I need to loosen my trench coat just a little bit to give him a peek down into my tits. That always works for men. Not much trouble getting them to say fuck it with protocol and let me in if I show some boob. He doesn’t care if I’m not on the list. I’ve smiled and flirted and I even touched his hand an extra second longer when I gave him my ID. But then I went back to ignoring him.
I’m sure subconsciously he’s thinking if he makes this fast for me he's going to have some kind of shot when I come downstairs. Maybe I’ll go back with him to his studio apartment in the Bronx and suck his dick.
Too bad I don’t leave Manhattan. Or suck loser dick.
And that’s just what he is. A fucking loser. Because two seconds later he does everything I told you he would. He hands me a temporary pass. “45th floor, Miss Roman,” he says to me and I nod sweetly. Let’s keep the hope alive. Without hope, we’re all dead anyways, right hun?
Oh, yeah, okay, fine. I’ll even shake my ass a bit side to side as I walk to the security turnstiles. Keep his stare for a bit longer.
The elevator ride takes seriously just under a minute. That’s because the elevator I get into serves only the first floor, and floors 40 to 50. I guess those investment and private equity bankers can’t wait, huh? They have to get to work at their desks screwing over the country as fast as they can.
I walk out of the elevators and enter the lobby of the 45th floor. This is the Private Client floor for Carter Jeffries—one department among dozens that operates as a company within a company.
The receptionist looks at me and smiles.
“Hi Brittney,” she says sweetly.
Bitch better be nice to me. She thinks I’m already fucking the big boss.
But no, not yet.
I smile back. “Is he in?” I ask.
She nods. “I think he’s on a conference call,” she says to me.
I shrug and keep walking toward Carl’s door. The fact that he’s busy doesn't stop me. That’s never going to stop me.
I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at me, hun. I don’t blame you. I’m not behaving like a good little girl. Good girls don’t act and say the things I’m doing and saying. But that’s because I’m not a normal girl.
What am I?
Oh, you're in for a treat.
Because I’m a bad girl.
I don’t mean like the bad boys you’re reading about on your Kindle. I’m not filled up with tribal tattoos. I don’t turn into a dragon. I’m not part of some underground MMA club. I don’t play football on the field, and fuck off the field. I’m not your Domme.
No, I’m much, much worse.
I’m a girl who knows exactly what men want. I can make them give it to me. And then keep giving it to me. I use ‘em and lose ‘em. I don’t get tied down.
I fuck. Yeah, so what? That’s about as far as their bodies go. Then I move on.
Women want to be me. Men want me. And I play it all to my benefit.
Don’t believe me?
Watch and see.
I open the door and walk in. Carl is on the phone but he looks up with a start. He sees me, and his eyes show a momentary flash of annoyance.
He’s the head of the Private Client group. Each day, his group on this floor does billions of dollars worth of business. He’s personally worth about $250 million dollars.
This is a man that is as alpha as you can find. He works out. Has a nice cock. Commands the respect of men under him. He got to his position by being dominant and taking charge.
Yeah, that means nothing to me. The fact that he’s upset means nothing to me.
Because the moment I close the door and undo the sash on my trench coat and stand in front of him with a smirk, his look of annoyance turns into desire.