Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set Page 3

  “I have to be true to myself and my – ”

  “Spoken like someone who has never gotten laid.”

  “Maybe I’ve just never met the right guy,” I say defensively.

  It’s true. I’ve never met anyone I wanted to have sex with. And I’m kind of old-fashioned, like Edward in Twilight. I’d really, really like to save it for someone I love. I’m not a prude, I swear it. I just believe in what my parents taught me, and I’d never sleep with a man just for experimentation . . . or if I wasn’t certain that he loved me.

  I don’t expect someone like Lyla to understand, of course. In college, we were not allowed to bring guys back for sex in the dorms, but she did. Secretly, of course. And every time she did, I was kicked out of our shared room and I had to bunk in with Gemma Sandler down the hall.

  I go back to the office. Christopher Morton (and yes, I haven’t brought myself to think of him as Chris) has gone out and he’s left me a message on the Communicator.

  “Out for lunch. Won’t be back. Will be on Blackberry if anyone wants me.”

  That’s fine by me. So far, working as Christopher Morton’s PA is a breeze. He’s so independent, and my job so far consists of fielding his calls, notifying people who want to see him if he’s available, and arranging his meetings and schedule.

  Mostly through Communicator.

  I get to see him occasionally though, when he walks in and out of the office and when I go in to put documents on his IN tray. In these times, he’s friendly but distant, focused on his computer and refusing to meet my eyes. It isn’t a big deal. Chris Morton is intimidating enough without me having to strike a daily conversation with him. What can I say to him anyway beyond “HR is on Line 2”?

  On the fifth day, I get a funny call.

  “I want to speak to Chris,” says a firm female voice.

  “He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”

  “Yes. You tell that no good son of a bitch I’ll be right over to slap his stupid mug. I’m not afraid to do it too in his office. How dare he block my number?”

  “Uh . . . ” I’m really not sure if I should say anything. “I’ll give him the message. And you are?”

  “He knows who.” The line goes dead.

  My heart has gone into a standstill just listening to that.

  Okayyy. How do I give Chris Morton, a man I’ve only known for a week, that kind of message? Especially since he’s my boss?

  It turns out I don’t have to wait long to find out. The meeting is still going on in the boardroom, which is adjacent to Chris’s office, when a tall leggy blonde in a flouncy designer dress that must wear a Gucci label or something equally expensive strides in. Her heels are three inches, but she still walks with the confidence of a supermodel.

  “Where is he?” she demands, and I recognize the voice of the woman on the phone.

  “He’s still in a meeting,” I say, rising from my chair.

  She ignores me and heads straight for the boardroom double doors.

  Frantically, I almost stumble in my haste to get to her. “No, Miss, please, you can’t interrupt – ”

  She barges through the doors.

  Oh shoot. I should call security.

  I jab ‘0’ for the receptionist and mutter, “Please, Roz, can you get security up here?” when sounds of a commotion sift from the boardroom.

  I rush to the boardroom to see a scene. The blonde’s eyes spit fury as she points at Chris, who is standing at the side of a screen displaying a Powerpoint presentation in which I had no hand in preparing.

  “You blocked me from your cellphone!”

  If Chris is shocked, it doesn’t show on his face.

  “Lisa, this is not the time or place to talk about this.” He becomes immediately conciliatory and commanding, like a plain clothes policeman trying to talk a would-be suicide victim down from a ledge. “Let’s go into my office.”

  The rest of the meeting attendees have either gotten out of their seats or are sitting up, looking either concerned or vaguely amused, as though they have witnessed this before.

  “How dare you? After what we had?” Lisa bunches her fists. Her head swings around the room wildly, and for a moment, I have an inkling that she’s going to grab something off the table to throw at Chris. “Were those three little words so hard to hear for you, Chris? ‘I love you’? You stopped returning my calls after them, don’t you dare deny it!”

  “Lisa, please.” Chris walks over to her, his palms splayed wide open in a defenseless gesture. He tries to touch her but she winces. “Let’s just talk about this.”

  Two security guards rush into the room. Lisa whirls on them. Her eyes are flooded with tears.

  “You called security on me?” Her voice is tragically broken. My conscience prickles through the adrenaline that is rushing through me. “You reduced me to this? Someone you have to call security on?”

  “He didn’t call security on you, Miss,” I say quickly, “it was me. Please blame me, not him. I wasn’t sure if you were going to hurt him.”

  Chris flashes me a glance as if to say “I’ll handle this”.

  Lisa turns on me. Her mascara is streaked down her wet cheeks. “Hurt him? How can I hurt him when he wouldn’t even let me in? He’s the one who hurt me.”

  “I never said it was going to be anything more than a friendship, Lisa. I never lied.” Chris holds his hand up to the security guards. “It’s OK. I’ve got this. You can go.”

  He shepherds Lisa on the small of her back, steering her gently but firmly out of the boardroom. I can only look helplessly on.

  “But I can’t help how I feel,” Lisa whimpers softly as he guides her towards his office.

  “I know. I can’t help the way I am either, but that’s the way people are.”

  They vanish through the handsome oak paneled doors.

  I feel drained.

  I have a premonition that my boss, Chris Morton, is far more complex than I can possibly imagine, and that I’m going to be drawn into that complex web somehow.

  CHRIS

  I’ve been avoiding Elizabeth as much as I can. I know. It’s stupid to hire a new PA, have the hots for her, and then avoid her as much as possible because I don’t want to let my hormones run their natural course.

  Three weeks in, and she still continues to affect me as much as the first time I saw her. I don’t know what’s wrong with me – why I continue to be affected by her like this. It’s as if my libido cannot be quenched or satiated, and like the warlords of old who desire a wench and must wage bloody battle until they possess her, I am her victim.

  No shit.

  I can’t fire her either. Her work is exemplary and she’s a fast learner. Sully says I’d have an industrial court lawsuit on my hands.

  “So either you’ve got to hose your boy down,” he says, “or transfer her somewhere else.”

  Transfer. That’s an option. That way I won’t be tempted to think of fornication whenever she’s in my office with her big brown trusting eyes and her firm, lithe body, looking like Innocence herself – if Innocence is the name of a virgin goddess.

  I’m a bad, bad person and she should stay away from me.

  Seriously.

  I’ve tried to analyze it – this insane attraction that I feel for her. And I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no explanation. Maybe it’s a pheromone thing. Maybe we were soul mates in a previous life, and there’s mutual soul recognition. I don’t fucking know. Maybe it’s because she goes against the grain of every type of girl I’ve previously had in my sordid past.

  Maybe it’s because she reminds me of her.

  But never again, I promise myself. Never will I give my heart to anyone.

  Elizabeth makes me so horny that I’m in a rampant, sexy mood all the time. Tonight in particular, my libido is at an inexplicable high. I desperately dial Taylor, but she’s unavailable.

  “Date night, honey,” she explains. “Aaron and I are making popcorn, we’re watchin
g a movie and we’re about to get all schmoozy. If you’re up for a threesome, we can make concessions.”

  The thought of a threesome tempts me. But the thought of a threesome with my friend (‘with benefits’) and her free spirit husband is a little off-putting.

  “Maybe I’ll take a rain check,” I say.

  “Your loss,” she drawls.

  I grab my jacket and head out in my Lamborghini Gallardo to cruise the town. I’m in a mood for a little clubbing and pick-me-up tonight. Now and then, I get the irrepressible urge, and I have to satisfy it or be forced to do massive doses of unsuccessful lust containment.

  I drive down a street in River North, and that’s when I notice her. Elizabeth Tyrell – the very person I’m trying to avoid.

  Fuck.

  She steps out of a launderette, lugging two large laundry bags. She’s on the verge of being tipped over by their bulk and weight. She doesn’t seem to be trying to hail a cab either, and she is walking in one direction. I reckon she’s heading for the subway station ten blocks down.

  I really shouldn’t stop. All my instincts scream at me to run, step on the gas, pretend I never saw her and leave her alone to take the train and walk.

  Yes, that’s what I will do. Not something I’d do to any other employee as the CEO of my father’s company, but I’ll do it today.

  I step on the gas pedal, ready to rev off. She might see my license plate and wonder why I’m ignoring her, but I’ll pretend I never saw her. Besides, those laundry bags are so huge she’s having trouble peeking through them anyway.

  That’s when cosmic providence strikes.

  Stuff has a funny way of happening, and everything that unravels after this – now that I think about it – is meant to be.

  The first drop of rain spatters on my windshield. It’s a big drop too, the kind that makes a large splotch, scattering droplets of watery mayhem around it. Oh shit. Then more big drops splat – on the windshield, on my roof, on my windows, everywhere else. The road before me starts to pockmark and glisten with wetness.

  There’s no way in human decency I can’t stop now. Not to someone I know. And maybe my fucking subconscious wants me to stop, and I’m just giving in to its natural animalistic tendencies. I know I’m making myself sound like a lech, but I’m really not. I have the best of intentions by stopping for Elizabeth. I don’t want her to get wet (well, not in this way) and all flu-like so that she would have to call in sick tomorrow.

  I just won’t let her know I want to fuck her brains out. (And I mean that in the best possible way too.)

  Oh, what she does to me. I groan as I brake the Lambo beside her. My betraying cock is already stiffening at the thought of her beside me in this sleek, purring sexy beast of a car.

  Stop it, I can hear Sully’s voice saying, stop it right now. You’re not eighteen years old anymore.

  The screech of tires catches even her attention, as they do everyone else on the sidewalk, even though they are hurrying to get out of the rain. I almost feel as if I’m soliciting.

  I wind down the window. “Hey, Elizabeth Tyrell.”

  She pauses and turns in the rain.

  “Want a ride out of this weather?” I depress a button and the scissor door to the passenger side opens up like a James Bond contraption.

  She hesitates for a second. The rain is really coming down now in a sudden downpour, and that seems to make her mind up for her. She dashes to the passenger door and bolts in, her two laundry bags suddenly occupying my entire car as though three people have entered, and not one.

  I help her arrange everything as comfortably as possible, which is majorly difficult since this is not exactly a family issue car. But in a way, it’s a good thing. Laundry bags are a desire deterrent. My cock is a little less hard after all that activity.

  “You OK?” I say.

  “OK,” she replies a little breathlessly.

  “Just tell me where.”

  And we are off.

  *

  Elizabeth crashes in a cheap brownstone hostel, the kind that sublets cheaper apartments. There are no valets around, and so I park my car – with a little caution – in the dingy car park lot across the street. A couple of hoodlum-looking kids stare at it with interest.

  “It’s until I get my first paycheck,” she says apologetically.

  Fuck. I didn’t realize how cash-strapped she was. Suddenly, I’m no longer thinking with my libido but of her safety.

  “This isn’t a good area to be in, Elizabeth. Why don’t I loan you some money to go to a better place until you can find your feet?”

  “No thanks. I don’t take loans.”

  “You’ve got to take loans some time from banks, especially if you’re planning on buying a car or an apartment,” I point out.

  “I mean . . . I don’t like to take loans from individuals.”

  “And that doesn’t extend to institutions?”

  She sounds abashed. “Sort of.”

  We run out of the car. It’s still raining, but it has pattered down to a drizzle now. Now we are really eliciting interest from the youths. I grab one laundry bag and she takes the other. I’m surprised how at ease I feel to talk to her, although I’m aware I’m probably making her nervous. I make most people nervous, especially at the office.

  “Is your car going to be OK?” she asks, casting a worried glance at the youths. I love how her eyes are so wide and innocent. In the street lamps, they take on a soft, brown angelic cast. I love how she’s so down-to-earth and different from most other women I know, and the fact she isn’t trying to get into my pants all the time.

  I’m going to help her with her bags, and then I’m going to split. I don’t trust myself to be around her so close to her bedroom. Besides, I don’t want to come back to several missing hubcaps.

  I say, “Elizabeth, I really think you should move out of here. Don’t think of it as a loan. Think of it as protection money.”

  “Protection money?”

  “Yeah. Better apartment in a less seedy area, better protection for you.”

  She laughs. She has a nice laugh. She has a nice everything, but we’re not going to go there.

  We climb three flights of stairs to get to her apartment. Our clothes are damp but not exactly wet. By the time, she unlocks the door, I think they have dried up with all the walking we’ve done to get there.

  She turns to me. The color is high in her cheeks.

  “Thank you so much, Mr . . . uh, Chris. I can’t thank you enough.”

  I dump her laundry bag inside, just next to the door. Her rented apartment is a studio – small and spartan but clean. Several boxes reside by a dresser. She clearly hasn’t fully unpacked yet. Various pieces of cheap furniture are arranged in cozy compartments.

  I say, “I mean it about the protection money. Please. I’ll write you a check tomorrow and I insist you take it. If something happened to you, I’ll be without a PA for weeks. Who would I be able to talk to on Communicator then?”

  That makes sort of weird sense, even to me.

  She blushes. “Well, I’ll consider it. I promise. Please, Chris, can I get you a hot drink? Like coffee?”

  I really should get going.

  I say, “OK.”

  Fuck.

  Why can’t I say what my mind tells me? Besides, I have clubs to go to. Willing women to hook up with for casual and satisfying but meaningless sex.

  I sit on the worn sofa with its yellowing foam patches peeking through its fraying red faux leather. Elizabeth busies herself in the small kitchenette. What am I doing here? Images of her nubile young body entwined with mine play havoc in my brain, and I studiously study the faded chintz curtains on the one window she has there.

  Why why why do I have such a reaction to her?

  Behind me, she’s clattering some mugs and putting the kettle to boil.

  “Do you take your coffee with sugar and creamer?” she asks.

  “No. Just black.” Actually, now is the time for a nightcap,
I don’t say.

  She comes back with two steaming mugs. She sets them on the table and takes the armchair beside the sofa. She’s making a statement by not sitting next to me. Wise move.

  I take a sip of my coffee. It’s boiling hot.

  “Ouch,” I say.

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” I set back the mug. Make conversation, I tell myself. She’s your employee after all, and you need to get your mind off sex. “I wanted to talk to you about the other day . . . with Lisa.”

  “Oh, right.” She squirms a little in her seat. “It’s OK, it’s private. I understand if you don’t want to tell anyone.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for what you did for me by calling security.” I’m afraid to look to deep into her eyes lest I lose myself. “You were afraid for my safety, though you didn’t have to be.”

  “Well, I couldn’t be sure.”

  “But that was very quick thinking on your behalf, and I’m very grateful. So thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She hesitates a while before saying, “Is she . . . OK?”

  “Lisa? Oh yeah. She just needed to talk to someone . . . well, me.” I’m not sure of how much I should tell Elizabeth about Lisa. Most people don’t approve of my lifestyle, but I can’t help who I am. “She’s a friend . . . who kind of wanted more than just to be a friend, and I couldn’t give that to her.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s tough.” Elizabeth’s brow furrows, as if she can see someone she knows in that situation.

  I didn’t want to add ‘friend with benefits’.

  Because that’s who I mostly sleep with these days, aside from the odd one night stand or two. Or three. I screen those ‘friends’ thoroughly these days because of what happened with Lisa. ‘Friends’ offer the convenience of regular sex without the messy emotional fallout of a breakup . . . or worse. Though of course, there’s the occasional Lisa, who wanted my heart in addition to my body, the latter of which I readily gave her.

  Elizabeth says, “But she was your lover?”

  This came out extremely hesitant, as if she thinks she’s crossing a line by asking this. I don’t think she’s crossing a line at all. She has a right to know, after being frightened like that.