Page 2 of A Taste of His Angel
I bump my hip against the conference room door, carrying a coconut cream pie dish in one hand and a stack of plastic plates, forks, and napkins in the other, arranging them on the side table next to two carafes of coffee Barbara brewed for the all-staff meeting on Monday morning. I’ve had no shortage of compliments on the variety of pies I’ve brought to work over the past seven weeks. To my knowledge, though, Mr. Fischer hasn’t had a single bite of any of them. He’s a tough cookie to crumble, but I’m determined to find something he likes before the end of summer.
As the staff fills the room, pulling out their pens and pads of paper to take notes, I walk around the conference table to hand out plates. It’s no surprise that Mr. Fischer gives me a slight shake of his head when I offer a slice to him at the head of the table.
“No, thank you, angel.” Mr. Fischer looks alarmed, coughing into his fist before correcting himself. “I mean, Miranda.” He smooths a hand down his tie, patting the end over his belly, then swivels his chair to the side, effectively dismissing me.
My stomach sinks as I wonder who this Angel person is and why he accidentally called me by their name. Perturbed at having failed once again to entice him into trying one of my desserts, I pass his plate to the next person with a small huff.
Once everyone is seated and served, I realize there aren’t enough chairs to go around. I can’t very well ask Mr. Fischer if I can sit on his lap, which would undoubtedly be the comfiest seat in the house, so I take my own slice of heaven and lean against the wall next to the side table.
Being good at something doesn’t automatically make it interesting, and I couldn’t care less about third-quarter projections. As in my classes, my mind starts to drift the longer the meeting goes on, and it becomes increasingly more difficult not to think about Mr. Fischer as I lick the last dollop of cream clean from my spoon. Considering it’s his company’s future on the line, I’d think he’d take more interest in the speaker instead of frowning in my direction, dropping his gaze to stare at my ivory blouse.
While it gives me butterflies to know he’s watching me, his displeased expression tempers my giddiness. I look down, checking to see if I accidentally dropped any of the pie filling on myself, only to find my outfit pristine. When I look up again, Mr. Fischer has angled his chair away, having returned his attention to the speaker, but his cheeks have a warm flush. As much as I wish it was due to me, I know better—it’s the three-piece sexy but stuffy suits he always wears to the office, even though we’re at the tail end of July.
Grant cups my elbow at the end of the meeting, giving me his signature smile. “Mind if I have another slice of your pie?”
I tip my head toward the empty pie dish. “Sorry, I’m fresh out.”
Grant mock groans, exaggerating a pout, and he sways closer, sliding his hand up further to squeeze my bicep. “What’s a man gotta do to get your delicious pie all to himself?” He deepens his voice when he says, “Drop to his knees and beg?”
I laugh awkwardly, leaning away. It’s too bad for him—and definitely for my mom, who would push me to reciprocate—that there’s only one man I’d want on his knees before me, and it’s definitely not him.
Grant opens his mouth but is abruptly cut off when someone knocks into him from behind, sending him tripping over his penny loafers to the side until he catches his balance.
“My apologies, Grant. I didn’t see you there.” Mr. Fischer couldn’t look more unapologetic if he tried, crossing his arms. He stands close in front of me, radiating heat and power. I fan my face with a hand, my fingers tingling with the desire to slide them around his waist and hug his side, imagining him draping his long arm over my shoulders, curling me further into him.
Grant’s features twist with annoyance, but he accepts the insincere apology without a word before heading out of the conference room. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Fischer leaves without a word or glance back, too.
Even though it’s not part of my duties, I help Barbara and another assistant, Kimora, clean up after the meeting, finding the discussion about finalizing the plans for the upcoming company barbecue being held at Mr. Fischer’s house this Saturday much more interesting than any spreadsheet Grant has for me. If I’d had my way, I would have gone to school for hospitality instead of finance, and I jump at the chance to volunteer.
Barbara beams. “How about you meet us around ten in the morning to get everything set up before the party starts?”
I stop just short of bouncing on my toes, excited at the prospect of getting to spend time alone with Mr. Fischer if I show up earlier than I’m supposed to. “Yes, I can do that. Is there anything you’d like me to bring?”
“How about bringing another one of your famous pies.” Barbara drifts closer with a twinkle in her eye, dropping her chin to say in a low voice, “Sherman’s favorite is cherry with extra whipped cream.” She leaves with a wink.
Internally, I cringe at the idea that my infatuation—obsession, really—is so obvious, but I’m also thrilled to finally have the insider information I need to help me reel in Mr. Fischer. All he has to do is take one bite of my cherries and cream, and I’ll have him hooked.
Chapter 3
Sherman
That pie.
That blouse.
That little tongue.
That dollop of cream.
After watching Miranda lick her spoon clean during the meeting, there was no way I was going to be able to resist masturbating as soon as I could shut myself in my office. I shove my tie in my mouth, biting down on it to muffle my voice when I moan, “Oh, angel, yes!” My cock swells thicker as I stroke it beneath my desk, sweat breaking out on my temples the closer I get to cumming.
I spit my tie out a half second before the door swings open, horrified that I forgot to lock it. The angel in question shuffles inside with a stack of documents for me to sign, her cheeks pink.
“Miranda!” I squeeze my shaft so tight that my eyes cross to keep from cumming.
“Yes, sir?”
“You can’t come into my office without knocking,” I grumble, straightening my tie, wondering if she’s noticed how wrinkled and wet it is. “And I’ve told you repeatedly to call me ‘Sherman’.”
