Hung: A Badboy Romance (5 page)

Wow, has it really been so long since I last saw her? Because I have to admit to myself, she’s even more attractive than I remember. Okay, she’s still kinda skinny, and those certainly aren’t the biggest breasts I’ve ever laid eyes on, but there’s just something about her. Something I can’t put my finger on.

Focus, Colt
, I tell myself.
Remember: you’re the one in control here. The only reason she’s here in your office, attractive or not, is because you’ve decided to have some fun with her.

And it’s gonna be so easy, I think with a grin, as I look at her standing there in the doorway to my office, unsure what to do, dressed in what have to be the least-sexy clothes I’ve ever seen: a cheap plain white blouse, a black fitted jacket, a black below-knee-length skirt, and scuffed black leather loafers, all of which look like they’ve come straight out of the JC Penney bargain bin. And her outfit look all the more out of place in
my
office, because I only employ women with style.

I’m gonna have to do something about her clothes
, I think as I take her in from head to toe.

“Long time no see,” she says with an awkward wave, obviously trying hard – but failing – to hide her nervousness.

And I find myself savoring the moment, doing absolutely nothing to ease her discomfort – even though I know that the
right
thing to do would be to tell her to please, come in, take a seat.

Instead I just leave her hanging there, standing awkwardly in the doorway, as I push myself to my feet and stride towards her, closing up the distance between us with a few confident steps, knowing just how
good
I must look in this five thousand dollar suit, my hair freshly cut, my skin smoothly shaven and tanned, bathed just this morning in the finest lotion, knowing that my scent is probably intoxicating her senses, as I keep my eyes fixed firmly on hers, waiting for that moment I love: that moment when a woman’s pupils dilate, just a fraction, and I know I’ve won; I know that they want me.

I wait for it to happen, but goddamn ... it
doesn’t
.

Her pupils don’t dilate.

What the fuck?

“Mind if I sit down?” she says, casually, breaking my gaze and pushing past me to take a seat in the chair that faces my desk.

“Uh, sure,” I say, trying to maintain the upper hand here, but momentarily shaken. And by the time I’ve turned around to head back to my desk she’s already seated, waiting for me to join her.

There it is again
, I think.
That familiar frustration she always creates in me. That need to mess with her.

“Okay,” I say, pacing back around to my position of power: behind my desk, reminding her just who the fuck is in charge here. And I don’t sit down, either. I remain standing, my palms placed firmly on the desk, my eyes blazing, burning into hers as I speak. “It’s immediately apparent, Stacey, that you’ve got a lot to learn about business. First impressions count. And what do you think that my first impression of
you
is, Stacey?”

She looks like a rabbit, caught in my headlights. I can see the first flickers of panic in her face, as she reappraises what is obviously the best outfit she owns, before slowly shrugging her shoulders.

“My first impression of you, Stacey,” I continue, “is that you look like a waitress in a cheap diner, and not one of my highly-trained, highly
professional
staff. If you read the information I had my PA send to you before starting, and I’m beginning to doubt that you did, you will know that
Get There Now
is the first word in  luxury travel. I said
luxury
, Stacey. And you look like you’re selling the overweight masses a cheap week in the sun. And that is
not
what I’m selling here. I’m selling glamor, I’m selling excitement, I’m selling
sex
, Stacey. D’you think you can sell that too?”

At this she just shrugs again, still so obviously trying to play it cool, but to my satisfaction I
do
notice the very slightest blush rising to her pale, milk-white cheeks.

I push a blotter towards her, then pluck my Mont Blanc fountain pen from its stand on my desk and thrust that towards her, too.

“Write down your measurements,” I command.

She raises an eyebrow and looks at me as if to say,
Is this guy being serious?
But the look I give her back tells her that yes, I am indeed being
deadly
serious.

With a quick sigh, she starts scribbling her measurements down on the blotter and then, once she’s done, she pushes the pad back towards me and I scan over what she’s written.

“You’ve missed cup size,” I growl.

“You’re joking, right?” she snorts.

“I’m being
deadly
serious,” I shoot back coldly.

With a final roll of her big brown eyes, she reaches to snatch back the pad but I hold out my hand to stop her.

“Actually,” I cut in. “Let me guess ...”

As I let my eyes stray down to her breasts, assessing their size through the cheap white cotton of her blouse, I watch her squirm in her seat, and despite myself, I feel the familiar rush of blood to my cock.

“I’d say you were a ... 32C?” I venture.

The way her eyes flash in surprise, for a split-second I think I’ve got it right. But then she quickly shakes her head, meeting my gaze defiantly. “Wrong,” she spits, her eyes narrowing, her nostrils flaring. “If you
must
know, I’m a 34B actually.” 

I take the blotter and jot the final measurement down, before dropping it on the desk.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” I say.  “I’ll have some new clothes sent over to your suite by this evening,” I continue. “And I expect you to wear them tomorrow.”

“So what exactly am I supposed to
do
anyway?” she asks, exasperated.

“You’re my new PA,” I tell her. “But this is a high level job. You’re not just going to be looking after my diary and accompanying me to all my meetings, you’ll also conduct research reports for me,
and
you’ll keep an eye on market trends and alert me to anything you think I need to know. I want you to be proactive in keeping an eye on the market. Think you can do all that?”

She meets my eye with that familiar anger I’ve missed so much flashing in her big brown eyes.

“Sounds like a piece of cake,” she says, but I can tell, by the briefest flicker of her lip and the subtle pulsing of that vein in her neck that behind that cool surface, she’s a little more ruffled than she’s letting on.

“Good,” I say, smiling.

I slide open a drawer, remove a Blackberry, then hand it to her.

“Keep this on you at all times,” I tell her. “I want you on call for me, twenty-four seven. Do you understand?”

“Yes,
boss
,” she says, the hint of sarcasm barely disguising the anger in her voice. I can tell she’s just seething at the prospect of being at my beck and call, day and night.

“That will be all for now, Miss Richardson ...” I add. “I’ll have one of the girls from the office run you through everything ...”

She pushes herself to her feet and turns to leave.

“Oh and one more thing?” I call out, just as she reaches the door.

She stops and turns back to face me.

“Don’t
ever
be late again.”

What a total
asshole
! I mean, come on. Who the fuck does he think he is! I shake my head in exasperation, as I walk the few blocks back to my hotel. Hopefully the whole ‘I’m the big boss and you’ll do exactly as I say’ act was just some stupid joke – it was hard to tell if he was being serious or not.

Has he really changed
that
much?

His accent definitely has. It seems to have taken on just a hint of British now, rounding off the harsh edges that used to be there.
Transatlantic
I guess you’d call it. And I hate myself for finding it kind of ... sexy. Although I’d never tell
him
that of course; there’s no way in hell I’m giving him the satisfaction, despite the way he always seems to make me feel.

He looks like a
man
now, too. It’s clear he still takes just as much care over his appearance as he did back when we were kids, only now instead of sports gear and the latest sneakers it’s no-doubt insanely expensive tailored suits and, judging from the size and shape of him, long sweaty sessions in the gym, probably with some private trainer.

God. I hate him so fucking much
.
He always seems to know exactly how to push my buttons.

If anything, he’s even
worse
now he’s the head of some company, throwing his weight around, with the whole world as his playground.

I try to shake off my frustration and focus on the good things. I mean, here I am in London, and it’s totally
beautiful
. Everywhere you look, the buildings are just so quaint and pretty; even cuter than I was imagining. And if I can just get through my first week here, then I’m free to go sightseeing and explore. I can’t wait. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet some cute British guy – someone who’s actually
nice
and
thoughtful
. A real gentleman,
instead of an entitled arrogant asshole like Colt ...

Come on, Stacey
, I tell myself as I step into the lobby of my hotel and head towards the elevators.
You need to stop thinking of him. It’s exactly what he wants. He wants to get under your skin. So don’t give him the satisfaction. Just do your job, to the best of your abilities, and apart from that, you don’t owe him anything. He sure as hell doesn’t own you. After all, what’s the worst he can do?

But even as I’m thinking that, just as I open the door to my penthouse suite, I see that not only has the bed been made, but that piled on top of it are a huge array of shopping bags, each emblazoned by a different high-end, high street logo.

What the hell
?

Then I remember what he said: that he’d send some new outfits over to my suite by the time I got back.

I take a moment to look again around the cool darkness of the luxury penthouse suite. I’m still feeling kind of groggy and jetlagged, not to mention frustrated by Colt, my head feeling crammed to bursting with all the various ins and outs of my duties as his PA – all the things that Elizabeth showed me. So I decide to run myself a nice long leisurely bath in the huge roll-top tub, followed by a long sleep in that big comfy bed. But I guess I
should
take a quick peek at the kind of clothes Colt has picked out for me – the clothes he obviously thinks are more suitable attire than what I’m currently wearing.

So I head over to the bed, approaching the shopping bags, and with a reluctant sigh pull out the first item. It’s a seventies style cream silk blouse.
Okay
, I think to myself.
That’s actually kind of tasteful
. But then the next thing I pull out is an absolutely
tiny
black leather mini-skirt. I roll my eyes. This thing is hardly bigger than a belt. Next, my eye is drawn to a shoebox
. No way
, I think, when I see
Louboutin
written on the side. I lift the lid hesitantly, and laying inside a nest of pink tissue are the huge pair of glossy black stiletto heels I’ve ever seen. I feel dizzy just
looking
at them. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever be able to stay upright on something like that.

But that’s not all.

There’s another bag waiting on the bed, too, with another familiar name emblazoned on the side:
Agent Provocateur.

I pull it open and reach in, my fingers brushing the soft wisps of material it contains. I roll my eyes again as I pull out the skimpiest white satin g-string and matching white bra.

You’ve got to be kidding me
.

My mind flashes back to when he guessed my bra size – he got it right, but I couldn’t give him the satisfaction so I lied and said I was a 34B.

I check the label in the bra, my eyes flashing wide with surprise:
32C.

There’s a plain cream colored envelope lying on the bed too. I tear it open, and inside there’s a platinum American Express card and a small handwritten note, just one single line:

I forgot to mention: I don’t ever want to see you in the same thing twice.