Sir Page 2

  I don’t know what made me think I could get a job drawing blood. I can’t stand the sight of it. Makes me queasy.

  But it seemed better than being a dog groomer. I love dogs, but I only lasted a week at Pawsome Pups before I got tired of coming home every night smelling like wet dog.

  The only semi-decent job I’ve had recently was being a cocktail waitress at Oblivion. The tips were great and the hours weren’t too bad. If I hadn’t fucked it all up by fooling around with that guy on the balcony, I’d probably still be working there.

  But no, I had to quit the next day, too ashamed and embarrassed at the thought of potentially running into the guys who caught me with a stranger’s fingers two-knuckles deep in me, or worse, running into the guy who owned said knuckles.

  I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep fucking up.

  I’m twenty-two years old and I’ve got no real-world skills. School was a bust. I barely squeaked by with a C+ average. The only thing I’m genuinely good at is taking bomb-ass selfies for Instagram, but that doesn’t really translate into a stable job.

  The bed groans as Donnie stands, taking my hands in his. It stops my nervous pacing long enough for me to look up at him. “I don’t know why you’re worryin’ yourself to death over this. In ten years, when we’re married and have a couple of rugrats runnin’ around, this won’t even matter.”

  My eyes narrow into murderous little slits as I yank my hands away. “Maybe I want a career, Donnie. You never stopped to ask me what I wanted to do with my life. You just assumed I’d stay home with our kids while you went off to work every day. Maybe I want more than that.”

  For a moment he looks like I’ve slapped him. Then anger twists his face. “What, being a wife and mother ain’t good enough for ya?”

  Donnie doesn’t want a wife, he wants a maid—someone to cook his meals, clean his house, and wash his clothes. Preferably with his baby on her hip while she does it.

  Sixteen-year-old me would’ve given anything to become Donnie’s wife and pop out a couple of his kids, but I’m not that girl anymore. My dreams may not be big enough to fill a movie screen or sharp enough to run a board meeting, but I know they won’t be fulfilled if I stay with Donnie. I’ve known him long enough to know that I’d never truly be his partner.

  I’d just be second in command on Team Del Vecchio, while Donnie reigns as captain.

  I bite my lip as a lone tear escapes down my cheek. “Maybe it’s not enough, no.” I have no clue what I want to do with my life, but I know I don’t want to spend it with him. That may sound harsh, but it’s better I figured it out now than ten years from now.

  He shakes his head, the look on his face telling me he’s finally getting what I’ve been saying for the past three months—it’s over. “You’ve changed, Stella.”

  I have. But I think the real problem is that he hasn’t.

  ***

  Being Catholic and having a big family goes hand-in-hand. My parents’ house is packed for dinner tonight and it’s not even a special occasion. I narrowly dodge being pummeled by a kid as he runs past the bottom of the stairs, chasing after his brothers and cousins.

  “Slow down, Mario Andretti! This ain’t a racetrack!”

  “Sorry, Stella!” my nephew yells back.

  I swear I like kids. I do. I even love these little monsters, but right now their piercing mix of laughter and shrieks are like icepicks stabbing at my throbbing head. I love my family, but I cannot wait to get the hell out of here. I’d kill to come home to a quiet, empty place every once in a while.

  And from the tired, dazed expression of my big sis, Angie, I’m not the only one who feels this way.

  Being the mother to four rowdy boys under the age of ten is its own warzone, so I can’t really fault her for her thousand-yard stare as I plop down at the dinner table next to her. It’s probably the first five minutes she’s had to herself all day.

  “How’s it going, Ang?”

  She blinks her trance away and glances at me as she twists the stem of her wine glass. “I fished my car keys out of the toilet today and Robbie gave the cat a haircut. How was your day?”

  “I melted the hair off my mannequin and the video’s already trending on YouTube. Oh, and I dropped out of cosmetology school.” I shrug. “You know, same old, same old.”

  She winces. “Okay, you win. Do mom and dad know?”

  “Not yet,” I sigh. “I’m waiting to see how well the Pats play before breaking the news.”

  Angie snorts and takes a sip of her wine. “Good luck. They’re down fourteen points.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, glancing behind me to the living room. Dad’s yelling at the TV and Donnie’s got a scowl on his face, but I think that’s got more to do with me than the game.

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  My head whips around at the familiar voice. Standing next to me with a smirk on her face is my favorite aunt. “Brenda!” I jump up and wrap my arms around her. “I didn’t know you were coming.” Her and my uncle Paul rarely come to these get-togethers.

  She pats me on the back before releasing me. “It was a last minute decision,” she says, looking almost sad as she brushes my hair behind my ear.

  Has she been crying? Her eyes are kind of red.

  Before I can dwell on it too much, she claps her hands and paints a huge smile on her face. “What’s for dinner?”

  ***

  “So what’s new with you two?” my mom asks Brenda and Paul at dinner. She sets her fork on her plate and lifts her wine glass. “We hardly ever get to see you since you started working for Mr. Fortune Five-hundred.”

  Brenda rolls her eyes. “Please. I’m just a lowly assistant. One of many.”

  “For one of the richest men in the world,” my mother adds wryly.

  Brenda gives my mom a pointed look. “I fetch his dry cleaning and make sure his fridge is stocked. You make it sound like I’m wheeling and dealing with him in the boardroom.”

  My mother waves her sister off. “Well whatever it is he’s got you doing, it’s enough to keep you busy.” She takes a sip of her wine and sets the glass down. “Too busy to come see us,” she teases, although it’s kind of true.

  Ever since Brenda started working for Clayton Castle, her weekly dinner visits happened less and less, until she stopped coming altogether. She might joke about being a lowly assistant, but I know she loves her job and takes it seriously. He’s a great boss according to her, and the job offers full benefits and generous pay. In this economy, that’s a great trade-off to basically being on-call 24/7.

  Brenda and Paul trade glances. She clears her throat before saying, “There’s actually something else that’s been keeping us busy lately.”

  My mom’s eyes grow animated. “You’re pregnant,” she says gleefully.

  Brenda is my mom’s youngest sister, and pushing forty. Her and Paul have been trying—unsuccessfully—to have a baby for the past several years.

  I glance at Brenda, hoping it’s true but knowing it’s not when a slight frown mars her face.

  “No.” She looks down at her plate, pushing around her uneaten food. “Paul has cancer.”

  Gasps break out around the table as all other conversations cease. It’s quiet for several moments—practically unheard of in our household—until my mom asks, “How bad is it?”

  “Mom,” Angie chides.

  Paul chuckles. “It’s okay. The doctors caught it early. They say my chances of survival are good.”

  Tears well in Brenda’s eyes as Paul clasps her hand, bringing it up to place a soft kiss on the back.

  My mom wipes at her eyes, clearly regretting her baby comment. “Good. Good.”

  Angie gives her a look, like Really, Mom? to which my mom scowls at. It’s not uncommon for my mom to stick her foot in her mouth, and it’s not uncommon for Angie to be embarrassed by it.

  “On the plus side, I finally have some time off now. Mr. Castle was nice enough to give me paid leave whil
e Paul gets treatment. I want to be at every doctor’s appointment, every chemo treatment.” She gives her husband a watery smile, obviously trying to remain positive for his sake. “All I have to do now is find a replacement for me while I’m on leave.” She chuckles. “That’s easier said than done, though. I can’t exactly post a help wanted ad, not for something as high profile as Clayton Castle’s personal assistant.”

  Well if that’s not opportunity knocking…

  “I can help.” Everyone’s eyes are on me as soon as the words leave my mouth. “Think about it, Brenda. You know me. You know I’m not gonna steal from him or go blabbing to TMZ about his personal life.”

  Her eyes narrow as she thinks it over. “True.”

  My dad sets his beer down. “Wouldn’t this interfere with beauty school?”

  Donnie snorts. “She flunked out today,” he says around a mouthful of food.

  Anger flares in me. I can’t believe he’d just blurt that out in front of my whole family. What an ass. “What the hell are you even doing here, Donnie? You’re not part of this family.”

  My dad stops eating long enough to point his fork at me. “And whose fault is that, missy?”

  I silently fume, knowing it’s pointless to talk back to my dad. It’s like arguing with a brick wall.

  A short, chubby, Italian brick wall.

  ***

  After dinner, I pull Brenda aside. “Look, I know people think I’m not gonna do anything more with my life than get married and pop out a couple of kids, but I want more than that. Maybe this is my chance for it. I’m not as dumb as I look, Brenda. I can do this.”

  Her face crumples in pity as she pulls me in for a hug. “No one ever said you were dumb, sweetie.” She pulls back and asks, “Now when can you start?”

  THREE

  Stella

  This place is bananas.

  Clayton Castle’s condo looks like something out of Architectural Digest. It’s the epitome of modern with its marriage of straight lines and smooth, pristine surfaces that I’m hesitant to touch.

  God forbid I leave a smudge on something, because he’ll know exactly who did it.

  My feet pad on the plush carpet as I carry his dry cleaning into his massive walk-in closet and hang it up. He’s got rows and rows of suits in dark, muted colors, and racks of dress shoes that make the whole closet smell faintly of leather.

  I walk back into his bedroom, amazed at the view. I think 50% of this condo is made of glass, judging by the floor-to-ceiling windows in almost every room.

  Makes me wonder if he’s worried about peeping toms.

  Suddenly remembering the groceries I left sitting on his counter, I hightail it to the kitchen. He’s got one of those smart fridges that syncs up your grocery list with your phone, so I was able to download his list without bothering him.

  Brenda gave me his number, and vice versa, but said he’ll contact me when he needs something done, so I took that to mean “speak only when spoken to.” And so far, all he’s asked me to do is pick up his dry cleaning and go to the store.

  I’m still putting away his groceries when I hear the front door close.

  Shit.

  I was supposed to be gone by the time he got home.

  Hoping he’s not too pissed, I say over my shoulder, “Sorry! I’ll be out of here in just a second, Mr. Castle.” It’d be just my freaking luck to get fired on my first day.

  Grabbing the jar of olives from the island, I turn to put them in the fridge as my eyes land on my boss for the first time. They say hindsight is 20/20, and right now I’m really kicking myself for not Googling Clayton Castle beforehand, because then I would’ve known my new boss is the man I ran out on last month.

  The one who slipped his hand up my dress and publicly fingered me on a balcony at work. The one who showed me pleasure unlike anything I’d ever felt before.

  I gasp as the jar slips out of my hand, shattering on the floor. He stares back at me, his brows furrowed as he blinks and looks down at the mess I’ve just made all over his pristine floor.

  “I take it you’re Brenda’s replacement,” he says coolly. “Miss Moretti, right?”

  My face feels like it’s a million degrees as I look for something to clean this up. “Yes, sir.”

  “So far I’m not impressed.” He turns and walks away, leaving me alone in his kitchen.

  Apparently it’s his turn to walk out on me. Can’t say it’s not fair.

  ***

  It’s almost midnight and I can’t sleep. I keep going over this evening in my head, cringing every time I think about it. It’s been hours and I’m still red from embarrassment.

  I roll onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut as I try and force sleep to come to me.

  It doesn’t.

  Just when I start to contemplate taking some Nyquil or something, my phone dings on my nightstand. I reach over and grab it, jerking upright when I see a text alert with Clayton’s name on my screen.

  I press the home button and unlock my phone, reading his text:

  Are you awake?

  My fingers tap out a quick response.

  Yes, sir. What do you need?

  Three little dots appear as he types, and when the text bubble finally shows up, I nearly choke.

  I need to come.

  I lick my lips as my thighs instinctually press together. What am I supposed to do about that?

  And more importantly, how the hell do I respond to something like that?

  Me: How can I be of assistance?

  CC: Assist me in getting off, Miss Moretti.

  He texts me a picture of his cock and my jaw drops.

  Fucking Christ, he’s huge. My pussy instantly throbs as my eyes drink him in, my panties growing wet as I imagine all the dirty things I’d like to do to him.

  Me: Why should I help you? If memory serves, you still owe me an orgasm. Sir.

  CC: People call me that every day, but hearing YOU call me ‘sir’? It makes me rock fucking hard.

  Me: I can tell.

  CC: You want your orgasm? Come and get it. You know where I live. You know the code to my front door.

  Me: And if I say no?

  CC: Then you’ll leave my cock and I very disappointed.

  I bite my lip, debating what to do. On one hand, it’s not very professional of me to fuck my boss. Especially on my first damn day. But on the other hand… Well, I really fucking want to.

  Bad.

  And we already crossed that “professional” line long ago, when I fooled around with a customer at work. I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but that doesn’t stop me from climbing out of bed and slipping into some clothes.

  I agreed to be his personal assistant, after all, and he needs me to assist him. Personally. If you look at it that way, I’m just doing my job.

  At least that’s what I tell myself as I drive over to his place.

  FOUR

  Clayton

  God, you’re weak.

  Tossing my phone on the bed beside me, I scowl, disgusted with myself.

  I’ve never fucked an employee before. Never even been tempted to until Stella.

  Stella.

  Jesus, even her name gets me hard.

  I groan and scrub my hands over my face, worried that I went too far. It’s been five minutes and she hasn’t texted me back.

  I tried not to text her at all, but once I realized my new assistant was the same girl I’d been fantasizing about and obsessing over for the past month, well … it was a miracle I’d waited as long as I did. Hell, it was a miracle I didn’t fuck her right there on my kitchen island. I was too shocked at seeing her again, in my fucking house of all places, that I froze.

  And maybe—kind of—came off like a total dick.

  Then I texted her my fucking dick, instead of apologizing like a normal goddamn person. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if she sues me for sexual harassment, or at the very least quits.

  Just when I start thinking about the awkward conversa
tion I’m probably going to have to have with my attorney tomorrow morning, my phone vibrates on the bed. I scramble up and grab it, my cock growing hard again as I read her text:

  I’m on my way.

  ***

  When I hear the code being entered on the front door, I rush over and swing it open. So much for playing it cool.

  Stella stands on the other side in this flowy little floral dress, the thin off-white fabric clinging to the swell of her braless tits. I bite my lip as her nipples harden right before my eyes, my cock straining against my flannel pajama pants.

  “Get in here.”

  She swallows, looking nervous as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and cautiously walks past me.

  Stella’s young. Way too fucking young for someone my age, but instead of being a deterrent, it’s oddly enticing.

  Closing the door, I back her into the wall of the foyer. She swallows as she looks up at me, looking every bit the scared little rabbit cornered by the big, scary predator.

  I fist the sides of her dress in my hands, barely resisting the urge to rip it off her, and lean down until our lips are almost touching. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Good. I don’t have the patience to be gentle with you right now.”

  Fireworks erupt when I kiss her, sparking Stella’s passion. Her fingers tangle in my hair as she swallows my moan, my hands cupping her ass as I lift her and carry her into the kitchen.

  I set her on the island, grinding my cock against her as my hands run up the outside of her impossibly soft thighs. “Take off your dress and I’ll fuck you right here, right now.”

  Her labored breathing matches mine. “And if I don’t want to? Am I fired?”

  My hands run higher up her dress, up to the curve of her hips, and I smirk when I feel nothing but smooth skin. “You’re not wearing panties, sweetheart. That says a whole lot about what you want to do.”

  I lift the hem of her dress and pull it over her head, tossing it on the floor next to any semblance of self-control I might’ve had left. Because once I get a good look at her full, perfect tits and the tight, pink pussy I’ve been dreaming about sinking into for the past month, it’s game fucking over.