My Billionaire Boss (Book 2)(Erotic Romance) (3 page)

“
The center isn’t holding,” Marcus declares standing in the
make-shift meeting room formed in his suite. Jim’s team fills the couch, Chloe,
a few personal secretaries, and a group of anonymous looking “interns” I have
never seen before are splayed around the room in various chairs. I’m sitting on
a love seat behind Chloe trying to see if anyone is reacting to this speech
that would give us a clue.  “How the hell is Vineyard.com getting every
detail of this tour? Someone in this room is betraying the rest of us.”

I look to see if
anyone is shifting uncomfortably in their chair, but the tirade is so
uncharacteristic of Marcus that everyone is shifting — including me.

“
People, this job isn’t hard. We are trying to get one author to do
three events with his dignity intact. I have hired an army of people to make
this tour work and still it is falling apart at the seams! Jim, I spent a
fortune on suits and ties to make your team look like civilians and I can see
that was a mistake. You are all acting like civilians! Step up the
protection.  Joanne, you’re supposed to be handling the press. Get some
GOOD stories out there about the tour and keep batting away Van Der Vine. 
Speaking of Dagney Van Der Vine — how in the hell does she know everything
about our schedule? She is staying at our hotels. She is showing up at our
press stops. Hell, I took August for a walk in the park and she showed
up!  Chloe, do a better job shaking the tail.”

“
Yeah, Chloe, shake your tail,” one of Jim’s guys laughs.  No
one joins him.

“
The Boston schedule is being entirely re-written, including the
interview with Carrie and August. It’s been put off from tomorrow to the next
day.”

“
Speaking of Ms. Miller,” Jim says with a defensive edge. “Maybe
you could address the issue of those closest to Mr. Kalle being responsible
with such things as keys, cards and access to drugs.”

I bite my lower lip
and breathe deeply.

“
I’m a caterer, not a Navy Seal,” I say. “And I messed up.”

“
I’ll handle Ms. Miller,” Marcus says with such a dark, direct
vocal tone everyone looks away from me. I feel like a marked woman.

Just when I think
it can’t get any more unpleasant Chloe turns and sings. “Someone’s getting a
spanking.”

Marcus goes over
some notes, threatens hell or high water to anyone leaking information and
dismisses the troops. Fortunately, no one from Eliott House saw my flirting
with Jordan in the hotel hallway, but I stay in my seat, hoping to assure
Marcus that I am not the leak.

I wait until the
final person leaves and I hear the door click. He turns to me. I can see the
toll this tour is taking on him. His tie is hanging around his neck undone, and
there are wrinkles in the lapel of his jacket, as well as his forehead. He
brushes his jet black hair across his face and looks at me for a moment. His
eyes narrow and his nose flairs momentarily. I feel like prey.

“
Marcus, I know I messed up. It’s my fault August was able to buy…”

He leans over,
places his hand on the back of my head, pulls me forward and kisses me roughly,
his slightly chapped lips crushing mine for a moment. He reaches down and
places his hand on my breasts through my travel blouse. My nipples rise to
attention at his impulsive touch and I feel my wetness growing.

“
I just wanted to say that I know he…” I try again, attempting to
fit the words between kisses and pinches. He reaches down to my blouse and
pulls both sides. The buttons shoot off making small clicking noises wherever
they land.

“
Shut up,” he says, pushing me down on the love seat and lifting my
bra to expose my breasts. His mouth takes no time in finding my most tender
nipple and enveloping it. Before I can register my surprise, his hand is
between my legs, diving under my skirt and yanking my panties down. I feel the
pressure of his palm against my labia then his finger diving in the folds of my
body, rubbing up and down. Each time his calloused fingertip rubs over my
clitoral hood I jump a bit and he suckles me harder, pain and pleasure mixing.

He attempts to
mount me on the love seat but at his height it is impossible. Sighing, he takes
his mouth away from my breasts, pausing to look at the bruises he managed to
leave. Marcus puts his hands on my hips as if he is going to pick me up like a
cheerleader being elevated to the top of the pyramid. I start to shift so he
can get his arm around me to pick me up, but he just laughs and lifts me from
the hip twisting my body as I rise.

My head is spinning
with the combination of arousal, confusion, desire and pleasure/pain. I feel
pressure against my tummy and realize he has bent me over the arm of the love
seat, my legs dangling down.  He gets up and I hear the buckle of his belt
jangling. Ice water fills my veins. Chloe wasn’t kidding! He is going to spank
me. 

“
Wait, a minute…” I say, then I hear his zipper go down. Turning my
head, I notice his belt is on the floor, with his pants and underwear soon to
follow. I give a heavy sigh of relief until I feel the head of his cock running
up and down my slit the same way his finger did. My clit has risen from the
hood and registers sweet arousal as it rubs against the arm of the chair.

“
Be quiet,” he commands, his voice the same harsh and stern one he
used in the meeting. His fingers make forward progress and soon they are in my
body, plunging back and forth drawing the attention of my entire being. I
realize I’ve been moving my hips up and down all along. I want him, and he
knows it. He reaches out with his other hand and pushes my head down against
the cushion.  I feel his penis at the opening of my channel, the head
stretching my vaginal opening. He stops at the entry, both of us aware my body
is rocking back and forth attempting to impale itself on his cock.

He leans over my
body, his cock still bedeviling me and the weight of his strength pushing down
my back. I feel his hot breath as it tickles my ear.

“
Say one word,” he hisses.  I am about to release at the
sensation of his breath against my ear and his tongue now running down the nape
of my neck. I attempt to imagine what the right thing to say might be, but
surrender to the reality that all I can think about is my throbbing swollen
clit begging for more.

“
Please,” I gasp, and he plunges into me, his shaft pumping back
and forth as he holds my shoulders. The rough thrusts also press my pelvis
against the chair, the velvet fabric rubbing my clitoris into happy
oblivion.  He lifts his body off mine and continues thrusting, both hands
now holding my hips and pulling me back and forth as he pounds me.

I feel myself
climbing quickly, the tone of his voice, the confidence of his approach and the
raw, beast-like thrusts taking me to the top faster than I have ever
been.  The sound of his balls slapping against my pussy echo through the
room (and probably all over Boston), as low moans and grunts issue from his
throat.

“
I’m there, I’m there, I...ooooooooooooooooo.” My mind shatters
into a million fragments as the orgasm explodes in my mid-section. I grip the
cushion with both hands and shove my mouth down over the cover to mute the
scream tearing out of me without my consent or control. I’ve never been very
dramatic about sex and always thought screamers were just women playing a role.
But now, with the convulsions rocking the chair back and forth and my whole
body responding to my pulsing release, the scream takes a life of its own —
forcing it’s way through my clenched jaw. I hear him make a noise that is more
growl than moan, and feeling the cum spurting deep inside, bursting from him in
jerking spasms as he gasps with each one.

We stay that way
for a moment, the predator and the prey, until I can catch my breath. He pats
me on the bottom and removes himself from my body as I feel the wetness escape
my battered pleasure center and begin to run down my thigh.  Ever the
gentleman, Marcus takes some tissues off the side table and cleans me. 

“
I’ve got wine and cheese in my bedroom,” he says quietly as he
kisses me lightly on the cheek. “When you can walk, join me.”

To be honest, he
wasn’t kidding. I ended up staying bent over the love seat for more than a few
minutes, trying to will my legs to move. It was like I was frozen for a moment.
Finally, when I pushed myself up to a standing position the nerves reconnected
and I remembered to put one foot in front of the other.  I kick my panties
off my ankle and slide my skirt off.  Somehow I managed to wrangle out of
my bra (thank goodness for teen girl slumber parties where such skills are
taught), but leave the shell of my ripped blouse over my shoulders. One piece
of dignity isn’t too much to ask.

I walk into the
mammoth bedroom and see him naked on the bed. He points to a glass of wine and a
saucer of cheese and water crackers on the nightstand.  I sit on the bed
then swing my legs up, the soreness inside me giving me a sweet memory only a
few minutes old. Marcus props himself up on one arm, his hand holding his head,
and grins at me.

“
Who are you?” I ask.

“
I’m just a guy who wanted you to know I accept your apology,” he
laughs and looks down, an oddly boyish quality shining through.

“
Well then,” I say, blowing my hair up from my forehead in an
effort to cool down. “I shall be sorry more often.”

~

I make one last
check in the mirror before Chloe whisks us to Jordan’s hotel suite.

Jacket pressed?
Check.

Blouse loose enough
to billow, low enough to be suggestive, but not slutty? Check.

Skirt lined up
correctly on my hips (I hate it when women have their skirt crooked).

Stockings instead
of hose? Check.

Pedicure? Check
(thank goodness for the Eliott House card!).

Shoes polished,
heels high, toes open? Check.

I’m dressed exactly
the way I think Jordan will enjoy. Oh, and I’m ready for the interview too.
Marcus was kind enough to send some notes on August’s book so I can appear to
have read the whole thing.  I’ve tried several times to pick up that book
and read it. The truth is — it’s too beautiful for me.  His “words” swirl
and take shape in ways I can’t explain. It’s like looking at a poem written in
lace through murano glass.

Chloe already has
August with her when she arrives at my door. I don’t know where Marcus found
the suit the boy is wearing, but it’s at least a size too big and looks like it
may be eating the author from the inside out. The jacket may swallow him whole
before we are done for the day.

“
Remember the rules,” Chloe instructs as we drive through the
Boston traffic. She seems to have the pattern down for driving in Boston: stop,
go, honk, finger, and go anyway.  “Answer only direct questions. Don’t
offer information. If he asks about Philly the answer is you were overwhelmed
by the response to your idea. If he asks about drugs tell him that you are not
here to address egregious rumors.”

“
What’s that word? What meaning?” August asks me, digging in the
folds of his suit for a pen. I can tell he wants to write it in the composition
notebook clutched nervously in his hand.

“
Egregious, August. It means without any evidence or facts.
Ridiculously wrong,” I say helpfully, wondering if I should spell it for him
then deciding to let it go. I don’t want to make him feel like a child.

“
But, those are facts,” he says looking at Chloe instead of me. “I
was on drugs and I could have died. I took Miss Carrie’s card and I bought the
drugs. I don’t want to lie to Mr. Davis. Words don’t like to be used as lies.
They are clean and clear and they want to fly free of human grime.”

“
We talked about this already, August.” Chloe grits her teeth.
“Remember what Mr. Eliott said about truth and lies?”

“
Sometimes, you have to tell a lie to tell the truth,” August nods
as if pulling this sentence from a secured file in his mind.

“
Why can’t he just tell the truth if he wants?” I ask, knowing the
answer.

Chloe rolls her
eyes. “What do you do?”

“
I’m a caterer.”

“
Oh. A caterer. Well, let’s say you had a client who wanted you to
use Pepsi instead of milk in your cheesecake, because that’s the way he liked
it. Would you do that for his event?”

“
No,” I mumble. I’ve clearly become a hostile witness for the
prosecution.

“
Why? Because even if it tasted right to that client, it would
taste wrong to everyone else.”

“
I get it.” I cross my arms and look out the window. Only in Boston
could a 7 block ride take long enough for this conversation to happen. August
nods to Chloe, showing her he understands and will obey the directive. 
Always the sweet boy, eager to please.

Fortunately, the interview
with Jordan goes much more smoothly than the ride to his hotel. Marcus gives
people the impression they need to stand up straight and meet his high
expectations. Jordan has that way of making everyone feel super comfortable and
accepted. Not ten minutes into his interview August has taken the oversized
jacket off and draped it over a chair in the room set up for our visit.

“
The Boston reading is more conventional,” August reports. “The
experiment in Philadelphia was a great success, due to Miss Carrie’s beautiful
reading, but for this city — which is more traditional — a normal author
reading is scheduled.”  

I marvel at the
confidence August shows in his statement. Just last night Marcus, August and I
fought all the way through dinner about this topic. August wanted to do all the
readings with the Philly formula - August pretending (for real, this time) to
sleep and me reading the words in his ear. Marcus wouldn’t stand for it.

“
I love the way Carrie reads,” Marcus told the young man while
running his foot up my calf under the table. “But, this is your reading, and
you need to do it. Besides, the element of surprise was the main reason we got
out of that jam, and with Bookfeed broadcasting about it all week, no one will
be surprised now.”

“
I don’t want to read. I...I’ve never done it this way,” August
confessed.

“
Auggie, I’ve seen you read a dozen times!” Marcus leans back in
his chair, playing up the paternal role he has taken in the young man’s life.

“
Not sober! Not clean. I need something more than those vitamins
and methadone shots Dr. DeLong is handing out if I am going to sit in front of
hundreds of people and give them the words. The words are fragile. They need
someone stronger to speak them. Someone not afraid.”

I see a red shade
developing under Marcus’ starched white collar and jump in to save the day.

“
August, I know it must be very frightening for you right now. I’ve
never been on drugs, but I was married to my high school sweetheart and he turned
into my worst nightmare. When he left me, I had never been alone before.
Everything seemed so big, so scary. Then I realized it was also exciting. I
made a new life, and found new loves. I’m not saying you’re going to start
loving public reading but you’ve got to face those fears and give it a try.”

Miracle of
miracles! He agreed. Now I sit here in awe of his bravado as he brags to Jordan
about his plans for the reading, and the fact Philly was just a one-time thing.

Jordan asks the
expected questions and lets the ethereal author ramble about words and motion,
gifted phrases and his own tragic history of neglect and discovery.  When
Jordan asks about the presence of drugs on the tour August feeds him the lines
surely written by Marcus or another Eliott House scribe. He talks about it as a
“past” issue and is very sad it has become a focus of the new book and
tour.  Jordan uses several words in the interview that August writes down
in his notebook, something that delights Jordan to no end.

“
Ms. Miller is going to be here a while, if you want to take August
back to his hotel for a rest,” Jordan tells Chloe. You can see she’s nervous
about the whole idea but August looks like he is about to disintegrate like the
Wicked Witch of the West after a bath.

I sit down on the
couch trying to remember that the rhythm of breathing is a steady cadence of in
and out so I don’t hyperventilate at the first question.  He sits across
from me, the camera and lighting umbrella making the suite seem far more intimidating
than normal.  The questions are direct and easy to answer — Am I enjoying
the tour? What was it like to be on the stage with August?  What is August
like when the cameras aren’t on?  Do I think the book will be a
success?  Just when I feel like I’ve got a handle on this interview stuff
he jumps up and turns the camera off, taking the time to put it in a case and
remove the lighting.

“
Show’s over,” he chuckles. I prepare to stand and leave, feeling
dumb for dressing up for such a cut and dry session. Then, he sits down beside
me on the couch. Oh. My. Gosh.

“
Well, Carrie, the camera is gone, the questions are asked and now
I’d like to talk to you a little more personally,” he says, spreading his open
arm on the couch back.

“
About August?” I ask instantly. Marcus has us all so paranoid.

“
About you,” he responds, giving his signature smile. “Or, more
specifically, about you and me.”

“
What?”  Am I hallucinating again? Even when I was pretend
kissing him I didn’t imagine anything this wonderful.

“
I like you a lot, Carrie. You have all the qualities I think are
amazing. You’re smart, self-sufficient, pretty and ...well...don’t take this
the wrong way — you’re normal.”

“
Normal,” I nod, taking it all in. “Who on earth could take that
the wrong way?”

“
I mean, you’re not one of the supermodels Eliott House parades
around. You’ve seen them — assistants, chauffeurs, and attendants. He’s a
walking mannequin catalogue. Hell, I heard the woman who works on his private
jet was once the hand model for Tiffany’s. But you’re different.  I’ve
been watching you. You’re real, in the best of all possible ways.”

“
Thank you, Jordan. I ...well...I have been watching you too. For
longer than this tour. I log in to Bookfeed every night. You can check my
account!  I won that “Constant Reader” certificate more than once.”

“
Well, Bookfeed does love our ‘Constant Readers’ and we do like to
give them perks.” He chuckles. “How’d you like a shot at the grand prize?”

“
Which is?” I’m so lost in his eyes, all the words he says bend
around the corners of my head until I can’t really tell what’s fact and what’s
fantasy.

“
Make love to me,” he says.

“
WHAT?” I jump a little too high and ask a little too loud.

“
Go out with me,” he repeats. Not quite as exciting as the comment
my libido supplied, but it’s a start. “We could have a lot of fun, see the
sights, eat every cuisine in the world and make beautiful love in the setting
sunlight. You know, stuff like that.
”

“
Be serious. It’s bad enough I admit I have a school girl crush on
you, now you’re just teasing me.”  I wave him off even though my heart is
beating so loudly Jordan probably hears it more than my words.

“
I am serious,” he says. His vocal tone loses all the snide edges
and he looks me straight in the eye. I know my smile is lighting up the room
brighter than the camera lighting managed to do, but I can’t help it. This tour
has gone from the stuff of nightmares to the ship of dreams all in one
conversation.

“
But, you barely know me,” I protest. That’s me. Carrie Miller -
the girl who got a winning lottery ticket and set it on fire trying to verify
its validity.  I know Percy and the divorce are the seeds of this
paranoia, but the vine is choking the life out of me.

“
I was attracted to you the moment you walked into Marcus’ office
with the tea box, and I’ve watched you on this tour. You’re probably the only
reason poor August Kalle hasn’t thrown himself off a bridge. I liked you, but
Dagney is pretty good at digging up the dirt and she said you were more than
the caterer. She said you and Marcus were cooking up something hot.”

“
I think Dagney is good at making up dirt,” I say, completely
ignoring the fact everything she told him was correct.

“
She’s a friend,” he proclaims sternly enough for me to hear the
real message loud and clear: “back off.”

A million pictures
flash through my mind all at once. I see Marcus making me laugh, looking at me
with eyes that shine when he compliments me, and making love to me while I gasp
in pleasure. I see Percy, laying in a bed full of people we used to call
friends, naked, telling me to “catch up with the times” and laughing at my
horror when I discovered his “swinging lifestyle.” I see Adam, before he joined
the religious group, banging on my car window asking why he can’t live with me.
I see the letter he sent, damning me to hell for forcing him to stay in his
father’s debauched circle. Even after I set that thing on fire, I still see his
brutal words. I see August, so frightened of living without the crutch of
drugs, so innocent in a world that only wants to use him. Tomorrow, August will
face his fear. Today, I need to face mine.