Fighting for My Billionaire Boss

Fighting for My Billionaire Boss

Cynthia Sax

Love is worth the fight.

My boss, Brick Armitage, is one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. He’s handsome, young, and the billionaire CEO of an online company. Brick dates stunning supermodels and famous actresses, the most beautiful women on the planet.

I’m determined to be the next woman he kisses, touches, pleases. To land the man I love, I’ll become the delicate lady he seems to prefer. No cussing. No sprawling over the furniture. No punching the pretty out of Brick’s trash-talking ex.

But when I fail at this and the footage of my brawling goes viral, will I lose my sophisticated billionaire forever, or will he realize a scrapper is exactly who he needs?

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement of the copyright of this work.

FIGHTING FOR MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS

Infamous Series

Copyright © 2016 CYNTHIA SAX

ISBN: 978-1-943576-59-3

All Romance eBooks, LLC Palm Harbor, Florida 34684
www.allromanceebooks.com

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with out written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First All Romance eBooks publication: February 2016

I’m graceful, I tell myself as I weave between the cubicles. A cardboard tray containing breakfast for my boss and myself is balanced on my right palm. Not a drop of the liquid in the ugly brown disposable cups has spilled.

Because I’m a fuckin’ gazelle, the most elegant of the antelopes.

“Morning, Lu,” Chanelle calls out. The women gathered around her repeat the greeting.

I smile and wave. They wave back.

They don’t invite me to join them.

This oversight could be due to my position in the organization. I’m the assistant to Brick Armitage, CEO and founder of the online insurance company we work for. He’s intimidating. I’m his second in command, privy to all of his thoughts and actions.

But the lack of invitation is more likely due to the fact that I’m not a real girl.

Oh, I was born a female and have all of the necessary parts—breasts, small yet still noticeable, an ass, also small, shoulder-length curly brown hair, a dainty, some would say, elfin face. Most men, including my boss, tower over me.

I simply lack the training most girls get.

My mother left when I was three years old, unable to handle my three brothers and me. It was easier for my father to treat me like another boy, dressing me in jeans, taking me to ballgames, teaching me how to fight.

I didn’t give a shit about this when I was younger. I was proud of my rowdy nature, that I could hold my own with my brothers and their friends.

It was when I became interested in boys and they didn’t return my interest, continuing to treat me like one of the guys, that I started to care. Not a lot. But enough to read fashion magazines and watch tutorials on applying makeup.

Then I met Brick, my sexy manwhore of a boss, and that caring was compounded by a zillion times. He captured my heart, although he doesn’t know this. Accustomed to dating ultra-feminine supermodels and famous actresses, he doesn’t see me as a woman.

I’m determined to change his view.

I make a beeline to his office, my pastel blue skirt swirling around my thighs, my heels thumping against the industrial gray carpet.

My boss has his door partially open. I scrunch my forehead. He’s normally not here this early in the morning.

I knock, don’t wait for an answer, and push inside, a smile on my face.

The space smells of his woodsy cologne and him. I breathe deeply, taking that part of him inside of me, and desire unfurls within me, a steady, throbbing need I experience whenever I’m in my billionaire’s presence.

The man himself sits behind his big wooden desk, his head bowed, the overhead lights picking up the ink-blue highlights in his black hair. Brick is clad in his usual dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. He’s frowning down at his tablet screen, his lips as grimly set as always.

My boss is SERIOUS, in all caps, rarely cracking a smile, and the stormy pent-up passion constantly brewing inside him turns me on. I set the tray on his desk. “You beat me into the office this morning.” Usually, I’m first in. “Why are you here so early?”

He lifts his chin, giving me a clear view of his face.

I gasp.

“Fuck.” I gape at him, forgetting my goal of having a cuss-free day. “What the hell happened to you?” I rush around the desk, needing to survey the damage.

Brick swivels his chair to face me. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” I trace the scratches on his left cheek, the red gouges in his perfectly tanned skin. “Who hurt you?” I demand. “Tell me who is responsible for this and I’ll smack that person into the next century.” No one hurts my boss, the man I secretly love, and gets away with it.

“You aren’t smacking anyone, Miss Henderson.” He covers my hand with his, pressing my palm against him. “As you constantly remind me, you’re a lady.”

“Don’t joke about this.” I glare at him.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t joke about it.”

He is seated in his black leather captain’s chair. I stand before him, my hand on his face. His hand is on mine, holding me to him. He’s my boss yet this feels right. I’m meant to be here, to be touching him.

Brick’s gaze lifts and locks with mine. His brown eyes darken with emotion. “There’s something I should tell you.”

“Yes?” I lean toward him. He’ll tell me now that he wants me, that he can’t live without me. Brick will kiss me and touch me and make me his. My thighs graze his parted knees and I tremble, feeling that contact in my soul.

Brick leans forward also. Our lips are a whisper apart. That connection I always feel between us intensifies, pulling us together, linking us in a way that is more than physical, more than intellectual.

His breath wafts against my cheeks. My heart pounds.

Should I kiss him? Should I?

Yes, I’m going to risk—

“Fuck. I can’t do this.” He sighs and releases me.

Damn it. I waited too long and the moment is gone.

“I can’t bring you into my crazy life.” His words are edged with resignation.

I continue to cup his cheek, doggedly maintaining this slender contact with him, hoping the passion or whatever it was we were just experiencing will return. “I’m your assistant. I’m already part of your crazy life.”

“This had nothing to do with work, Miss Henderson.” My boss avoids my gaze. “This is a private situation that got out of control.” Pink creeps up his neck.

“A private situation,” I repeat. “Oh.” I realize what that means and the last of my arousal dissipates. “I see.” I drop my hand, feeling like a fool for thinking Brick Armitage wanted, needed me. “The scratches were part of kinky times with Gretchen, huh?”

My humor is forced.

I’m so damn jealous; I could spit.

Gretchen is his woman of the week: a tall, gorgeous, blonde actress sporting surgically enhanced breasts bigger than my head. They’re perfect, a thing of beauty, defying gravity and all other laws of science. I can’t help but stare at them every time she visits.

Gretchen doesn’t mind the gawking. Brick’s latest woman is, unfortunately, a drama whore, appearing in the tabloids at least once a week. I suspect that is the reason she’s considered for as many parts as she is. The studios know she’ll bring attention to any movie release she’s attached to.

Although Brick acts like he shuns the spotlight, he’s always drawn to this type of woman. And they’re drawn to him because he’s handsome, young, and a billionaire, the combination ensuring constant media buzz.

This is the first time I’ve heard of him indulging in sex games, though. The idea of my usually dominant boss being the submissive in a relationship, however short-lived, disturbs me. I thought I knew him. “I didn’t realize you were into that.”

“I’m not.” His lips twist. “I won’t be seeing Gretchen again.”

Yes, I inwardly cheer, keeping my expression as blank as I can manage. “Too bad. It would have been eight days today. She could have tied Trinity for the record.”

“Ha.” He doesn’t see the humor in this that I do. “What did you bring us for breakfast?”

“Scones.” I return to my side of the desk, take one out of the bag. “They’re blueberry.” The hope is that addition will make them more edible. I find a paper napkin, place the baked good on it, slide it toward him.

Brick’s permafrown deepens. He opens his mouth.

“Eat it,” I cut off his protests. “The Queen has scones every day.”

“She’s British. It’s expected.”

“You speak English. That’s almost British.” I ignore his eye-rolling. “Here is your coffee—black.” I push the disposable cup toward him.

He reaches for it, curling his long fingers around the cup. I want those fingers on me but that won’t ever happen, will it? I glower at the tray.

“Are you continuing the self-torture today, Miss Henderson?” Brick misinterprets the source of my unhappiness.

“If you’re asking if I ordered tea, I did,” I reply primly. “It’s an acquired taste and I plan to acquire it.” This is part of my continued quest to become more feminine, to make him see me as a woman. Once I’m successful, he’ll want me.

“You hate tea.”

“I’ll learn to love it.” I sit in one of the guest chairs. “I’ll also learn to love scones.” I extract my baked good from its brown paper wrapper and nibble on a corner of it. The blueberries don’t help with the taste. It’s still as dry and tasteless as cardboard.

“If you insist on drinking tea, you should drink it the right way.” Brick turns, retrieves a blue box from the shelf behind him, and sets it on the desk. “This is for you.”

“For me?” I wiggle with excitement. “But it isn’t even my birthday.”

“Not for another seven months and twenty-one days.”

I don’t ask why my boss is counting the days until my birthday. I’m too intrigued by the box before me. “I’m opening it.”

He dips his head.

I remove the lid. A dainty little teacup, white with pink carnations, is nestled inside. “How beautiful.”

“It’s beautiful
and
durable.” Brick’s eyes gleam. “It looks like fine china yet it won’t easily chip or break.”

Does he believe I’m too rough, too manlike to handle real fine china? Some of my joy dims. “It’s gorgeous.” I lift the teacup out of the box. “And there’s a matching saucer.” I look under it. “And a plate.”

“For your scone.” He sounds pleased with himself.

“For our scones.” I place both of them on the plate. “Did you buy a set for yourself?”

“I’m drinking coffee.”

“You can drink coffee out of a teacup.” I transfer my beverage. “We’ll start every day with a tea party.” Ladies have tea parties. I’m having a tea party. Therefore, I must be a lady. He’s intelligent. He’ll make that connection.

“We’re not having tea parties.” His grip on his ugly brown disposable cup tightens. “I’m your boss, your CEO.”

I gaze at him blankly, not knowing what that has to do with tea parties.

“A
man
,” Brick adds.

“Men can take part in tea parties.”

“Not straight men,” he mutters.

“Don’t worry.” I pat his arm. Joy zings through my body at that mere contact. “We’ll find you a masculine set, no flowers.” I retreat, clasping my cup, slumping back in my chair. “It’ll be wonderful.”

“Wonderful isn’t the word I’d use.” Brick’s gaze flicks to my sprawled bare legs. I sit straighter and primly close my knees. His lips twitch. “Why are you wearing multiple skirts?”

“They’re petticoats.” I fluff my full thigh-length skirt. “They’re very feminine.”

He grunts and drinks his coffee.

Okay. My skirt might be a little too frou-frou for the office. But the fitted blazer helps to offset it, giving my outfit more of a stuffy insurance company feel.

Brick breaks off a piece of his scone and pops it into his mouth. I do the same and cough. The damn thing is sucking the moisture from my mouth. I sip on my tea and wince. It’s flavored hot water.

“Why you torture yourself, I don’t know.” He shakes his head and devours more of the nasty baked good I inflicted upon him. My billionaire might grumble but he tolerates my culinary abuse.

We eat and drink in companionable silence. This is nice. It would be nicer if we were both naked and I was sitting on his lap, but he doesn’t see me that way. Not yet. I’ll take what I can get right now.

“You need a date for tonight’s gala,” I remind him.

Gretchen will want to be his date. The St. James Charity Gala is one of Toronto’s most important social events. Arriving on the arm of a dashing billionaire will ensure she gets the media attention she craves.

Before she returns, offering an insincere apology and making false promises, I have to make my move.