Knocked Up by the C.E.O (Knocked Up)

I take a look around, seeing the beauty surrounding me—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park on one side, the other side in full swing of nightlife even on a Monday night. This city definitely knows how to party. If I were in my twenties, I’d be right down there in the thick of it, but now that I’m older, that’s not the case. I take in the immaculate marble flooring, the oversized couches with a streamlined appeal, cognac in color, giving them a classic look but not too polished. I’ve come along from my early twenties, literally living in my father’s basement while working my tail off to get the business I took over out of debt and churning money.

The ringing of the phone takes me out of my thoughts. No one calls the house line unless someone is here, and I know it won’t be my father. If he’s ever out and about at ten o’clock at night, it’ll shock me dead.

“Hello,” I answer the phone, knowing it’s the doorman downstairs.

“Hello, Mr. Maxwell, there’s a Miss. Thorne here to see you. She said it’s urgent and you weren’t answering your private line,” Alfred says. I’m a bit surprised Dylan would be here at this time of night, especially after all of the work I threw her way. A dick move by any means but also a test to see if she can hack staying on as my assistant.

“Thank you, Alfred, you can send her up,” I tell him.

“Very well. Have a good evening, Mr. Maxwell.” If it weren’t for him and how thorough he is, I probably would have never bought this place. The building being in the busiest part of town, it’s easy for people to come and go, use this place to come and go as they please. Alfred doesn’t allow that though. He barely let me in when I was waiting for my realtor when I first bought the penthouse here.

“You as well.” I hang up, place my glass on the counter. Who knows what this meeting will bring, but I’m sure it’ll need another couple of fingers of bourbon. I’m uncuffing the sleeves to my shirt when I hear the elevator ping, announcing Dylan’s arrival.

“Wow, it takes an act of God to get ahold of you.” Those are her first words to me, not hello, not any greeting. Yep, that mouth is going to get her in trouble with me, and hopefully, it happens soon. She’s changed out of her workplace attire. In its place is an oversized shirt hanging off of one shoulder, no bra strap showing, the cotton obscuring my view of if she has those luscious breast of hers in a bra or not, dark leggings, giving me even more of a glimpse than her tight skirt did earlier today.

“That’s because when I’m off the clock, I’m off the clock. What’s so important you had to track me down at this time of night?” I see her gaze is locked in on me, one hand rolling up the other shirt sleeve, her tongue sneaking out to lap at her upper lip.

“Oh, um. This report you asked for. There are major discrepancies on what you gave me and what I was going over from the last quarter.” She walks in, her sandals slapping against the floor as she takes out her laptop and paperwork, placing it on the table that’s set up next to the kitchen.

“Christ,” I breathe out, unsure if it’s over the fact that she’s finding errors left and right or if it’s the way Dylan is bent over, and my mind is definitely not on the business side of things. One thing is for certain, though: I’ll need another drink before I make my way towards the enticing temptress.

Five

Dylan

I can smell him before I can feel or see him. His scent of tobacco and a heady sense of whiskey permeates the air, and when Wesley places those big arms of his one each side of my body, it causes my breath to hitch and lock up tight, mainly because I can feel absolutely every nuance of him along my own, including his thick and heavy cock. My body arches into him, even though I shouldn’t, and when I hear, “Show me what you’ve found, Dylan,” along the slope of my neck, I’m not sure what I was thinking or doing. Numbers and words are the least of my concerns when all I really want is the most absolute forbidden thing. To turn around and let my boss do more than invade my space.

“The numbers. This is the profit and loss I gave you this morning. I compared it to the one accounting one sent over, like you asked.” Okay, more like he demanded, but it is what it is.

“Then what’s the problem?” His tone is sharp, almost as if he doesn’t believe me, and if that’s the case, I’ll be turning in my resignation. While I may only be an administrative assistant, I have a head for numbers, and let’s be honest, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to compare numbers.