Ashley Vs. Boss

The taxi thief.

The fuckable brunette.

The one I’m going to make clean the baseboards of the building with a toothbrush.

I instantly feel myself grow hard as she slips into the office and closes the door behind her quietly, her tits shoved up underneath her chin, her skirt hugging every curve she has, and I don’t know why she’s in my office, but I do know I need to get my cock under control.

Because the other option, the option that my cock is pushing for real hard? It’s to bend her over the desk and fuck her from behind.

And I’m not going to do that, I don’t care how much my cock begs me to.

I stare at her, and wait for her to speak.

3

Ashley

You heard when I said Wolf of New York, right?

Like, you were paying attention and remember that, right?

This guy is a major player in EVERYTHING.

He owns the Biltmore Hotel in Soho. The Susan Duran fashion line. I think he bought the football team, New York Nailers too.

I mean, you see him on newspapers. You see him on TV.

Duh, no wonder he seemed kinda familiar.

So, I’m like fucked. No, actually, I think I’m dying. Like, really dying. I’m thinking that my heart is gonna jump right out of my chest, it’s pounding so hard and I can’t breathe right and—

I straighten my back, which incidentally pushes out my chest, which can never hurt, right? And I push back my hair.

I can do this. I may die before I get everything out, but I can do this.

“IjustcametoapologizeforstealingyourcabthismorningandI’mreallysorryaboutit.”

Whoosh. Okay, so he may not have understood anything I just said, but I said it and so that’s what counts, right? I have a clean conscience now. I’m good to go. I can—

I start backing slowly toward the door, feeling for the knob with my hand outstretched. It has to be here somewh—

He’s striding toward me, long, distance-eating strides and he’s pissed as fuck and I’m searching more frantically now because goddammit, I need that doorknob like yesterday and then whack! Something goes tumbling to the floor and glass shards are everywhere and this really embarrassing high-pitched squeak comes out me. You know, like a chew toy for a dog? Oh yeah, I just did that.

Oh my god, I seriously want to die now.

He reaches me and instead of strangling me or picking me up and turning me over his knee to spank me—my panties instantly moisten at the thought, traitorous body—he grabs the doorknob and opens it.

There it is. Dammit. I’d been creeping down the wall, searching for it, and had moved the wrong damn direction.

“Someone, get me a dustpan and broom!” he barks out the door and then slams it shut. I look down at my feet, giant purple shards of glass everywhere, and I’m trying to find the least shard-strewn path out of my predicament when he barks, “Don’t move!”

I pause, one foot slightly raised in the air, like a runner in a photograph, and then I just stand there, unsure if I should put my foot down or continue to try to balance on one foot for the foreseeable future.

I bite my lower lip in hesitation, and a smirk crosses his face. He knows what I’m debating, and instead of telling me how to get out of this mess—literally—he decides to laugh at me.

All desire to apologize to him flees instantly. I mean sure, I stole his cab and then broke his precious purple vase—what guy owns a purple vase?—but him smirking at me?

Fuck him.