Page 5 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

Had the testicle-clouds been made of something solid, they might have been strong enough to hold the penis-bottle upright. Being made of fluffy cloud-like material, however, they failed to stop the bottle from wobbling.

In retrospect, I should have let the thing smash on the ground. Maybe the bottle wouldn’t have broken. Maybe all the drama that followed could have been avoided, if I’d just sat back and let things happen the way they would.

But I was a good girl. I was a little worker bee who always jumped in to help when I was needed. That’s how I’d ended up doing the job of four people for my old boss, and why every romantic interest seemed to slowly learn to take advantage of me. Why I always had been, and always would be, a stepping stone that people used while they were waiting for something better.

So, when the six-foot-tall cock began to tip toward me, I leaped forward to catch it. It, however, had the advantage of being taller and heavier than I was, and already on the way down.

I felt a sharp pain in my finger as it jabbed against the glass phallus. Then I tried to divert the thing’s descent but only managed to slam it against the shelving and nick the edge of it.

I heard a roared, “Get away from it!” and finally had the good sense to listen.

Cool glass kissed my leg as I stumbled and fell back, and then several hundred pounds of cock-shaped perfume fell to the concrete floor and shattered. A glass shard embedded itself below my knee while another slashed across my calf. Blood gushed.

A gasp slipped through my lips as I watched my clothes become soaked with the pink perfume flooding the room. A patch of dark-red blood diffused into the puddle of pink as I stared, not quite understanding. My hand throbbed.

The smell was horrendous. The bottle had actually been filled with perfume, and not some colored water. Why, I had no idea. I didn’t know why anyone thought that was a good idea. It was like a scented bomb went off, and suddenly I was dizzy and bleeding and the pain in my finger was unbearable.

It all must have happened within a couple of seconds. Distantly, I heard the clatter of the metal pry bar on the concrete floor, and then strong arms clad in a crisp white shirt were siding beneath my knees and around my back, and my boss’s boss’s boss was picking me up.

“I’m bleeding on your shirt,” I noted.

“Quiet,” he barked.

“It’s white. It looks expensive.”

“I don’t care about the shirt. You! Call an ambulance. You, Ophelia. Get a towel. Bring that table over, we need to set her down. And open a damn window.”

The edges of my vision were going fuzzy. The fingers of my uninjured hand felt clumsy as I reached up to feel the fabric of his shirt between my fingers. “Good-quality cotton. The fil-a-fil is a nice touch. Subtle blue tinge.” I glanced up, then my head lolled when I couldn’t keep it up. “Like your eyes.”

He had beautiful, startlingly blue eyes. His eyelashes were thick and very black, almost making it look like he wore eyeliner. Some people had all the luck.

Those remarkable eyes met mine. He was angry for some reason. “Will you stop talking?”

“Why?” I asked, surprised to find my voice was slurring.

I was jarred when he kicked something, and a chair went flying. Then, more gently than I would think him possible, he set me down on a hard surface. Glaring, he said, “I told you to be quiet. You’re bleeding.”

“Sorry about your shirt,” I said, pouting at the red stain on his arm. “But I already know you’re going to fire me, so it’s okay.”

“Just—don’t die, all right?”

“Firing me will be your loss,” I told him. I was a star employee, after all. They’d only had me for a week, and they’d put me on dick-polishing duty. “Big mistake forsure.”

The last thing I saw before everything went black were the dark slashes of his eyebrows drawing together, his full lips pursed in displeasure.

TWO

ROME

The imageof Nikki Jordan unconscious on the table stayed with me all day. Her mouth had fallen open slightly, her pillowy lips painted a dark, vampy red. Her hair had been arranged in careful waves that had become mussed in the chaos. She wore dramatic eyeliner that had survived without smudging.

She had the face of a difficult, high-maintenance woman, which was no surprise. It had taken me about ten seconds to figure out she was a difficult, high-maintenance woman before I’d ever laid eyes on her.

I hadn’t expected her to look the way she did, though. Taller than I’d expected. Curvier, with dramatic features. More striking. Just…more. She’d been wearing a dress that could only be called modest, with a square neckline that didn’t show much more than her collarbones and hit well below her knee. But there was something about the way it traced her curves that made it look indecent.

And her shoes. Her shoes had been entirely impractical. No one needed to wear those types of heels to work as a runner in a studio. No wonder she’d been injured. What a ridiculous, difficult, irritating woman. I was glad I didn’t need to interact with her any longer. Once had been enough.

Gritting my teeth, I tore off my glasses and tossed them on the desk before rubbing the bridge of my nose. Leaning back in my chair, I cast my gaze over the multitude of lights in the Manhattan skyline. My domain. Today had been chaotic. The past six months had been chaotic, actually. Sales were down and companies were cutting their advertising budgets. People were outsourcing to smaller companies and freelancers. I’d had to halve my copywriting division, and I knew the remaining few were overworked. I was having to work harder to secure new clients, and a lot of our long-term relationships were beginning to feel strained.

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