What They Don't Know (Won't Hurt Them Trilogy #1) (3 page)

“Whoa, are you okay?”
he asks.

“Yeah...Yes, I'm
fine. I should have been paying attention. I apol—”

“True, but I always
make sure the lady is okay, first.”

“Well, like I said, I
apologize,” I say, slightly irritated. “Chivalry is dead, I
guess,” I mumble walking away.

“It is if you don't
know what to do with it,” he says in his low and husky voice.

He did not just… ugh,
this day’s going to get better. Yep, better.

I order a special blend
of Swiss almond with two shots of vanilla and I'm good to go. The
wind is blowing into my light pea coat and sending a chill down my
spine. I let out a little yelp and try to shake the slight frost off
when I notice the idiot who strong-armed the door as I came in
standing against a high table outside the café staring at me. I
think to myself,
who in the hell
stands in 45-50 degree weather and drinks coffee?

He laughs and places
his coffee on the table and his expression turns serious quickly.

“What does that shake
look like when you're hot?”

I don’t respond
verbally. I shake my head as I get in my car, whip out of the space
in front of the café, and make a U-turn in the middle of Broadway.
I
can't believe that pervert. If I weren’t late,
he
would have gotten a tongue-lashing
.
Knowing
him, he probably would have liked it.
What
the heck? I don't know what this guy likes.
Bree,
get it together
.
You’re
late and still talking to yourself
.
Yeah,
but I have a great cup of joe.

* * *

Sitting at my desk, I
find I can't focus today. Usually, I'm more thorough with tasks. But
today, that ass of a man has my mind rattled. Why? My boss taps my
desk and gets my attention.

“Good morning,
sunshine, can you schedule a dinner date for me and the missus?”

“Oooh, special
occasion, boss?”

“No. Well, yeah,
keeping my ass out of the doghouse.”

“Whatcha do?” I
sigh.

“The usual. Brunch
with a beautiful client that turned into an early dinner. That may or
may not have turned into breakfast… I'm just saying.” He squints
and ducks his head.

“Boss!” He doesn't
let me call him boss often. Only when he asks me to perform unethical
tasks. No, nothing like that. We have a respectable employer/employee
relationship. I submit all of his financial records to Corporate, run
errands, and set up meetings from time to time, and he pays me well.
I mean, it's paying the bills and for the sweet Infiniti that's
parked in the underground parking.

Mr. Wilke is also known
as Mr. Jeff; if he weren’t my boss, I'd do him in a Hot Minneapolis
second. Mr. Wilke is the sole owner of Wilke and Foster Financial.
Mr. Foster, who was his wife's father, passed away three years ago
and left all company assets to Jeff. Mr. Wilke never removed Mr.
Foster’s name, said it was to pay homage to the Foster name.
Whatever, I have a job. THANK YOU, MR. FOSTER! My boss asks me to
pick up certain things for his not-so-secret secret meetings in
hotels. I set the suites up according to the items on his list.
Sometimes, I can't look at him the next day. Not because he's
married, but because the toys he has me staging for him would make
Milton Bradley blush in his grave. My boss is a freak, a kinky one at
that.

I was told he had an
affair with his previous assistant, and it ended badly. Bryant was my
informant and the person to thank for this job. Bryant’s father, my
dad, and Mr. Wilke are college friends. If I wanted to know anything
about the company, Bryant was the guy. Mr. Wilke’s wife didn't mind
the infidelity; but having flaunted in her face was a different
story. Bryant said the wife came here like a hurricane and ripped the
poor woman to shreds. A lawsuit was also rumored, but it was quickly
deadened with the talk of a pay-off. Mrs. Wilke is an attractive
woman. Nice set of legs and rack, all natural, except for her tan.
Her hair is bright red like her lips. Shit, if I rolled that way, I'd
do her. The two of them are like cover models, early-forties and
healthy. I don’t understand why their marriage is the way it is.
It's crazy, but it works for them.

Instead of decorating
the suite after work, I decide to pick up the items for Mr. Wilke's
kink night and head over to the hotel on my lunch break. I’m pretty
much done for the day, and so I can take my time to set up what he
wants.

“Wow, I knew Mrs.
Wilke was feisty; but damn, this is kind of intimidating,” I say as
I hold up the swing contraption.

How in the hell am I
going to get this up there? I’m so relieved this hotel receives
large donations from the Wilkes. Mr. Wilke and I make sure things are
kept very discreet. Since I usually show up at the hotel with my
collar turned up and big sunglasses, the hotel concierge never asks
questions or sees my face. They know who I am. The curious people
checking in and out of the hotel are the ones who wonder.

As I leave the hotel, a
small part of me wants to know what goes on in the rooms I set up for
my boss. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to ask him about his
activities. I've been working for Jeff for four years and have been
setting things up for him for two. I think our employer/employee
relationship has really over-stepped that level. I wouldn't want to
know the activities with the missus, but I'd love to be a fly on the
wall with the others. Oh, and there are others.

I like this part of my
job; it gives me a sense of freedom and accomplishment. My boss raves
about the way I stage his playthings in the suites. He gives me a
quick synopsis of how he wants things done, and I place them
accordingly. It's like a game of minds with us; I have to set up an
obstacle course based on his kink. Ha! Obstacle course, that's some
funny shit there.

* * *

Backing out of the
parking space, I glance both ways to make sure the lane is clear. As
I am shifting gears, I notice an Infiniti G37 Sport convertible. I
eye it, and it’s nice. Nicer than my coupe. Because I absolutely
love cars, I have to get a closer look. It's not as if I've never
seen it before, but this particular vehicle has some customized
accessories on it. First, the paint is platinum, not your usual
silver. This paint, which is branded to Infiniti and Nissan alone,
has a special effect that crystallizes when the sunlight hits it.

I pull up slowly
behind, admiring the car from the rear and notice the wheels are
customized too. “Shit, Zanetti’s,” I whisper. The damn platinum
door handles look as if they have LED lights in them. “That is
really nice,” I say aloud. I let my window down, and the crisp
breeze hits my face as I inhale the fresh air. I tilt my sunglasses
down so I’m looking over them. I eye the ground effects on the
vehicle.

“Yeah, definitely a
man's car.” I'm so into the detail of the car that I don't notice
the owner is still inside. I catch movement and begin to put my
window back up. I also notice his sandy brown hair as he opens the
door.

“Like what you’re
stalking? Or stalking what you like?”

FUUUCK ME HARD! “This
ass?” I mumble. “Ugh, I was admiring the customization on the
car, that’s all.”

“And here I thought
you wanted to give me a preview of your cold to hot shake?”

“Really?” I say.

“Really, honey,” he
says arrogantly, as if he changed my name.

We just stare at each
other for a few seconds, and my memory traces back to where I saw him
last.

“Whatever.” I push
my sunglasses back up my nose and hit the button to raise my window
as I drive away. I roll my eyes. “Arrogant bastard,” I scoff. I
glance back his way, and I can see he's tilted his head to the side
and winks. He has the most devious smirk on his lips as he shakes his
head and smiles. I instantly feel a rush of heat under my collar,
down my back to the pit of my stomach, and straight between my
thighs. What the fuck just happened?

* * *

On my way back to work,
I flash back to that
warming
smile.

Wait. Warming? Whaaa...
Woman, you can't be this hard up. No, I need a hard one. “Dammit,
Bryant!” I yell as I smack my steering wheel. Oh, the need for an
orgasm is frantically awaiting.

By the time I make it
back to the office, I have time to finish a few things and send off
an email to my boss regarding details of his arrangements. I notice
an envelope under my keyboard with a Post-it stuck to it.

You
deserve employee of the decade. Hope this is sufficient.

My freakin' brain can't
even comprehend what's in the envelope. A check? Yes. For ten
thousand dollars from Mr. Wilke. I can't accept this. In the memo
area, ‘Bonus’ is written. Holy crap, I could get used to this.

No! No! No! I can't. I
just can't.

My mother always taught
me never to look a gift horse in the... How does that saying go?
Mouth? Eye?

Whatever, I have a good
thing going, no use in jeopardizing it. He'll think I'm money hungry
if I accept it. However, he's given me incentives like this before;
what's the difference?

Shit, 10K is the
difference. I'm so torn. I put my face in my hands and sigh. Usually,
it's five hundred to a grand. Ohhh, that's it. He wrote one too many
zeros. I'm still holding the envelope and it feels like there’s a
piece of paper in it. I impatiently remove the folded slip.

Written on his fancy stationery.

Yes, I added an extra zero;
please accept it.
You deserve compensation for my
indiscretions.

Missus made me
-Boss

Yeah, it's official;
he's the boss all right.

I pack up my things and
make one last trip to the ladies’ room. I pass my boss's office on
the way out and can see the lamp is still lit. He usually doesn't
leave it on. I try the door handle, only to find it locked. I reach
in my laptop case; and before I can get the key in the lock, the lamp
that was once on the desk has been knocked to the floor. I maneuver
to look through the window, which has a sheer curtain. I can't quite
see in the office, but I can hear.

“Mii-SER!” an
exuberant female voice yells.

“Mii-SER Wilke.”
She sounds French. “Oh, Oui! Oui! Oui! Fuuk Me Herrrd!!! Votre bite
se sent vraiment très bon!” Definitely French...

Time to go. I turn on
my heel and hotfoot it out of the office. I can’t get to the
elevator quick enough. Well, I won’t be arguing with myself about
my compensation package. “Bonus it is.”

* * *

On my ride from the
office, I'm relaxing my mind from the events with Bryant. I'm still
torn that I may have lost my best friend. Sex-sessions were good; but
if I could change anything, I'd eliminate the sex just to have my
friend back.

On another note, my
boss is a sex fiend. He's rockin’ some Frenchie in his office; and
in a couple hours, he'll be doin’ his wife. My God, my boss is a
man-whore. Mr. Wilke is gorgeous, and I can see how he attracts
women. I never thought he’d do two in one day. I'm not judging; but
if I were, he’d get a 9.5 on the nasty dick scale.

Cruising down Broadway
listening to an acoustic version of Maroon 5, I turn up the volume
and sing like I have the voice for it. Hahaha, I don't.

I’ve been a slacker
for two days,
Bria get your ass
to the gym
. Pulling up, I spot a parking space close to
the entrance, and I whip my coupe in it like a NASCAR racer. Lucky
me. I continue to sing.

The wind chills me as I
get out of the car and remove my workout bag from the trunk. I show
up at the gym, and I have an eerie feeling in my gut. Something is
strange. I hand the receptionist my membership key card, and she
smiles at me. I look around to see if a stepper is free, and it's not
looking good. I change quickly and head back to the equipment. I
decide to start with some light rowing, get twenty minutes in just to
loosen me up until a stepper is free. I want a rower facing the
steppers. As soon as one is available, I’ll haul ass to get to it.
Nothing will stand in my way; nothing, I tell myself.

The rower beeps as I
meet my goal; just then, I look up, and there it is, an available
stepper. I jump to my feet and lightly jog to the one on the end
facing the pool area. Before I reach the machine, I slam hard into
what I think is a wall, which just magically appeared.

“Oww, dammit! What
the hell?”

“You like what you're
stalking, hmm?”

“What!” I look up
at the human wall. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me!” I
spit out. “Seriously, you are creeping me the hell out!”

“Three's my favorite
number,” he confesses.

Shaking my head, I step
back. “Excuse me; I want to use the stepper.”

“For what, that's not
your problem area,” says the human wall.

Whaa? He did not just
say that. “What are you, a personal trainer?”

“No, but I've seen
enough of you to know that your legs and your inner thighs don’t
need
that
equipment
to work you out.” He points to the stepper.

Oh, no, he did not, and
my lower little lady part is not responding to this BS. Ohh, she is;
he can't say another word.

“You need upper body
training,” he says.

“No, I'm fine in that
area.”

“Not doubting that;
but you might want to tone your arms.”

“Why?” I fold my
arms over my chest. He leans in close, and I can smell his cologne.
It smells like fresh linen and an alcohol-based musk. It smells like
Bryant's. He moves his lips to my ear so only I can hear him.

“You'll probably want
to build your arm strength to be able to hold on.”

“Hold on to what?”