Bossed by the Billionaire
: Part 1 – Chapter 1

Part 1 – Ordered by the Billionaire

The cold, smooth touch of his watch on my inner thigh sends chills up and down my spine, like a train daring to run off the rails. Lightning strikes me, raising goosebumps on my breasts and hardening my nipples. I can’t see him. Yet knowing he is there, fingers deep inside of me, pleasing me, sends me into a rhythm that makes my heart beat harder than the raindrops hitting the glass outside.

“Open your legs,” he orders, tone making me wetter.

“Sir,” I groan, slowly doing as told. It’s so difficult. My legs are trembling from the pleasure about to be unleashed.

I’ve never been touched like this before.

If I open my legs, I’m sure my life will change forever. Even with how hot my boss makes me, I’m scared to charge into the unknown like this. I’ve had no forewarning. No sweet dates leading up to this moment. I don’t know what to expect – besides my life changing.

Am I ready?

Chapter 1 – Alyssa

Finally. The weekend. No classes. No intern errands that make my calves swell in muscular size but break my ankles in the heels I force myself to wear every time I enter the offices of Bradley & Marcus. No late dinners of leftover Chinese and cold pizza my roommate’s left out for two days straight. It might only be Friday evening, but as far as I’m concerned, this is when the weekend truly begins.

I may be twenty-one, but the amount of responsibility foisted upon me weighs so heavily on my shoulders. More so than my bra straps when I’m stuck at a desk all day. Not like I have a damn choice, though. Education is too important to slack off on, and “job experience” is a must, even though what constitutes it is a joke. If it weren’t for the loans that will fuck my ass a few years FROM now, I wouldn’t even be able to go to school. It’s the Catch-22 from hell. How did my parents pay for their college educations with nothing but part time jobs back in the ‘80s? It’s so unfair!

“Calm the fuck down, girl,” I say, stepping out of the shower. “Gotta relax. The world’s problems will have to wait for you to get your shit together this weekend. Maybe lose your virginity, hm? Ever think about that?”

The sun is setting, and the view outside my small studio is amazing. A pink and orange hued sky, something you rarely get to see this time of year in Portland. Usually the skies are a dreary shade of gray that depresses you until you’re diving inside for the rest of the season. This past winter has been especially harsh. At first I loved the snow. Then it refused to go away, and a city that couldn’t handle it to save everyone’s life completely shut down. I was going to miss those measly paychecks from my shitty job.

Too much drama hanging above my head. Ex-roommate trying to take me to small claims court over unpaid electric bills at the last place we lived. Mother hounding my ass about “networking,” because my college classes and my prestigious internship aren’t enough. Dad blowing up my phone because he wants me to show his niece around the city – a niece I love as much as a nice corn on my toe. And my bosses! Oh, both halves of Bradley and Marcus are pieces of work. Pieces of sexy, hot work, mind you, but that barely lets them get away with all the demands they put on their lowly interns.

I walk into the main room of my studio and gaze longingly at my bed. Maybe I should go to sleep early tonight. Pop on some Netflix and chill with myself. Speaking of which, I got some mail today. Something I’ve been waiting a long time for.

The package holds no damning information on the labels, but even so, I have turned it upside down and thrown my scarf on top of it. I don’t live with anyone else anymore. Nobody has the key to my place, so what am I trying to hide? My own embarrassment? Should I really be so embarrassed to have purchased a sex toy off the internet earlier this week?

As my hair dries on the towel wrapped around my shoulders, I grab a knife from my efficiency kitchen and slice open the packing tape. I already know what is inside, but my heart still quickens when I see the picture on the front of the box.

I have to replace some humor in this moment. I’ll hate myself later if I don’t!

“My first real dildo. I really have grown up!” I pop open the top and pull out the plastic packaging. Uh…

Wow.

Maybe I should have bought a smaller one? Because I’m not sure my poor body can take this hefty shit dropping into my hand.

Apparently, my eyes had been bigger than my pussy when I went shopping the other night. What can I say? I spent an hour in the bath thinking about one of my hot bosses. Wouldn’t it be nice if a guy like that asked me out, wined and dined me, and then made sweet, thrilling love to me? I’ve never had something like that before. I’ve barely been on real dates before. Never done intercourse, although I’ve been eager to try it. Except do you know what dating is like in this city? A girl can only take so many hipster beards and manbuns before she runs away screaming. Or, in my case, runs to the internet to buy a sizable dildo to make up for the lack of a love life.

Imagine me curled up in bed with popcorn, a homemade gin and tonic, and a webpage opened to some of the raunchiest sex toys you’ve ever seen. Until now, my masturbatory expeditions have only included my hand or the occasional makeshift cock. Like a nice hairbrush handle I bought solely to use as a fake cock, because yours truly was so embarrassed to buy a real dildo. Until now.

(That hairbrush is about to be retired into the trash.)

Apparently, however, my imagination had been too kinky to be realistic. Guess I thought that if I was buying a new dildo then I should make it worth it. This will be the closest I get to losing my virginity in a while, probably. You know, if we don’t count that lackluster fiddling and oral with my ex-boyfriends… which I guess technically count, but I’d rather forget.

No, what I want is the feeling of being filled up. Overpowered. Taken. Too bad this dildo can’t do other things. Only a real man can touch me, spank me, nibble on my ear and come so hard that I’m shuddering for a week.

Look at me, giggling like I’m twelve and discovering an old Harlequin for the first time.

Too bad I’m only twenty-one. A real man wouldn’t date someone my age. Not unless he’s a total creep looking for his next mark to manipulate. I’m conventionally attractive enough that I’ve had gross old guys hitting on me since before puberty. I’ve seen my young friends get mixed up with men who made them feel sooooo mature, only to be the least mature guys on the planet. (Guess what! There’s a reason no women their age date them!)

None of that matters right now, anyway. I’ve got a huge cock to play with, and it won’t treat me like a kid or a quick lay meant to be forgotten by lunch the next day. Complimentary lube is in the box, thank goodness. I had forgotten to get some when I was in my lust-induced haze the other night after work.

What had me so worked up? Well, I work in an office full of hot guys in suits…

The temperature is good for me to think about those gorgeous guys. The bed is so comfortable beneath the weight of my body. All I have to do now is breathe and brace myself.

And think of really, really hot moments I’m probably never going to have in real life. That’s why they’re called fantasies, right?

My pajama shorts are on the floor. My legs are spread. Images of my bosses are in my head, but I’m not scandalous enough to fantasize about them both. I need to pick one. That way there’s at least one guy who doesn’t make me want to die of embarrassment when I see him.

Preston Bradley? Or Julian Marcus?

Oh, like there’s a choice! They’re different kinds of hot, and one definitely does it for me more than the other.

Julian. Mr. Marcus. The more standoffish, colder of the two is more likely to bite my head off than slather on the positive reinforcements. He’s in charge of the numbers at work, and me? I work on the numbers that eventually pass his huge desk in his corner office. More than once he’s held my work up in front of the class (excuse me, staff meeting) and talked about how we need to follow better protocols, cause the work is shit. The man needs a Xanax, but damn is he fine in his bespoke suits and dangerously silky ties. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about straightening his tie for him? Walk up and play with it while talking to him? He’d probably put me in a headlock, but it would be good while it lasted!

In my fantasies, Julian Marcus channels that attitude into the bedroom, where he fucks me raw and makes me feel like the dirtiest girl in a city full of dirty girls.

The head of the dildo teases my slit. I’m already wet from thoughts of Mr. Marcus. Doesn’t take much for the crown to press into me. Bit by bit… ah, shit! This is good!

No, I did not tell my phone to ring. With a ringtone that tells me it’s work related.

Who the hell is calling me on a Friday night? Damnit. With the dildo still halfway inside me, I reach over and grab my phone. I answer it without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello? Who is this?” Can this person feel my ire on the other side of the line? ‘Cause they interrupted something pretty important and can put up with my sass.

A pause. I swear to God, if this is a wrong number or someone using a work number to mask a sales pitch…

“This is Julian Marcus.”

Oh, shit.

Are you fucking kidding me right now?

Damn me and my short temper! This is the kind of shit that gets a girl fired right when the weekend is starting!

“Sir!” I jerk up, forgetting my pussy is stuffed with half a dildo. I clasp a moan of pleasure in my mouth. Am I… wetter? No way. Like Mr. Marcus’s voice can do this to me… it was a fantasy! Just a fantasy! Apparently, my fantasy has summoned this guy from the depths of his office to call me on a Friday night! “What is it?’

“I need a folder,” he says with his usual curt attitude. Authority oozes from the audible presence of Julian Marcus, a man worth millions upon millions and used to getting his way. He wasn’t one-half of one of Portland’s biggest corporations for no reason.

I wait for him to explain, but the irritation accompanying his tone is only making things worse. “Which folder?” I bring five of them home any given night. Sometimes I’m convinced I’m going to get ahead on my facts and figures, but I’m always fooling myself. Yeah, right. Not when I can watch my favorite TV shows, take baths, and fuck myself silly for hours on end.

My voice shakes more than I anticipate. You see, I rarely talk directly to Mr. Marcus. He’s more likely to send out a memo or use one of his direct underlings to approach me about one of my screw-ups. As for seeing him? Also more likely to see him in magazines or on billboards around town. We work only one floor apart, but the only time I go up his floor or he comes down to mine is when he needs to get a correction. Nobody likes the corrections… because then someone’s job is on the line, and it’s not his.

“Bring whatever ones you have. I’m told you’re the most likely candidate to have what I fucking need right now.” Shit, son! Do I wish he was talking about something else! “Get here now.” He hangs up before I can confirm I’ll do as he orders.

I stare at my phone in utter disbelief. Doesn’t help I’m still half-stuffed with a dildo. Fuck it. I pull it out and set it aside. Why is my body shuddering? Is it from the sensations of the dildo? Or from Mr. Marcus’s voice?

Anyway, there are folders I’m supposed to be looking for. Most of them are in my work bag, but I think I left one under a stack on my coffee table. Where the hell is it? I’m stumbling around my apartment in a total daze. This shit must be important if Mr. Marcus is directly calling an intern like me.

I scramble for everything I can replace, praying it’s what he’s looking for. After throwing my work clothes back on and fixing up my makeup – fuck it, I can fix it on the MAX. Also my luck that I don’t have a car. If I did, I could be there fifteen minutes faster. I really, really hope that my boss knows that I don’t have a car.

Talk about my world exploding. This is what it feels like, too, ever since Julian’s called me. A billionaire tycoon calling my cell phone. What the hell can go wrong?