Page 11 of City of Wind and Lies

I don't make it a habit to objectify my employees, but I must have spaced out because her honey-sweet voice calls to me with an air of familiarity.

"Uhm, can I have my hand back?"

"Of course." I drop her hand and gesture towards my office. "Right this way, Miss James."

She nods, and I swear she sways her hips a bit more prominently as she saunters in front of me.

I stroke my chin, enjoying the view for a second time as I follow behind, pressing the door closed as she takes a seat.

5

It's him.

I mean, he was wearing a mask that night- we both were- but when Cami and I walked in and I got an eyeful of that beautifully tatted chest, I knew it was him. How many other tall, devilishly handsome guys are roaming this city with a tattoo of a butterfly with a screaming skull as part of its wing in the middle of their chest? There was a script too, I think it's Italian, ‘sempre per la famiglia.’ Pair that with his olive skin and dark hair, it's a safe bet he's Italian.

"So, you'll report directly to me. The department heads are under the guise that you are an executive assistant," he explains, stroking the dark stubble on his chin.

"And I'm just looking for inconsistencies?" I question, crossing and recrossing my legs, trying to relieve the growing ache between my thighs that started the moment I recognized my new boss.

"Mhmm," he hums, shifting back and producing a thumb drive from his pocket. "This has the discrepancies I've noticed as well as full permissions inside the software that should allow you access to anything and everything you need. Miss James-"

"Call me Wren, please," I interrupt, taking the thumb drive from his tattooed fingers.

"Okay, Wren. It's important that you handle this position with discretion."

"Absolutely," I reply, nodding my head a little too eagerly. " You have my word and my NDA, Mr. Sorrentino."

"Bowie," he states, pressing up from his seat and circling the desk.

My brows knit together. "I'm sorry?"

"Bowie," he says, extending his hand again. "Call me Bowie."

I can feel the heat building in my belly, licking up my spine and spreading across my cheeks as I stand to shake his hand. My knees feel a little weak as I search the kaleidoscope of colors that are his hazel eyes for the slightest flicker of recognition. He doesn't remember me.

He clears his throat, gesturing to the door. "I'll show you to your office."

Turns out, my office is just steps away from Cami's desk. It's a small, simple space but definitely an upgrade from the cubicle I shared at Daniels Financial. Dropping my purse on top of the bookcase, I settle into the plush office chair behind the modern walnut desk in the center of the room. Swiveling in the chair, I rub my thighs together with nerves and excitement as I power on the company-issued laptop and plug in the thumb drive. I shouldn't be thinking about Mr. Sorrentino- Bowie- fucking me on the couch in his office here like he did at the Monarch Club.

No, I definitely shouldn't be thinking about my boss, the man who gave me arguably the best orgasm of my life, fucking me again. It was supposed to be an anonymous hookup. He didn’t ask for my number, so I have no reason to believe he wants anything to do with me. Hell, he’s easily in his thirties- as if he’d be interested in me without the guise of alcohol. It'd be inappropriate to bring it up or try to go for seconds, wouldn't it? I'll just have to try to avoid him.

I send a text off to Drea- because I still can't believe it's him- before losing myself in work. The day slips by quickly as I get orientated with all the programs, not even stopping for lunch. By the end of it, I’ve figured out a plan and where I'll start my analytics. Fishing my phone from my bag, I sling the strap over my shoulder and head to the lobby to wait for the elevator.

And of course, just as the doors part and I step inside, Bowie chooses that moment to leave for the day also.

My stomach flips at his proximity and I draw in a deep breath to still my racing heart. Big Mistake. The intoxicating scent of manly soap, woodsy musk, and spice floods my nostrils, and my reaction is visceral.

My body definitely isn't on board with avoiding him.

He doesn't say a word the entire ride down to the parking garage, but I feel the heat of his gaze on me as I mindlessly scroll through my social media feeds.

Our shoes echo against the concrete, the chirp of my Honda unlocking piercing the silence as I reach for my door handle.

"Goodnight Wren," his husky voice calls as he approaches a sleek black BMW.

I twist back around, eyes tracking the way he hitches his pants and slides into the driver's seat. "Night, Bowie."

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about his dick still. Out of all my sexual encounters, that night with him has been living in my head rent free. The way those little barbells massaged me with each stroke. I'd never pegged some CEO for having a jacob's ladder, but ten out of ten, would recommend.

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