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

  “Someone. You know that, Georgia Jury.”

  “What's your name? Or do I have to call you Mr Wellman forever?”

  Shit.

  His thighs go stiff beneath me, the tension rolling right back in. He doesn't respond, meaning we gaze at each other with all the unspoken stuff rising between us. Is it having me know his name that's bugging him?

  Or the other thing? I should never have used the magic word. The one men hate more than Valentine.

  Forever.

  Last chance I guess. If I want to know about my boss, I'm clearly going to have to push. And being as we've arrived at the holiday weekend, the time is now. I won't see him until next week. It seems like forever.

  “So tell me Mr Wellman, why did you throw me off last night? It really hurt my feelings to have you shut me out after lighting me up like a supernova.”

  “Get dressed, Georgia Jury,” he says, moving my arms from his thighs to lift me up from the floor.

  I stand and he lets out a low growl as my wet swollen pussy aligns with his lips. He leans to kiss the soft sore mound so carefully a tear rolls down my cheek. He kisses the pink lips repeatedly, his hand cupping my stinging ass cheek.

  When he pulls away I start to dress. He sits in my chair, watching intently as I find my tossed clothes. Another feral sound emanates as I bend over in my towering heels, my back facing his, to pick up my thong. My stretched slit opens to his gaze.

  Thank fuck he desires me just as much as before. I make sure to repeat the process for each item instead of collecting them all at once. Despite the swelling, my pussy starts to hum and tremor with lust for Mr Wellman again. Just when I think he's not going to answer any question I pose, he takes a deep breath as though exerting a huge effort.

  “I was thrown by last night myself,” he says carefully considering each word.

  I wait.

  Motionless, so as not to scare him off with so much as the breath in my throat, for him to continue.

  “I couldn’t hear what my staff were saying during the roast thy give me every year, highlighting what an ass I've been.”

  I throw him a smile of approval. I love that he has a sense of humor about himself and knows his meaner side. No delusion there.

  “I had to laugh along whenever they did, when the roaster made a joke. So they wouldn't catch on that I was so far away I may as well have been on Mars. All I could think of was you upstairs. In my office. Tied up in my closet. Naked and panting for my cock inside your body. It was the hottest fucking thing I've ever known and the only place in the world I wanted to be.”

  My heart thuds hard enough into my ribcage to make my tits jiggle with every beat. He gazes at my nipples straining hard toward his body and looks like he wants to slather them.

  “So why didn't you come back?” I say, a pout forcing out my lower lip. “Why didn't you take me when you did come back?”

  He's silent for so long I decide he isn't going to respond.

  “I didn't want you one night,” he forces out, his jaw stuck like rusted door hinges. I wait while he gathers himself to continue.

  “I knew right then I wanted you more than that. And that's something I've haven’t felt for another woman – ever. Not like this.”

  I can see how hard it is for him to admit his emotion to me, his loss of control over that. It makes my heart swell and grow wings to know I have such an effect. Mr Wellman steels his jaw to keep going.

  “I knew I could never get enough of you. I want you to be more for me. But I know also, that aside from how much your body craves me. As a person, you hate my guts because I'm everything you despise in a man.”

  “That's not true,” I whimper.

  I swallow down a lump pushing into my throat. The ache in my pussy is unbearable. Juices are leaking from me and slipping down my thighs.

  “Which part?” he says.

  “I don’t despise you. I could never.”

  I'd like to tell him how much I adore him but that would be ridiculous seeing as I met him yesterday. The snow is coming down again heavily. We're going to have a seriously white Christmas which means my parents will bring out that stupid old movie from like a century ago. Where the old guy gets the amazing skinny blond. Age is not important.

  Mr Wellman takes me home in his limo again. And again doesn't utter a word, sitting at the far side, staring out at the white blizzard, the world disappeared behind its curtain. He's disappeared behind his own curtain and left me on the other side. I don't know what to make of the pulling back but warm embers glow inside knowing how he wants me more than anyone he's ever known.

  At my house, he climbs out of the car then helps me and leads me to the gate.

  “Merry Christmas, Georgia Jury,” he says and plants a kiss on my mouth.

  He watches me walk up the shoveled path to my parent's house, standing on the other side of the gate until I'm at the porch.

  I turn for one last look

  “Merry Christmas, Mr Wellman.”

  *

  I spend Christmas Day with mom and dad, and my sister, Dakota, home from college in Florida. She's being her usual, younger sister, bratty self. Inserting herself into my life like she has rights.

  I’m jumpy and distracted, all I can think about is my boss, which is ridiculous. Through Christmas Eve while I help cook sauces and bake every kind of cookie until the kitchen is a bombsite but smells like happiness, I swing between elation and misery. The thrill of being fucked so well that I feel beloved and the sadness of knowing that it's over.

  Or even if he comes to my office again, I'm only there until a couple of days into the new year. Then I'll never see him again. I feel Mom's eyes on me various times, giving me that mom perusal thing where she can psychically extract my secret thoughts.

  “No,” I screech at Dakota when she asks if she can borrow my brand new shoes for her Christmas drink with her high school sweetheart.

  “Boo. What is up with you? You're just jealous because I'm going out with Cade and you've got no one. You seriously need a hookup.”

  “Okay, thanks for the words of wisdom. Did they add a shaman class to your semester or something?”

  “Girls, can we please have some holiday cheer. Dakota's only home for a week.”

  Thank fuck.

  After our traditional green eggs and ham breakfast that Dakota insists Mom makes as she has every Christmas morning since I was four and Dakota two, we sit in the cozy living room while Dad hands out the presents.

  I get a silver necklace from my parents and a journal with stickers from Dakota. My parents exchange some books and Dakota has some silly socks and perfume in a bright pink bottle from her old beau. Dad hands me a square box beautifully wrapped with double satin bows and an expensive bauble adorning the knot.

  “What beautiful wrap. Who's it from?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t know. There's no card,” I say,

  Inside, there’s a handmade box, painted and decorated with the words “On the First Day of Christmas...”

  Inside an amazing pair of pink satin pumps with crystal studding covering the square six inch heels.

  “Wow,” Dakota breathes as I lift one out.

  Tucked inside the shoe is a gold-edged card.

  Merry Christmas, Love Ryan.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Who are they from?” Dakota asks with a scowl.

  “Yes who are they from, George?” my dad repeats with a quizzical frown.

  “Um, they're actually from my boss.”

  “Your boss? You’ve worked there like a week,” Dakota squeaks. “Why would your boss give you a fifteen hundred dollar Christmas gift?”

  Seriously, this kid needs a mouth stuffing some days. I don’t care if it is the season of goodwill.

  “There was a raffle, a draw I mean.” Man, that was an unusual but timely brainwave of pure genius. “I guess my number came up.”

  I give a casual shrug and inside I feel validated by Dakota's envious sulk. I love my sister
but at times we clash over who's the cutest. I wonder whether we'll ever grow out of competing for which Jury sister is the most desirable. Meanwhile I slip into the shoes feeling like Cinders going to the ball.

  “Lucky you,” Mom says. “A good omen for the new year.”

  I can't thank him for my present. Christ, I didn’t even thank him for the other amazing gifts he left in my cubby hole office. And I desperately want to because I need to hear his voice. The rough timbre like dirty gravel makes me wet every time he speaks. I need to talk to him but of course I don’t have his phone number and the office is closed. I need his hands on me. I'm in a fury of need. My skin feels too tight. I want to claw my nails across a rough surface. I need to be filled and squeezed hard. All I want is him.

  I'm like a tiger all through Monday, a Holiday, as Christmas fell on Sunday. I pace around the house, restless, cranky. I haven’t heard from Mr Wellman. Why would I? He doesn’t have my number either. Not that he'd want to use it.

  Ryan.

  I can't get used to the intimacy of his first name. The entire magical experience of him is starting to seem like a dream. I'm sure when I go back to the office tomorrow he'll have forgotten I exist.

  “Can you get that, Georgia?” Mom calls when the doorbell chimes late in the afternoon while we're huddled around the usual old movies.

  Still jumpy as a cat, I'd come into the kitchen for yet another nibble at the Christmas treats. I guess there's no way around joining a gym in the new year to work off all the snacks I've been eating.

  I pull the front door open, wondering who the hell is out today when the snow has rendered the city a north pole outpost. No one's there, an empty street. I look down and see a gift-wrapped box, huge satin tied ribbon. The delivery boy has vanished but not before he piled up enough snow to hide the present from the street. A giggle escapes my lips, knowing my dad will have a fit that his pristine shoveling job has been decimated.

  I grab the box and head for the stairs.

  “Who was it?” Dad shouts from the living room.

  “No one. Kids.” I call.

  In my room I tear the paper off and find another beautifully hand-decorated box covered in sparkles and beads exquisite craftsmanship. On the Second Day of Christmas…. And inside, three beautiful cut glass bottles of designer perfume called Angel and Fragile. The third is a woman's torso, wearing a gold cone bustier. I can't stop giggling and smiling and huddling with my presents.

  I spritz myself with a squirt of all three, thrilled with his delivery guile. The trouble he goes to in letting me know he's thinking of me. It's the thought that counts, right? My mood lifts and I'm actually pleasant to my sister for the rest of the evening. All I can think about is the words of the song about the twelve days.

  My true love sent to me.

  Is that what he's thinking? Is he sending me that message?

  *

  I arrive early at the office. I wait on the edge of my chair, the same one he sat in and held me under his palm. Then I jump up and I pick up all the papers he sprayed around the room and wonder how the hell I'm going to put them back into any sort of order. Unfocused, jangled with need. Every sound makes me jitter with alertness for him coming in.

  But I don’t see Mr Wellman all morning. I don't hear his name mentioned even though I strain my ears, needing it. I go to our deli to get lunch and wait on line stabbed with expectation that he'll appear. He doesn’t, of course. I trudge back through the slushy gray streets worried that he wasn’t sending me a secret message other than the subtle indicator that I'm the gift who'll be done come day thirteen.

  I get a cappuccino in the office cafe lounge, hoping to hear some gossip regarding the boss. The Christmas blush has gone though. People are deflated now that the build up has climaxed, waiting for New Year and the long winter of credit card bills.

  I head to my office and am ridiculously excited to discover a gift-wrapped box on my desk.

  On the Third Day of Christmas.

  I’m expecting some beautiful perfect item and I’m not disappointed. Stockings. Eyelash lace underwear that will be soaked and destroyed first wearing, if he ever comes to me.

  I'm dejected that I don’t see Mr Wellman all week.

  Hollowed out from the inside. Is this pining? I have no idea as I've never in my life thought about a man so constantly. Never had my heart lift off with a jetstream every time a flicker of him crosses my mind.

  At night, home in my small bed at my parents house, my sister right next door, I'm feverish. So hot that my hands go between my legs to relieve the ache there. Except I somehow get the feeling the boss wouldn't like it. Didn't he command me not to touch myself. That my pussy belongs to him now. It feels almost wrong to sends flickers of lust through myself. That only he can touch me and make me come. At some point each day another box arrives in my office. Even on Thursday when I bring lunch from home with the intention of staying put all day, forcing him to face me. I don't even step out for coffee. Determined to create a showdown and find out what's going on between us.

  Finally, the door clicks open and softly closes. I'm shimmering with need, particles of light falling through my legs as I wait for him to come up behind me.

  “Georgia?” A tentative voice, young and unsure beneath the brash cockiness.

  Nothing like Mr Wellman's sure gravel power. I spin around on my chair.

  “Zeke?” I say with a scowl, not totally sure if I've got cocktail guy from the office party's name right.

  “Deke,” he grins.

  Close enough.

  “Hi. You remember me,” he says and then everything gushes into one long word.

  “Ihopeyouaren'tmadaboutthepartyandIwonderedwhetheryou'dbeinterestedingettingadrinkafterworksometimeTonightmaybeTGIFearlynewyearIknowyouarentgonnabworkingheremuchlonger-”

  “Sure,” I say, mostly to stop him yammering.

  “Sure? Okay. Great. That's great. I'll stop by after work for you.”

  Relief envelops me when Deke leaves, immediately followed by disappointment that settles like a black cloud in my gut. The boss isn't going to come for me. My week is almost over and he's hiding out. Probably sending those gifts to buy my silence about sleeping with his employees. I could blow the lid off his behavior, probably have him in court. Of course I won't. Instead I'll get a drink with Rinky Dink Deke and try to forget about my boss.

  Deke has been gone precisely ten seconds when my phone sounds. Dakota sending me a text cajoling me to hit up a bar with her tonight. Damn, perhaps I should invite her into the city. Take off some of the pressure with Deke.

  Perfect.

  Put your latest gift on and come to my office.

  My heart sprouts wings. Much as I'd like to text back a middle finger emoticon, I find I can't do it. I need to see his gorgeous face. I have to know what's happening here. Am I nothing more than the temp for Christmas? But what gift am I supposed to put on? I took yesterday's beautiful coat home with me on the subway last night. Hugging the Burberry box to my chest all the way. Of course I wore it in today. The short double breasted trench coat, black with a silver sheen to the gorgeous fabric. I feel like a glamorous spy wearing it. Is that what he wants to see me wearing?

  I absent-mindedly drag open the old drawers at my right hand side, the old wood sticks so I have to jimmy it with both hands. A small exquisitely wrapped gold box. Inside the same unique decorated one.

  On the Sixth Day of Christmas…

  Inside a pile of nylon bands. The sort you use to strap around overstuffed luggage.

  Oh.

  I'd been expecting something exquisite and heart-stoppingly sexy. What a spoilt brat I've become in the space of a week. So what the hell do I do with black luggage straps? When I lift the tangle of webbing from the box, I discover they're all interconnected. With a gold metal lock at a central point. On closer inspection that's solid gold.

  Strange.

  I hang the straps from my fingertips on outstretched arms and the garment magically fal
ls together like it has a mind of its own. The straps sculpt themselves into the outline of a body. A voluptuous female body.

  I tear off my clothes and slide the thing on. Let's not make it sound that simple. When I say slide, I mean jiggle and untangle and twist until I start sweating and swearing. It takes a freaking age to get the straps into position, laying flat in the right places once my limbs have been inserted in the correct places.

  Half an hour later, I'm buckled into a harness that scoops my tits and my clit, pressing them forward. The metal clasp sits in the hollow between my forced up and shoved out breasts, the flesh squeezed and molded into a presentation that soaks through my folds and make me wet between my thighs.

  I gulp down, wondering how I’m going to make it across reception and up the spiral staircase, past Andrea the she-wolf secretary, dressed like this. My tits thrust out like a 1950s screen icon and my nipples so fucking hard they wouldn't look out of place on a porn star.

  Ohmigod, I am shivering with filthy desire.

  This one garment that has me trussed up tighter than Mom's twenty pound Christmas turkey makes erotic desires flood through me. The straps from my breasts lead up to collar my throat into multiple strands of halter. I can't even imagine what Mr Wellman is going to do to me but I can't wait any longer to find out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I strut across the wide office reception with a file folder in my arms. I put my sexy spy trench-coat on over the bondage strapping and nothing else. I'm so nervous, I'm covering my erect hard tits with the office folder. Thank fuck I'm not wearing my shirt because my bullet points shove out like ballistic missiles. I want to giggle like a girl, and parade and sashay up the stairs. I’m also shuddering with terror that someone will ask me why I'm wearing a coat in the office. I reach the third step before I'm called out.

  “Er, Miss- Um, you can't go up there. That’s the executive suite.”

  “I know. Andrea wants this.”

  I waggle the file above my shoulder and keep going. I pretend I don't hear the reception girl tell me to drop it with her, and stride determined down the overhanging passage to the boss's office. I tap lightly and cannot believe I open the door without waiting to be called. Mr Wellman looks up in surprise from the papers he's studying. Some boring bank charts that I plan to scrunch to oblivion within the next ten minutes. He drinks me in. The double breasted spy trench cinched tight at my waist.