His Under Contract

“Here I thought I wouldn’t hear from you again. I’m glad you called.” Her arms wind around my neck as we step into the elevator.

“What can I say? You’re a gifted woman. I’ve thought about your mouth around my cock often.” I haven’t really, maybe once or twice since I fucked her almost three weeks ago.

“Well, I already had something pretty gifted to work with. I love how thick you are when we fuck, although it wasn’t easy to suck your cock—as long and as thick as you are. I’m up for another challenge, though.” Her hand is on my flaccid cock.

This isn’t happening, only it is. All I can think of is her ribcage pressing against me. Her breasts, think of those breasts, runs through my mind as I follow her out of the elevator. I even reach up to cup them as I press behind her while she unlocks the door to her condo, only it’s not enough. Her body isn’t soft, sinking into mine. My cock refuses to rise.

Still, I allow her to take my hand and lead me into her bedroom. She drops my hand then slips the barely existent dress off her body. My eyes go to her uncovered breasts, they are just like I remembered, but I can’t ignore the rest of her body. Fuck! All I can see is Holly Messina looking ripe, sensually lush, and inviting. Great, now my cock is hard.

Robin goes down on her knees as she frees my cock. Her mouth is on

me, only my cock doesn’t get harder. Looking down all I see is fake platinum hair around an oval face perfected through surgery and injections. Closing my eyes, I give up. “I’m sorry, Robin, I am. I’ve been under a lot of pressure with this case. I thought you could help, but it’s too big for even your wonderful mouth.”

I zip up my pants, ignoring her astonishment. I’m sure no one has told her she didn’t turn them on. “Ethan, I can keep trying. I don’t mind at all, really.”

“Again, I’m sorry Robin. I’ll call you.”

Down in the car, I’m getting strange looks from Ricky, I ignore them. This is a temporary setback. I do not want Holly Messina, she isn’t my type. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I’m no longer the juvenile delinquent vagrant, living off the streets. Now that I’m the success my father told me I never would be, I want all the things that come with it. I want the sought after cars, the perfect condo, I want a woman every man longs for and that isn’t Holly.

She is pretty, with her heart shaped face, wide sherry-brown eyes, and pert little nose over a wide kissable mouth. A dozen guys out of twenty would want her. Only, she isn’t cover girl gorgeous, leaving men panting in her wake. The women in my past have been on the covers of magazines, or at least in the pages of the latest high-priced lingerie catalog. I don’t want to want Holly Messina. There’s also the fact when she becomes my employee tomorrow, she becomes off limits, employees are always off limits.

So what if my cock wants her right now? That’s right now. It wouldn’t last long, my cock doesn’t want any woman for long.

Chapter Five

When my alarm goes off at five o’clock in the morning I fight the urge to cry. I’m not a morning person, at all. I dress quickly, thankful Cora stated casual dress was fine, no uniform or anything. I’m in worn-out jeans that cling, however the long purple top goes to mid-thigh, hiding my most embarrassing areas. In the bathroom, I brush my hair then braid it tight and sleek. My hair, at an inch past my shoulders, is too heavy for a ponytail, yet too long for me to leave loose. I’ve tried shorter cuts but I haven’t found anything I liked enough to keep up.

I in the mirror I see it, my mother looking back at me. Closing my eyes, I call myself an idiot. It wasn’t fair to her that I hated the way she was so subservient to my father. She liked her life the way it was, wouldn’t know what to do without my father. If she was happy, then I needed to be okay with it. The thing is I don’t really look like my mother, a member of the Blackfoot tribe, I’m definitely a blend of my parents. My father is a walking, talking, ad for a Nordic god. It’s our eyes that are mirrors of the others. Shaking off my troubled thoughts I focus on getting ready. After brushing my teeth I apply moisturizer, I don’t do makeup. Finished, I head for the El that will take me from my Wrigleyville neighborhood to Ethan, in the Gold Coast, in the Watertower building.

When I go in, they remember me from Amelia’s introduction yesterday, and give me a key and swipe card for the elevators that Ethan left for me. I go up to the fifty-fourth floor, once again awed by how far up the massive condo is. Letting myself in, I check my watch to see it’s one minute until six. No lights are on and none are needed with brilliant sunshine streaming in through the floor to ceiling glass windows. With a longing look to take in the beautiful view of the lake, I head to the kitchen.

This condo is gorgeous, at almost three thousand square feet it’s nicer and bigger than any house I’ve ever been in. Rich dark hardwoods run throughout, with thick plush carpets to break up the spaces. His office is insane with silky, soft leather on two walls and the others filled with books and a freaking Picasso painting. Whoever had decorated, liked marble, a lot. The kitchen counters are in marble, as is the backsplash—there are matching marble countertops in the bathrooms as well. I remember Cora’s words of annoyance, they were a bitch to keep clean.

Per Cora’s instructions, I take the bottle of water out of the refrigerator and let it sit while I turn on the burner for the silver pot that will make Ethan’s morning espresso. I was surprised there wasn’t a massive gleaming machine for it, but Cora said Ethan preferred the pot, as the simplest way tasted the best. He was also a bear without it in the morning. With that thought in mind, I make sure I follow her instructions to the letter. I measure in exactly one and a half scoops of the coffee beans into a shimmering small, stainless steel food processor. Once I’m done grinding, I pour them into the tiny silver basket. The water is filled to below the hole on the pot. I attach everything and set the timer on the stove, a massive six burner in gas that looked like something out of a restaurant.

Finished cleaning out the food processor, I go to the walk-in pantry that’s the size of my bedroom, and grab the organic peanuts, raw honey, along with the fresh wheat bread bought every week at Whole Foods. Back at the counter, I pour in the peanuts up to the 1-cup line, grinding them again, and again, until they are fine. Then I add one teaspoon of honey to the mixture and buzz them again. The timer goes off, I cut the temp by half on the silver pot, then drop the slices of bread into the toaster. Coffee done, I move the silver pot off the burner, putting it on a cold burner.

Reaching into the cabinet, I pull out a small plate and cup for his coffee. The toast pops up. Holy freaking crap! It’s burnt. Not a little burnt I can scrape off, it’s charcoal. Fuck! I adjust it to where Cora said he preferred it then drop in another two pieces of bread. Damn it, Cora had warned me the toast setting was often moved by the cleaners who came in. I pour the coffee from the silver pot into one of the pretty pieces of china he preferred.

“Your first day and you have me working out on an empty stomach. Yesterday you said anyone with a below average IQ could manage this. What is your IQ?”

“Coffee?” I offer weakly. Holy shit, he’s panty-meltingly hot in a plain white shirt stretched to its limits by his muscular chest. Does he have tattoos? Tattoos are not a turn on, holy fuck... they are. Terrified I’m starting to drool, I drop my eyes to a spot on the floor in front of him.

His answer is a death glare.

“I don’t understand the big deal. The toast will be done in a minute. It usually takes you fifteen minutes to finish your coffee and toast.” I’m talking to his pure white shoes, refusing to look up.

“If you know that, then you know I expect the toast and coffee to be waiting for me. I have a schedule and I stick to it. You need to as well, if you want to keep your job.” He slams out of the condo.

The second he’s gone the toast pops up. I wilt onto the counter, squeezing my eyes shut against the picture of him which is ingrained onto the back of my eyelids. Stop it, Holly, get it together. Remember, he’s an asshole. A massive asshole who just threatened to fire you. The moment of weakness disappears immediately. Fuck, only the first day and I’m already threatened with being fired. Why does everything have to be so perfect with him?

My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t had breakfast. I say fuckit and sit down to eat what’s already been made. The toast is good with the homemade peanut butter. I’ve never had coffee, espresso, whatever, made this way before. After a lot of sugar and half-and-half, it’s perfect. Finished, I clean up and begin making his actual breakfast.

I make the protein shake he has on the way to work first, then put it away in the fridge. After I wipe down the kitchen, I set out the pan for the poached eggs. His breakfast is a version of eggs hollandaise without the hollandaise or ham. The base is a toasted and buttered English muffin with smoked salmon, fresh leaves of spinach, topped with a poached egg. I get out all the ingredients, thankful I really only have to cook the poached eggs and English muffin.

Considering I’ve never poached an egg before, I start a few minutes early. It’s a good thing I do. I screw up the first egg, there hadn’t been enough vinegar in the water. When he comes in without saying a word, he goes down the hall to shower and get dressed. I start the coffee all over again.

I’m setting everything down on the table when he comes into the dining room. The Tribune is on the left, the Wall Street Journal on the right. His only acknowledgement of me is a nod. Swallowing the urge to bow and call him sir, I haul ass back to the kitchen.