a real control freak.

  “Did you miss lunch, young lady?”

  I leap in my skin and spin around, ready to snipe out the arrogant jerk that referred to me as young lady. Then my knees give a jolt threatening to buckle beneath me.

  Him.

  Oh. My. Freaking. God.

  The arrogant asshole that cut in line so as not to keep his limo waiting. What the hell is he doing here?

  The guy with the headache.

  He's endowing me with an amused glare, no doubt horrified at the amount of stolen food I'm planning to scoff down.

  We work in the same office but I haven't seen him all week. Which isn’t saying much as I don’t recognize most of the people at this company after what, four days, employment. More to the point he looks nothing like the eager corporate boys at the party. The suit, the well worn stunning features, the swagger of power. Arrogant but not cocky. Too much in control to put on a show.

  Fuck, he's even hotter than before. A line of goosebumps stands up down my arms looking at the jaw carved by a Renaissance sculptor. The eyes as dark and glistening as six hours ago. And still as amused by my awkward outburst. He holds my gaze then, without even bothering to hide it, travels down my body giving me a good hard eyefuck. As he languidly moves back up, he stops abruptly at my tits, taking them in with interest and a filthy grin.

  “Are you going to tell on me?” I murmur, my voice cracking as he moves slowly across the expanse of white carpeting.

  “Tell? Who? What?” he asks with a conspiratorial wink.

  “The boss. That I'm in his office.”

  He smiles languidly. Those lips make me sway. Don't topple. Do not topple.

  “No, I won't tell him. Promise.”

  His eyes travel across the pile of delicious treats clenched between my palms right at the level of my cleavage. He must think I'm a real heifer. I automatically drop the haul level with my waist so he's not staring direct at my prodding nipples.

  “You and mayonnaise really do have a messy relationship,” he says in the wet sand voice, like a truck rolling on tarmac.

  I haul a gasping short breath as he lifts a hand to my waist. The sensation of his fingers grazing so lightly on my skin, through the cotton of my boring office shirt, is incendiary. Nothing has ever made me quaver right down to my knees as much as this simple touch. Which is barely a touch as he skims slowly, la
nguidly up my rib cage, setting off a shower of sparks.

  He reaches the underwire of my bra and halts, his eyes delving into mine with an intensity that makes me long to reach behind for support. But my hands are full. He's not questioning, not asking for permission so much as challenging me.

  Do I dare to surrender to this encounter with a sexy stranger?

  I know he wants me. It's written all over his face. His body is sending out ferocious signals or pheromones or whatever's packaged with that mysterious thing called chemistry. Despite the level of animosity I feel toward him as a human being and a man with zero gallantry, working in an industry I find slimy, my body is screaming out for a man's touch.

  His touch.

  If only he'd hook under the stiff circle of wire cupping my breast and flip it upward. I want him to cover that hidden flesh with his large and powerful but oh so elegant grasp. I want him to pinch my nipple and rid me of this overwhelming need so I can get back to being Miss Cool and in control.

  He holds steady. Not a whisper of hesitation inside. He's just observing me and obviously enjoying the emotion racketing through my bones.

  Maybe he wants me to beg him.

  He wants to see me crack and give in to him.

  I don't know.

  All I know is I need to feel his hands covering my flesh, molding it to his wishes. Then he seems satisfied, his finger shifts over the wire, leaving it in place and flicks across the tail of the mayo dash with a flourish. The sensation of touch across the underside of my breast is electric. No guy has ever pulled such a vivid response from me, even while plunging three fingers into my pussy. Mr Deli holds me motionless under his stare as he rubs his fingerpad across my breast, stopping just short, agonizingly short, of the bullet hard nipple poking through the material.

  He lifts the excess dressing off, leaving the tip with all its craving then wipes his finger on a handkerchief he's pulled from a pocket somewhere. He must be some kind of magician because the suit is so perfectly fitted to his broad form, there’s not a millimeter of spare space to hide a square of fabric.

  I'm stunned into speechlessness (for perhaps the first time in my adult life). I want to slap his face except as he so rudely pointed out, my hands are stacked with an excess of treats. How a man could be so audacious as to touch me like that. In a business environment.

  How dare he?

  And why do I want him to do it again?

  I gulp down my cocktail of shock and desire. Just because a man is rich and gorgeous does not give him the right to fondle me. Almost fondle me. Fuck it, fondle me again, harder this time. I want this stranger's hands on me, squeezing and mounding, tugging and pinching, right in the middle of our boss's executive suite.

  Chapter Four

  My eyes are stretched so wide they're starting to strain. Still I can't stop looking at him. He's so perfect. And I'd like to trail my fingers across his chest the way he just did to mine. I'm outraged by the force of need in me. And I know he'd never go for a young nobody like me. Which doesn't quell the overwhelming urge to drop to my knees and pull his cock out of his perfect pants.

  He's the sort of man women worship. Plenty of evidence of that in the deli. He ought to have a supermodel at this side, someone that can measure up in some way. What's he doing hanging out up here. Any one of the women at the party would take him to an office storage closet and fuck his brains out. Suck every last drip of cum from his hard rod.

  He holds my eyes like they're cuffed on a chain gang. I'm torn in pieces between being indignant at him touching me, self-righteously reminding him how he behaved like a douche earlier today, and falling in supplication at his feet. I also need to remember I'm not supposed to be in here, this power-broker office.

  Neither should he but I don’t know that for sure. He's dressed like management so I elect not to challenge him on that one.

  He releases my gaze to take in the two hard pellets pushing through the fabric he recently cleaned up. His grin of satisfaction says he assumes my body's craving is all for him.

  “You really are hungry,” he says in that voice that makes me drip honey.

  Arrogant bastard.

  “It's been hours since lunch,” I snip.

  I'm irritated that his touch has left me hanging in rampant lust. Of course he won't pursue something. I'm sure he has a dozen trysts a day with women he crosses paths with. He could take any one of them. But then again how many of them call him out as an asshole in public?

  Fuck, I want to shrivel up into the plush broadloom.

  “Why do you need to eat in secret?” he inquires, his wet cement voice soaking through me.

  “I just wanted to get away from the madness down there,” I admit.

  “You don't care for parties either?”

  “Not ones like that, not since I graduated phi beta at least.”

  “You've been working for Wellman since you graduated? Where have you been hiding?”

  Shit, now I have to admit my sorry history of not managing to find any job since I graduated. That I'm the Christmas temp working in the black hole of Calcutta storage room. Then he's going to really ball me out for coming into the chairman's private office suite.

  It's so wrong but I set my pile of treats down on the long glass coffee table in front of the lounge suite.

  “I'm just temping for a couple of weeks.” Fuck, this is humbling. “But next year I'll be starting a political analyst job.” That's not really lying. I mean, I have every intention of making that a reality. Next year it has to happen, right?

  However, I'm not great with making up untruths and his gaze feels like it's stripping me down to my underwear and beyond. To defuse my awkwardness, I pop a delicious puff into my mouth and swoon at the flaky buttery pastry melting on my tongue.

  All the while he's watching like I'm the most fascinating specimen. Then I detect there's a private executive washroom on one side of the office. I can remove the offending mayonnaise stain without attracting further sexual interest when I go back downstairs.

  I cross the room, not before popping one of the egg rolls between my lips. God, food tastes good when you're starving. Mr Deli remains where he is, casually standing in the massive office as confident as if he owns the place. At least he hasn't asked my name. So I don't encourage that by asking his. I wonder whether he's related to the boss somehow. It would make sense what with the limo waiting on him at the drugstore.

  His eyes burn a scorch onto my ass and before I can stop myself, I add a swinging sashay to my walk across the room. When I flick one of the three switches on the wall, a classy set of lights comes on over the double basin. The entire wall covered with mirror, sexy mirror, dark and mysterious.

  I'm sure that if I take some time to scrub out the stain on my white shirt and give my winter lank hair a zhuzh, he'll have disappeared back to wherever he came from. To the party I assume. I cross the black unpolished granite floor and gaze at my reflection. I don't look too bad in this light. The mirror gives me an exotic appeal.

  There's a stack of fabric napkins on the counter. I soak the corner of one and scrub at the stain but I'm making it worse. I need to get some soap and hot water on it to remove the oil. I unbutton and slip out of the shirt, my eyes darting to the door, ensuring it's closed.

  Fuck. It isn't closed, it's standing wide open and he's leaning against the jamb, arms crossed. The fucking audacity of the man

  “Are you for real? Can't a girl get some privacy?”

  I pull the fabric to cover the cleavage he's admiring without disguise. My tits are my finest feature, according to the college guys I dated, as well as those I never gave the time of day.

  “You left the door wide open. How could I know you were going to strip off for me?”

  I can't believe he's removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. I see the flex of his hard forearms flaring at the elbow and a tattoo snaking. Surprising. I wouldn’t have expected a business square like him to have a rough edge.

  “I
didn’t leave it open for you.” I snap.

  “You're expecting someone else to join you in here?”

  “I – no.”

  “Then why did you leave it open?”

  “I don't know. Stop quizzing me.”

  “You don’t have to hide. It's nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Although I haven’t seen such an exceptional example in a long time.”

  “You're seriously going to comment on the state of my breasts?”

  “I'd like to. If you let me.”

  I open my mouth in sheer amazement, unable to believe the sheer wanton nerve of this guy. I have never met someone so entitled even among the jocks at school. This guy is way older than any of them but no more mature.

  He's sauntering across the bathroom. His proximity sending warning signals through my body like an alarm sounding across the city for an approaching meteorite. His eyes fixed on the nipples shoving towards him through the transparent gauze of my bra. My mind squeals “Don't come any closer” but my lips are frozen in a perfect circle of shock.

  “Still hungry?” he asks, his throaty voice making me quiver as he trails a finger along my lower lip like earlier. “If you leave your mouth open like that I'm going to get the idea you want me to fill it.”

  I hitch a breath of awe at his never-ending boldness. Does he not know how inappropriate this is? The sort of trouble he could get in for fraternization.

  “This sexy biting mouth of yours needs a little taming,” he burrs.

  “I -” Appear to be tongue-tied.

  He's moved into my space now.

  Close.

  Too close.

  I'm trapped against the basin. His chest almost buffing my eager prodding nipples. My knees feel like they're melting beneath me. He's toying with me. The girl in the office. No one will help me. There's too much hi-jinx squealing floating up the spiral staircase through the open doors. But this guy is older than any of them by at least a decade. He's close enough that I see his shining, burrowing eyes sport small creases at the corners. His skin is weathered from experience and the year round healthy glow-tan that all rich jerks sport.