Page 2 of The Boss

The vibrator teases my slit. I’m already wet from thoughts of Ms. Marcon. Doesn’t take much for the soft material to press into me. Bit by bit… ah, shit!This is good!

No, I did not tell my phone to ring. With a ringtone that tells me it’s work-related.

Who the hell is calling me on a Friday night? Damnit. With the vibrator still halfway inside me, I reach over and grab my phone. I answer it without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello? Who is this?” Can they feel my ire on the other side of the line? ‘Cause they interrupted something pretty important and can put up with my sass.

A pause. I swear to God if this is a wrong number or someone masking a sales pitch…

“This is Julianna Marcon.”

Oh,shit.

Are you kidding me right now? Damn me and my short temper! This is the kind of shit that gets a girl fired right when the weekend starts!

“Ms. Marcon!” I jerk up, forgetting I’m holding half of a vibrator between my legs. Am I… wetter? No way. Like Ms. Marcon’s voice can’t do this to me… Yet my fantasy has summoned this woman from the depths of her office to call me on a Friday night! “What is it?’

“I need a folder,” she says with her usual briskness. Authority oozes from the audible presence of Julianna Marcon, a woman worth millions and used to getting her way. She wasn’t one-half of one of Portland’s biggest corporations for no reason.

I wait for her to explain, but the irritation accompanying her tone only makes things worse. “Which folder?” I bring five of them home any given night. Sometimes I’m convinced I’m going to get ahead on my facts and figures, but I’m always fooling myself. Yeah, right. Not when I can watch my favorite TV shows, take baths, and screw myself silly for hours on end.

My voice shakes more than I anticipated. You see, I rarely talk directly to Ms. Marcon. She’s more likely to send out a memo or use one of her direct underlings to approach me about one of my screw-ups. As for seeing her? We work only one floor apart, but the only time I go up to her floor or she comes to mine is when she needs acorrection.Nobody likes the corrections… because then someone’s job is on the line, and it’s not hers.

“Bring whatever ones you have. I’m told you’re the most likely candidate to have what I need right now.” Shit! Do I ever wish she was talking about something else! “Get here now.” She hangs up before I can confirm I’ll do as she orders.

I stare at my phone in utter disbelief. Doesn’t help that a vibrator is still buzzing away against my crotch. Fuck it. I turn it off and set it aside. Why is my body shuddering? Is it from the sensations of the toy? Or from Ms. Marcon’s voice?

Anyway, there are folders I’m supposed to hunt. Most of them are in my bag, but I left one under a stack on my coffee table. Where the hell is it? I’m stumbling around my apartment in a total daze. This shit must be important if Ms. Marcon is directly calling an intern like me.

I scramble for everything I can find, praying it’s what she’s looking for. After throwing my work clothes back on and fixing up my makeup – never mind, I can fix it on the MAX. Also, just my luck that I don’t have a car. If I did, I could be there fifteen minutes faster. I feverishly hope that my boss knows that I don’t have a car.

Talk about my world exploding. This is what it feels like, too, ever since Julianna called me. A billionaire tycoon calling my cell phone. What the hell can go wrong?

Chapter 2

Julianna

“You can’t do it. I don’t care how charming you think you are, Jules. Not even your over-polished magnetism is going to keep her here past quitting time. Your interns don’t stick around for you, no matter how many of them you’ve… personally cultivated before.”

“Ourinterns.” How many times must I remind Presley that we share equal responsibility for the people under our employment? “I’m sure I could make it happen, thanks.”

Presley Bradford advances on my desk, both hands splaying across the oak. Her perfume is a spicy concoction compared to my more subdued but powerful florals. Her hair is a mess because she never bothered to comb it after walking out of the wind, whereas I’m not above spending five minutes in my private bathroom making sure I’m perfectly presentable. Her cufflinks don’t match her tie-clip, and it pisses me off. Could she at least pretend to try? I mean, if you’re going to wear a pantsuit,you should match, damnit. But Presley Bradford in a dress? Her butch persona would spontaneously combust, leaving behind a still-breathing shell of a stale soul. It’s not happening.

Where were we?

“You are not God’s gift to everybody, sorry, hate to break it to you.”

I push her tie aside as it attempts to smudge the forms I’m signing at eight on a Friday night. “It’s not about my charm,” I say. “It’s about persuasion. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Persuasion?” Presley laughs. “Fine. Let’s call it that. But I’m telling you, you’re slipping. I don’t care how much time you spend primping in your office mirror. You’ve lost your seductive touch, especially with the younger ladies.”

“And this concerns you because…?”

“Because it’s dull around here, Jules. No spark. No risk. When was the last time you even had fun with this… habit of yours?”

Presley always finds a way to bring up my “habits.” The occasional secret rendezvous, the calculated thrill of crossing professional boundaries just enough to get away with the harmless crime—it’s not something I brag about, but Presley knows me too well.

“You want me to humor you, is that it?” I lean back in my chair, studying her as she leans farther into my space, completely unapologetic.

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