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  Copyright © 2017 by K.R. Martin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

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  The Hidden Series

  The Hidden

  Fallen

  Knockout Love Series

  Down and Out

  Sink or Swim

  Sucker Punched

  Standalones

  Sir

  My new boss isn’t used to hearing the word no…

  Clayton Castle is gorgeous. Wealthy. Scandalously older. And with age comes experience—filthy, toe-curling experience.

  I know what you must be thinking: “How unprofessional of you to sleep with your boss.”

  Well, I haven’t. Yet.

  But he’s made it very clear that as his personal assistant, I’m to assist him. Personally. And it seems like whenever he’s around, I’m incapable of saying anything other than “Yes, sir.”

  This is a standalone novella with an HEA and no cheating. If you’re looking for a quick read with scorching heat and lots of heart, dive right in and get wet ;)

  ONE

  Stella

  There’s a special place in hell for the man who invented high heels. And yes, I know for a fact that he’s a man, even though I have no flippin’ clue what his name is.

  You know how I know?

  A woman wouldn’t have inflicted this much pain onto herself.

  “My feet are killing me.” I wince as I hop onto the stainless steel prep table in Oblivion’s industrial kitchen and kick off my heels. “Want to trade shoes?”

  I’m not even halfway into my shift and my feet like a couple of bloody stumps. What I wouldn’t give to be able to wear Gina’s chunky, ugly-ass orthopedic shoes.

  But they don’t jibe with the sexy, elitist vibe the club owner, William King—or King William, as he’s known around here—is going for.

  She snorts as she continues making overpriced, undersized h’orderves. “No, but I’ll trade outfits with you.”

  “Yeah, right. It’s already hot as balls in here and my tits are starting to sweat.”

  Gina laughs. “How do you think I feel?” she asks, gesturing to the black slacks and chef’s jacket she’s wearing. “I wish I could come to work practically half-naked like you do.”

  “No, you don’t.” The cold tile feels like heaven against my poor feet when I hop down. “I’m always one bad angle away from flashing everyone my hot pocket.”

  Like I’m trying to illustrate my point, I reflexively tug down my dress, but that sucker doesn’t budge. It’s permanently stuck at two inches shy of indecent exposure.

  Her mouth twists to the side as she smirks. “You’d make a killing in tips if you ‘accidentally’ dropped something every shift.”

  Backing out of the kitchen, I point at her in mock outrage. “That’s tantamount to prostitution, ma’am, and I won’t stand for it. I’ll lie down for it, but I will not stand for it.”

  Gina’s laughter follows me as I head for the back entrance of the balcony to take my fifteen-minute break.

  I might talk a big game, but that’s all it is—talk. Donnie’s the only boyfriend I’ve ever had. Key word being “had.” The only action I’m getting now is from my battery-operated boyfriend, thanks to this dry spell from hell.

  Actually, it’s more like a wet spell. I’m constantly in a state of semi-arousal, and I’m pretty sure if I had a contest with a teenage boy to see who could get turned on faster, I’d be wetter than the Mississippi before he could even pop a chub. Shit, I’m signed up for Amazon’s “Subscribe and Save” program because my poor, severely abused vibrator goes through so many batteries.

  The struggle is real.

  I pull open the glass door to the balcony, breathing out a sigh of relief when the chilly night air washes over my heated skin. Boston’s skyline twinkles around us as car horns and sirens blare in the distance.

  I’m about to step out when movement off to the side catches my eye, making me pause. Apparently I’m not alone out here.

  With just one look, I can tell the guy standing in front of the railing is not like any of the other guys here. For starters, he’s outside smoking, seemingly content to be alone. Most guys are inside, trying to find … company for the evening.

  His clothes are different, too. Not nicer, per se, because everyone here is dressed to the nines thanks to the club’s dress code. At first I can’t put my finger on what it is about his clothes that makes him stand out, but as I scan his tall physique, taking in his broad shoulders and the obvious body he’s rocking under that suit, it hits me.

  Those clothes weren’t bought off the rack; they were tailor-made to fit his body.

  And what a body it is, based on the lines of his suit.

  This man is fucking gorgeous, but that’s not why my eyes are drawn to him like magnets. It’s the way he carries himself, the confident set of his shoulders—even the way he holds his cigarette as he scans the city, a slight frown wrinkling his dark brows.

  Power radiates from him.

  I’m not sure if I should slink back inside or continue out. I didn’t think I’d have to share this part of the balcony since it’s so far away. And from the looks of it, he doesn’t want me to intrude any more than I do.

  Sometime while I’m busy debating what to do, he notices me standing here. His eyes give me a cursory once-over, then flick back to the concrete jungle sprawled out below, completely disinterested in what he just saw.

  I’m not going to lie, it stings, but I’m also not surprised. He’s older—late thirties, maybe even early forties based on the flecks of gray starting to dot his dark hair—and so far out of my league it’s laughable.

  This is a man, and I only have experience with boys.

  Well, one boy.

  I start to head back inside when I hear him chuckle. The low, rough timbre stops me in my tracks as wind whips my hair across my face. I shiver, but it’s got nothing to do with the cold.

  “This is a first. Most women run off after they’ve met me, not before.”

  Brushing my hair behind my ear, I glance back at him, unsure of what to say. “Sorry?”

  “A woman apologizing to me,” he mumbles around his cigarette. “Also a first.”

  “Have any other cherries you’d like me to pop?” The smartass comment is out of my mouth before I can stop it. I have half a second to worry he’ll take my ribbing the wrong way—because he doesn’t exactly look like the type of guy you’d tease and live to tell the tale—when I see the faintest smirk curve the corner of his lips.

  He takes a final drag before flicking the butt over the railing, exhaling from the side of his mouth. “Maybe.”

  The night air envelops me as I walk onto the balcony, letting the door close behind me with a quiet swish. “Well I’m all yours for the next thirteen minutes.”

  Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a silver flask. “That’s all I get?” he asks, unscrewing the cap. He takes a swig and then holds it out to me, cocking a brow with a small scar running through it.

  I shouldn’t drink at work. I know this, and yet it doesn’t stop my fingers from wrapping around the cold metal, purposefully brushing against his skin. It’s warm and slightly rough, like he does a lot of work with his hands.

  I can think of something he can wor
k with his hands…

  My face feels warmer as I bring the flask to my lips, keeping my eyes on his as I take a drink. An odd thrill shoots through me at the knowledge that my lips have kind of been on his. It burns as I swallow, but I force my expression to remain neutral.

  I want to seem cool in front of him. Choking on this gasoline as I try to swallow it wouldn’t be very cool.

  When I hand him back the flask, I lick an errant drop off my lip. “How much do you want?”

  Smiling, he shakes his head. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

  I frown, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he takes another drink. “How?”

  He hands it back to me, his gaze dropping to my mouth as I sip it. “The fact that you just asked me that only proves my point.”

  My face feels like it’s on fire as I look away, taking a long drink. It doesn’t feel like I’m swallowing jet fuel anymore, which means that I should probably ease up. Plus, you know, I’m still technically on the clock and all…

  I pass the flask to him and rub my lips together, self-conscious at the way he’s staring at me. I feel like a slide under a microscope right now.

  His eyes narrow before he drinks. “How old are you?”

  Feigning a confidence I don’t have, I say, “Old enough that you won’t get in trouble for corrupting a minor, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.” He screws the cap back on his flask and then sticks it in his pocket. “I’m probably old enough to be your dad, little girl.”

  His mouth says one thing, but the way his forest green eyes are lingering on my tits says something completely different. It gives me enough of a confidence boost to smile and sweetly ask, “Do you want me to call you daddy?”

  I’m joking—mostly—but the way his face darkens has me wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

  I feel silly now. Like a little girl playing dress up.

  And the worst part? I’m pretty sure he knows.

  His gaze turns predatory as he steps closer, causing my back to hit the railing. He towers over me as he leans down, resting his hands on the ledge beside me.

  I swallow when his face is inches from mine.

  “That mouth is gonna get you in trouble if you’re not careful.”

  I reflexively lick my lips. “Maybe I like trouble.”

  He smirks. “I bet you do. But I also bet you’ve never had a real taste of it in your life.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I ask, embarrassed that it comes out all breathy and uneven.

  He leans in, his stubble grazing my cheek as his hot breath washes over the sensitive skin of my ear. My nipples are instantly hard.

  “I can practically hear your heart beating from here. Like a scared little rabbit who’s about to be caught by the fox,” he murmurs. “Tell me I’m wrong, little rabbit. Tell me your heart’s not thundering under this flimsy excuse of a dress,” he says, tracing his finger along the valley of my cleavage.

  My eyes flutter shut as my pulse kicks into overdrive. His touch, as feather light as it is, is maddening.

  I want more. I want it everywhere.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, feeling bold. “If this is your idea of trouble, then you’re right. I’ve never had a real taste. So give me one.” Our lips are dangerously close when I move to look at him.

  Something shifts in his gaze, his eyes growing dark and heated as his fingers graze the inside of my thigh. His hand skims up my soft skin, then cups my pussy through my wet panties.

  My breath catches as a wave of pleasure washes over me, tightening everything south of my navel. He pushes the lace aside, smirking when his fingers slide through my soaked folds.

  His thumb settles on my clit, finding the perfect amount of pressure as he rubs the swollen nub in slow circles. I’m so drenched he glides along me effortlessly, my clit throbbing under his skillful fingers with every pass.

  My legs feel unsteady, my knees quaking as he goes from measured circles to quick flicks, teasing my clit until it becomes engorged. I’m so fucking close I can taste it. My pussy aches to be filled, to feel him sink inside me and fuck me raw until I’m screaming and coming all over his cock.

  Like he senses my desperation, he dips lower, filling my tight pussy with his thick fingers. His mouth brushes mine as I gasp, his tongue darting out to tease my lower lip before asking, “Is this what you want?”

  My breathing stutters as he finger-fucks me, stretched wide from just two. Nodding, I grab his tie and pull him closer, pressing my lips to his in a frenzied rush.

  I groan into his mouth, so lost in the feeling of his fingers pumping into me, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit with every thrust, that I miss the sound of the door opening.

  It’s not until a man says, “Well, shit. If I knew the VIP service was this good, I’d have upgraded a long time ago,” that I realize we’re not alone.

  Hot flames of embarrassment lick at me as we break away from each other, stoked by the leering glances and drunken laughs of these yuppie assholes.

  Tears prick my eyes as I dart off in the other direction, going the long way around the balcony. I swallow a hiccupped breath, trying to dry my eyes as I push inside the club and run down the hall, circling back to the kitchen.

  Gina looks over her shoulder as soon as she hears me, the smile dying on her face when she takes in my expression.

  “You don’t look so good, kid.”

  I touch my hand to my forehead, feeling dizzy. From the alcohol, to the almost-sex, to the embarrassment burning my cheeks, it’s all making me dizzy. “I don’t feel so good. I think I need to go home.”

  She wipes her hands on the apron around her waist and walks around the island. Placing the back of her hand against my cheek, she frowns as the worried mother in her starts to show. “You’re burnin’ up.”

  Yep. Extreme mortification will do that to you.

  “Go home,” she says, hitching her head to the side. “I’ll cover for you.”

  I grab my purse from its hiding spot under the kitchen island and pick up my abandoned heels from the floor. “Thanks, Gina. I owe you.”

  She waves me off. “Find me something tall, dark, and handsome and we’ll be even.”

  I force a chuckle before I leave. Back in the hall, I scurry to the emergency stairwell before anyone sees me.

  I already found a tall, dark, and handsome man tonight. Now I’m trying to lose him.

  TWO

  Stella

  A MONTH LATER...

  You’ve got to be shitting me.

  The last thing I want to see after the crap day I’ve had is my ex-boyfriend sitting on my parents’ couch, watching the game with my dad. I don’t know what’s worse—the tracksuit Donnie’s wearing, or the fact that my dad’s wearing the same fucking one.

  They look like Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger from the movie Twins.

  Scowling, I set my purse on the coffee table. Donnie’s around more now than he was when we were dating. It’s unnatural. Dads are supposed to hate their daughter’s boyfriends and any variation thereof, not become BFFs with them.

  “You guys gonna get matching tattoos next? Get yourself a nice couples massage?”

  “Quit giving me lip, missy, and get the hell outta the way.” My dad waves his beer around, gesturing for me to move as he cranes his neck. God forbid he misses a single second of his precious Pats.

  I roll my eyes and head for the stairs, hearing Donnie mumble something to my dad before his heavy footsteps start after me. “Go away, Donnie. I’m not in the mood.” I cringe as I listen to myself, hating the way my accent becomes more pronounced the pissier I get.

  Dawnee. Dawnee. Dawnee.

  I sound wicked smart right now.

  Pushing open my bedroom door, I take off my smock and throw it across the room. I never want to see that ugly-ass thing again.

  My door closes softly, and I can practically feel Donnie standing behind me. It’
s impossible not to, since he takes up damn near half my room. Bastard’s huge. He towers over my slight, five-foot-three frame, and clocks in at two hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle.

  But I’m at that reckless stage of being pissed where I think I could take him. A swift fist to the balls and he’d be down for the count.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel a headache coming on. “I swear to God, Donnie, I can’t fuckin’ deal with you right now. Just get out, all right?”

  His hands start kneading my shoulders, massaging away my tension. “You’re so hot when you’re angry.”

  That’s it.

  I bring my elbow back and sock him in the gut. His breath oompfs out of him before he starts laughing. “You know I like it rough, Stella. You’re only turnin’ me on.”

  Whirling around, I smack him. “Get out, Donnie! I’ve had a shit day and I’m not in the mood for your pathetic attempt at flirting.”

  “All right, all right,” he mutters, fending off my blows. Instead of leaving, he plops his ass down on my bed, making the whole thing groan under his massive weight. “What’s wrong? You have a bad day at beauty school?” He smirks as he says it and my hands automatically ball into fists.

  “It’s not called that anymore. It’s cosmetology school, and yes, I had a bad fucking day.” My lip starts to tremble as my stupid eyes water. I bite it to keep from crying, but of course it doesn’t work.

  Donnie takes my hand in his and pulls me onto his lap. “What happened?” he asks, genuinely concerned.

  Sniffling, I tell him, “I melted the hair off my mannequin.”

  It was awful. Everyone else’s mannequins had the perfect shade of blond and my mannequin had white, gummy hair and a giant bald patch on the crown of its head. I was humiliated, and I’m pretty sure there’s a video of it on YouTube now.

  Donnie frowns. “Mannequins don’t need hair.”

  I roll my eyes and push myself up, pacing the room. “That’s not the point. The point is I’m failing. Again. This is the phlebotomy class all over.”