Page 6 of Handling the CEO

“I thought you were supposed to be taught how to makeropa viejafor the millionth time. Or was it how to cut an onion?” I tease her.

“Ha ha—it’s not like you know how to do either DJ,” the bitch counters. “Seriously now, you seem a bit lost. Do you want to talk about it with the sibling with a vagina?”

That makes me smile—she is two years older than me and has a kid, but somehow has the dirtiest mouth on her, but I always loved having my big sister to talk sex and boyfriends with. This is a big part of me wanting to come back to Florida after my divorce. Sundays like this, when Marcus makes fun of me,mamácooks and mumbles and Laura wants to take care of us. She—damned wise older sister—has a point, though; I need to talk about it with someone, and at least here, far from the kitchen, my mom can’t listen in.

“Oh vagina-sister, I may or may not have mm… how to say this… have had a one-lunch-stand in Marcus’s shop.” I put my head in my hands in mock despair as my kin starts giggling loudly.

“So? Besides the obvious ‘eww I will not be sitting on his counter ever again’, it’s not really uncommon for you to find yourself a man to pass the time with. Especially now, you need to find distractions wherever you can. But again… please tell me you cleaned the counter?”

“Relax—the counter is pretty safe—though my ‘lunch’ was staring at it a bit weirdly, come to think about it. The fitting room wall, however, may have an imprint of my ass,” I continue sheepishly as Laura grins at me.

“Hi5 sis!”—with actual high five. “That sounds awesome! I still do not understand why you’re out here moping. Unless... shit—you liked him?” she gasps, her eyes wide open.

I take a big swig of my mojito and look out into the distance.

“I did not! We literally had a ten-minute conversation, then I jumped his bones. By ‘conversation’, I mean bickering with the entitled jerk who couldn’t wait for one entire minute until I emailed my accountant before being all demanding that I find him a shirt! Perhaps he was a bit funny. OK, he was very funny and, in my opinion, he thought I was pretty funny as well. And hot—Lau, he was so hot…”

“I see… so a customer demanded service, and you… serviced him?” I roll my eyes at her, and she pinches my side. “So, are you going to go find him or what? He seems to have given you some visual and verbal gratification on top of a good dickin’. By the way—who was on top?” She snickers at me but then changes her tune. “You know I appreciate a good hump-and-dump as much as any other girl, but what’s the harm in seeing if there is something more there? I know you, and you wouldn’t be thinking about him if it was just a cock-du-jour.”

“I don’t know Laura… I am not sure if it was insta-lust or what. And with all the stuff going on, I think I’d be mad to go trying to find a guy now.”

“OK, how about this—you go have your meeting tomorrow, fleece them for all its worth, then let’s get very, very, very drunk! Then maybe you can delve illegally into Marcus’s accounts and find your man’s details and call him for some more bickering!” She gets up and pulls me with her, dragging me back to the house just as her son Javi starts yelling for her.

“Jeez, I think I am on board with the drinking. You look like you need it too. But I think I’ll leave the hacking for another day. I am so glad both my siblings believe we should just break a few laws so easily.”

“Well, lil D, anything for you. You know that right? You want us to find you a tall handsome shopper, we will bring him to you… naked and oiled up, of course.”

Before I throttle her, my mom catches us both being idle, so we get corralled into lunch prep again, but an image of an oiled, tanned, annoying man sneaks into my mind and puts down roots. Next to the image of that darn dimple when he laughs at my insults.

Jon

Darksilkylocks,browneyes staring at me as I feed my throbbing shaft to those soft lips and she gags on me, but I keep pumping her mouth, harder and harder. I imagine grabbing her hair as I hold her, using her as she fingers herself while taking all my length.

I fist my dick more and more in the shower, envisioning that impertinent brunette as I have been doing all week, as forgetting her seems impossible. My hand moves faster and faster and I come all over my tiles as I visualize erupting down her throat, cum leaking out of a corner of her mouth when I am spent.

“Fuck!” I yell with my release.

As I dress slowly as I button up my white shirt to go with my black two-piece Brioni suit, I think of her again. Not just that ass I didn’t get a chance to fuck, but her brazenness and intensity, which call to me like a siren song. I imagine how I will take her next, either hard and fast or painfully slow, until she begs for me. That thought appeals to me most, seeing her moaning my name, wanting me to fill her up but me not giving in to her ask, just having her wanton and needy for my cock.

Though mostly I think more about asking her what is her real job? What does she do for fun besides grilling customers?

I realize that after work today I will call that tailor myself for a new suit, and definitely for his last name. At this point, I would actually uncomplicate my life if I were to find her, as at least I would stop obsessing and get some work done. Perhaps seeing her again would stop my brain from going into overdrive when I see how obnoxious she is in the real world. Maybe she is boring, and only talks about knitting. Or maybe she doesn’t return her shopping cart or a million other things which would drive me insane.

My morning routine is simple. I already ran 5k before the shower, and a quick breakfast and coffee set me for the day, as I sit at my kitchen island, enjoying the soft light through the folding glass doors. My house is not huge, just a couple of bedrooms and a study upstairs and a semi-open plan downstairs, and my favorite place, the deck off the kitchen where I usually spend my evenings reading. I don’t need a lot of space, and I abhor the thought of living in a soulless condo. Or worse, a Florida-style white modern house with more glass than necessary. Nothing inside my home screams CEO. I enjoy the warm feel of my cream couches or my white and gray kitchen. Or the navy tones in my bedroom, which are more about comfort and a good night’s sleep than fancy designs.

My driver awaits in front of the townhouse in my Range Rover for my ride to work. Which saves me time as I check my emails and field answers on the loss of the tire supplier last week the press just got word of. The hell with Miranda Lexington from LexAviation, undercutting me with my oldest supplier. We need tires to get our planes delivered. Every day our stocks are getting lower, so the deal with a new distributor is critical. I clench my phone, thinking this programmer better be as good as Mike says, as I definitely need a win to push in that bitch’s face.

Anya is nowhere near her desk as I arrive at work, so I see myself to coffee and sit in front of my computer screens, dialing into a call with some of our Asian suppliers. Time flies as I counter their offers and poke holes at their manicured progress reports as they try to hide their errors behind pretty fonts and pictures. Luckily, I have been in the aerospace industry for a while and can read through their bullshit. Damn right you will ‘take it away’ and fix it.

“Umm sir,” Anya calls from outside my office, “Mrs. Jones wants to let you know that as you weren’t in at 9, she is waiting in her office with Ms. Jara.”

“What? Wasn’t that tomorrow?” I realize it’s almost ten and if the interview was scheduled for 9, I will look like a massive jerk. “Why didn’t you greet her? Or better yet, tell me before now?”

“Umm sir, I didn’t appreciate she was your interview sir, it just said ‘meeting Jara’ in the calendar, and I assumed you would be in conference room 2. I was getting copies of the end-of-quarter report for the Finance team meeting at 1.”

“Conference room 2? I doubt that very much. That Finance session is hours away, you should staff your desk,” I mumble as I check my calendar. It was indeed on the agenda for Monday not Tuesday—don’t know why I thought it was tomorrow—and it didn’t actually specify a place. That’s it, Anya is out the door. Again, I got no phone notifications for the interview either.

I jog down the corridor towards Mike’s office, but I slow down as a pair of red-soled black stilettos are visible through her office door. They continue with some sculpted calves and—from what I can see under the frosted pane—a burned-orange dress hem.

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