CALLIE (The Naughty Ones Book 1) Read online

  He grinned. “We are now.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “The company’s looking at properties in France — just like you told your mother, and just like I explained to my father,” he said. “I got to thinking about it, and I realized that I really did want to expand our brand abroad more. Most of our locations are here, stateside, or back in London. Paris makes sense.”

  I gulped. “Are you seriously telling me right now that you’re planning on buying properties just because of one of my lies?”

  “It was a good lie,” he said, his grin not fading one bit. “Very forward thinking.”

  “You’re doing it to cover my tracks.”

  “I’m doing it because I want to do it,” he said. “And because I want you to come to Paris with me.”

  “Also to cover my tracks.”

  “No. Because Paris is the most romantic city in the entire world, and there’s no one else I’d want to spend time there with.”

  My heart did a funny flip-flop, and my stomach joined it the moment Peter leaned close to me and pushed a button on the table, flipping shut all of the blinds to the windows looking in on the conference room from the outer office. The light dimmed considerably, and then Peter’s cheek grazed mine, the stubble against my soft skin making me shiver.

  “Peter…”

  “Let’s celebrate,” he proposed, cutting me off abruptly, pushing me against the table before lifting me to perch me on its edge.

  “Wait…”

  I gasped as he pulled my knees apart and knelt on the floor, writhed as he hooked a finger in the crotch of my new silken panties, bit down on my tongue as he expertly inserted one finger into my very wet pussy, all the way up to the second knuckle.

  His grin took on a predatory tilt, and his eyes glinted at me in the dimness of the room.

  “What if…what if someone sees us?”

  “Can’t,” he said, licking his lips, drawing my panties down my thighs, over my knees, and off completely. “Blinds are closed.”

  “But what if someone walks in here?” It was so hard to speak. I was shaking, rattling the pens in their holders on the table.

  “Won’t,” he murmured, kissing the insides of my thighs. “They know I’m in here, and I’m never to be disturbed.”

  “Peter, we can’t.”

  He robbed me of all protest as he parted my labia with his tongue, lapping wetly at my clit before looking up at me, insolent.

  “Give me one good reason why.”

  “Because we’re in your office — in my new place of work. On my first day.” My chest was heaving, and I could feel my nipples harden inside of the lacy bra I’d bought to match the panties he’d divested me of. But I had to ignore it. This wasn’t right. I couldn’t do this and pretend to be a professional.

  “That’s not a good enough reason.” Then, he dipped his head between my legs, under my skirt, and ate me like he was a starving man. There was nothing I could do to stop him, torn in two over wanting him to stop and wanting him to never stop. He knew exactly what he was doing down there, and I had bite my own hand to keep from crying out when he brought me to swift and total orgasm, throwing my head back, sending a blueprint rattling to the floor.

  Peter stood up, licking his lips wickedly, and walked around the table to the door.

  “Familiarize yourself with the blueprints,” he suggested. “Think about what you like about your penthouse, what those properties could use to make people not want to leave them when they stay in them. And report back to me on it this afternoon.” He picked up the contract I’d signed, as well as the pen, and I quickly slid off the table as he raised the blinds once more, feeling breathless and weak and disheveled.

  He was already halfway across the office, and I was just bending down to pick up the blueprint my climax had knocked off the table, when I realized he’d taken my panties.

  Chapter 7

  That afternoon, after dealing with a hopelessly wet and musky crotch sans panties for whole hours, I glowered at Peter as I walked into his office, closing the door behind me.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Panties,” I said, holding my hand out. “Now.”

  “Are you sure you want me to give you your panties back, right here, where everyone can see?” he asked, smiling at me. “You’re very kinky.”

  “Lower the blinds,” I said at him, exasperated. “Then give them to me. I can smell myself, Peter.”

  His smile widened to that slightly manic grin, and he obliged. “I’d like to smell you.”

  I waved my hand at him exaggeratedly, and he gave me my panties back — but not before holding them to his nose and inhaling. I gaped soundlessly at him, wondering why that had sent a liquid shot of arousal straight to my crotch. I glanced behind me, my face hot, before slipping them on again and pulling down my skirt.

  “New dress code stipulation,” Peter said. “No panties in the office.”

  “Are you going to make everyone adhere to that?” I asked sarcastically.

  “No. Just you. I could do it, too, if you wanted. If you thought it was unfairly singling you out.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and made a move to walk away from him, but he lunged forward and captured my wrist.

  “Didn't you come in here for something?” he asked. “Something besides your panties?”

  “Do you really want to hear what I think about the Paris properties?” I asked skeptically.

  “Definitely.”

  I returned to the penthouse that night confused and aroused and angry. I’d done real work on my first day of my new job, offering an insight that Peter was convinced would make a successful marketing campaign and giving an outside perspective on what made a hotel successful in the context of that campaign. It was more than I’d expected to be doing as a secretary, but so was that hot moment in the conference room. It made me horny even now, thinking about it as I got undressed, making me even angrier.

  I went into the office the next day in pants, and in the most severe blouse I’d purchased, glaring at Peter’s obvious amusement as I went to my desk and began working down a list of tasks that had been laid out for me.

  “You can’t hide from me, Gemma,” he said at one point, drinking in the sight of me. “I know just what’s beneath those pants. How delicious it is.”

  I hated it and loved it at the same time, how greedy his gaze was, like I belonged to him. Hated it because, in a way, I did belong to him. I was his employee, and I was his charge. I was living in his hotel, free of charge, and spending his money. Loved it because it made me feel like I was wanted, made me fully accept my sexuality, made me explore things I didn’t even know I wanted.

  It made me feel desirable, and it made me feel dirty and used. I couldn’t separate it, couldn’t reconcile one feeling with the other. The days stretched into weeks, and I still couldn’t accept it, couldn’t tell him no, in no uncertain terms, that I would not have sex with him in the office. I looked forward to his games just as much as I dreaded them. I’d even started getting unbearably horny even on the elevator ride up to the floor, just thinking about what kinds of kinky tricks Peter would have in his repertoire that day.

  I walked into his office one early evening to deliver some copies of forms he’d requested earlier, and the flick of the blinds let me know we were about to play another of his games.

  “Come,” he said, and my legs carried me forward to him automatically, of their own accord. “This is a very nice skirt. Suits you very well. Only I noticed one thing.”

  His hand had crept up the back of it without me realizing it, and he squeezed my rump as if testing it for ripeness. “You’re wearing panties, and that's against company policy.”

  I flushed, loathing myself as I leaned into that rough massage. It felt so good. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Dole out a little punishment.”

  In a flash, I was laid out across his lap, my skirt up and my panties down, and he was thwacking
me with something hard and flat. I yelped several times until I bit my lip, well aware of Peter’s erection grinding into my lower stomach, of my own wetness probably ruining his trousers.

  What was this? Was I into corporal punishment? It was such a shock, such a strange affront to this entire twisted situation that I pushed myself up and off of him, backing away from him, furious even if I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  “What’s going on, Gemma?” Peter asked, cocking his head at me as if I were the crazy one. He was holding a long metal ruler, and my rear still sang with the sting of it.

  “I have no idea,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “You tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’re two consenting adults,” he reasoned. “I think you know what this is. Haven’t you ever heard of spanking in a sexual sense?”

  “Of course I have,” my face coloring. “I’m just curious as to why we’re doing it in your office. You haven’t even visited me in the penthouse since I moved in. We haven’t gone on dates. I show up to work every day, and we have raunchy playtime just feet away from other people.”

  “What’s so wrong with that?” he asked, and his genuine puzzlement made me even angrier.

  “I don’t want to be your little sex toy,” I hissed at him. “If that’s what you think I signed on for when I accepted your job offer, then you are sorely mistaken.”

  Peter gave me a funny look, a flash of those too-blue eyes. “Gemma…didn’t you read the contract at all?”

  I frowned at him. “Well, I…sort of.”

  He blew out his breath at me, exasperated, and stalked around the desk, his boner still prominently displayed in his trousers. I had no idea what he was looking for as he rooted around in a cabinet until he yanked out a hanging file folder, ripped it open, and practically slung a stapled sheaf of papers at me that I caught awkwardly against the front of my unbuttoned blazer.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “It’s your ruddy contract, Gem,” Peter spat. I’d never seen him so angry, his face reddening, his blue eyes blazing, that erection going nowhere soon. “Why don’t you read the damn thing that you signed?”

  I held uncomfortable eye contact with him for just a few seconds too long before examining the wrinkled document. I couldn’t recall even the opening phrases on the first page from the day I’d signed it, excited to finally leave my old life behind me, to embrace the reality I’d been imagining for myself for a whole year. So what if I’d signed it without reading it? It wasn’t as if it were a contract for my soul.

  I could hear Peter’s angry breathing as I carefully read each sentence, my frown deepening as I turned the page.

  “The undersigned will not disclose anything witnessed while working in the office or working in the capacity of the office outside of the premises,” it read. That was a little creepy, but maybe it made sense. There was no way I’d be tempted to run my mouth about company secrets that might leak back to the competition. I was sure loads of offices had very similar nondisclosure agreements in place to keep just this kind of thing from happening.

  But as I read on, my horror grew and grew.

  “The undersigned understands that she is entering into a contracted sexual agreement with Peter Bly, and that no details of this agreement may be revealed at any time under threat of lawsuit and subsequent termination,” the contract continued. “The undersigned will complete any and all sexual tasks suggested or demanded by Peter Bly, including but not limited to spanking, sexual encounters inside and out of the office, oral sex during conference calls, forgoing panties, and any other requests from Peter Bly. This contract stipulates that the undersigned must comply in any and all forms of request by Peter Bly. Failure to comply may result in termination of the undersigned’s position with the company and/or her relationship with Peter Bly.”

  The papers fluttered to the floor, and I panted in absolute panic.

  I had signed my soul away after all, failing to read Peter’s twisted contract.

  I’d signed myself up to be a sex worker.

  Chapter 8

  “Gemma! You’re not a sex worker! Would you stop?”

  But that was after I’d shoved Peter’s office door open and stormed away, dozens of coworkers gaping at me as I stomped across the floor in the shoes that his credit card had bought me. I wondered how many of the women in there had signed the same contract I had, the one stipulating all the different types of sexual acts Peter was entitled to while on the job. It disgusted me.

  I should’ve known better. I should’ve known this entire thing was too good to be true. A virtual stranger set me up inside a penthouse, enabled me to buy all the clothes I could ever want or need, and I assumed there weren’t any unwanted strings attached.

  Because, let’s face it. Peter was great at sex — a savant, even — and we’d had some incredible trysts over the past few weeks.

  I just hated the idea that he’d hired me to work for his company for the sole purpose of being able to bend me over his desk at any moment he pleased. It pricked my ego, made me wish I’d never given up my shoebox apartment for a shot at my dreams.

  My dreams came with a sex worker contract. As horrible as that old apartment had been, at least it had been mine, earned and paid for through hard, honest work.

  If I’d thought turning tricks was a viable solution for my money problems, I would’ve done it far before right now.

  I made it to the elevator and across the lobby of the Bly Group building and pushed through the revolving door, before I realized Peter wasn’t even running after me. It was a testament to just how twisted up I was about this whole situation that I was actually even angrier that he hadn’t made an effort to come convince me I was wrong.

  It just proved me right. I had signed up to be his office sex toy. I was just too eager and too excited to start a real job in a real office to read the fine print. I was only there for his amusement. He probably had many more “secretaries” who were there only for the purpose of pleasing him throughout the day. That’s why he hadn’t come after me. His company owned many hotels in the city. I would’ve bet good money — his money, not mine — that he had a trollop set up in the penthouse suite in all of them.

  Not wanting anything to do with the chauffeured car Peter had set me up with, I marched down the sidewalk for as long as my sky-high heels would allow me to do so, then slipped them off and continued my angry walk barefooted. I’d gone to college. I had my degree. Why was I still so stupid? Hadn’t I learned anything about the way the world worked during my four years there? There was only one thing I could do now. I would have to admit my failure and go crawling back home to my mother.

  She would not be thrilled.

  She was busy preparing to get married — her second one, sure, but one she was much more excited over, one that would surely be happier than the first — and I would be slouching around, watching daytime television and eating ice cream out of the container. I could envision it now. By the time she did finally get around to walking down the aisle with Frank, I’d be blown up to the size of a zeppelin, bulging out of whatever heinous dress she picked out for me. Frank would probably choose his son, Peter, to be his best man, and as Peter walked me down the aisle to our places at the altar, he’d whisper to me that he was glad I’d stormed out of his office and out of his life. I was a wretched thing who would never amount to anything.

  I found myself panting, with blistered and filthy feet, at the entrance to the hotel where I was supposed to be staying, but I couldn’t get myself to go in. It had never truly felt like him. It had felt like some kind of fantasy I was living in, being in love — or lust — with Peter and embracing the lifestyle of being in a relationship with a billionaire.

  Now, even the hotel felt hostile, and I realized I didn’t have anywhere else to go. The penthouse held all my belongings, but it wasn’t home. I didn’t even know what it was that Peter and I had shared. It sure as hell wasn’t a relationship. People who loved each other
didn’t sign contracts with sex rules.

  I guessed I was just stupid in life and love. I couldn’t get a good job, even with my degree, and I couldn’t get a good guy without there being some horrible monster lurking in the closet. Peter’s monster was that he demanded to have control of me — control over where I lived, what I wore, what I ate, what I spent, and what I did at work.

  I’d fallen into a hideously silly trap, and it had been all my fault for not recognizing the poison in its sweetness.

  I couldn’t linger on the sidewalk forever, my feet blackened by the grime of New York City underfoot, bellhops giving me sidelong glances whenever they thought I wasn’t looking. All I wanted to do was wash my feet, climb into bed, and forget about all of this. Maybe, when I woke up, I’d figure some things out. Maybe things would make more sense then.

  The marble floor in the lobby was cool under my feet, and I held my head up high, pretending I didn’t see the curious stares of people staying there and staff members alike. I was dressed in labels many people couldn’t afford, and yet I looked like I’d been through the wringer. The irony wasn’t lost on me, either, everyone. I’d finally figured out that I was a kept woman, one plied with money and finery for the assurance that she’d give it up whenever sex was demanded of her.

  I made it up to the penthouse in a mercifully empty elevator and slunk inside, tossing my shoes on the rug and cracking open a beer from the refrigerator to take with me into the shower before I noticed that I wasn’t alone, after all.

  “Can we talk about this, Gemma?” Peter sat on one of the couches in the sitting room, the golden afternoon light illuminating him nicely. His blue eyes were even more stunning in this light, his blond hair ethereal. He was so effortlessly handsome that it took my breath away for the briefest of moments before I shook my head. I was so angry that I didn’t even care how he’d gotten into the penthouse in the first place. I knew how he beat me here, though. I’d been avoiding glass and pebbles and trash, padding barefoot from the office to the hotel. There wasn’t any secret in that.