The Good Assistant Read online

  John’s limousine waits for us. I stop on the curb. If I enter the vehicle, I’ll touch him and all of my resolve will melt away. I look for a taxi.

  “Get in the limo, Grant,” John growls, pushing me forward. “You’re not thinking rationally.”

  I obey him because I have no other choice. There are no taxis in sight. “I don’t think rationally around you. That’s my problem.” I plunk my ass down on the leather seat and wince, my skin sore from my spanking.

  “Come here.” John pulls me onto his lap. The door closes. The vehicle moves. I sit primly on my boss’ thighs and stare out the window, into the darkness, my chin lifted. Ignoring him is an impossible task. Heat rolls off his big body. His rough fingers brush up and down my legs. All of me is aching aware of him.

  “I want to go home.” My voice is embarrassingly petulant.

  “That’s where we’re going,” John rumbles.

  He’s taking me back to my tiny apartment where I’ll be alone, always alone. He’s done with me, with my declarations of love, my messy emotions, my needs. My shoulders droop, my defiance dissipating. He’ll allow me to walk away from him as my parents allowed me to walk away from them, not caring if I ever came back.

  “Good.” I brush my hands over my surprisingly damp cheeks.

  John sighs and catches my wrists, bringing my hands to his lips. He licks the moisture off my fingers, flicking his tongue over my skin, his touch rough and wet and arousing. I tremble and press my knees together, determined not to respond to him.

  He chuckles, laughing at my pain, and my heart breaks a little bit more. “You’re as stubborn as I am, Trella.” John says this as though it is an attribute to be proud of. “You would have run that young fool out of his own company within months, weeks. He’s not strong enough for you. Why would you even consider working for him?”

  “He needs me.” I sniff. “And you don’t.”

  “If I don’t need you then I’m a fool also.” John nuzzles his face into my palms. “Because I risked my hard-earned reputation for you tonight.” I curl my fingers, cupping his defined chin. “I don’t have a fancy education or high class connections. My reputation is all that I have.”

  And tonight, he damaged that reputation by breaking his non-fraternization rule, by publicly acknowledging his desire for his assistant. He did this for me, someone who turned out to be too high maintenance, too costly, to be worth his risk. I lower my fingers, caress the scar around his neck. He flinches but doesn’t pull away, allowing me to touch him.

  “My parents didn’t need me,” I share quietly. “They did everything parents should do, providing a roof over my head, food, clothing but I gave them nothing in return. I didn’t add to their happiness, to their success, and when I left for school, they didn’t even notice I was gone.”

  “They left you alone,” John states.

  “They always left me alone.” I lean into him and he cuddles me close, rubbing my bare back. John holds me and I almost forget that we’re traveling toward my apartment, toward a goodbye I suspect will be permanent.

  He breathes in. I breathe out. He breathes out. I breathe in. We share the same air, the same space, the connection between us tight and alive. I don’t know how I’ll survive without him, how I’ll bear our separation. More tears trickle down my cheeks.

  “Sleep, Trella,” John urges, his voice low and deep, his lips buzzing against my earlobe, making the diamonds in the beautiful earrings he gave me jostle and tinkle.

  My eyes burn from unshed tears. The exhaustion presses down on me, a steady weight on my chest. My arms and legs are limp. My ass is numb.

  “No, you’ll replace me.” I force my eyelids to remain open. This might be the last time I feel his arms around me, smell his musk, embrace his heat. I won’t squander a second.

  “It’s not possible to replace you.”

  I feel his voice, the rumble of his chest. “You could do it.” I yawn, the darkness pulling at me. It’s been a long day and I’m so very tired. “You can do anything.”

  “When I’m with you, I believe I can do anything.” John wipes away my tears. “Sleep.” He skims his palms over my face, closing my eyes. “I’ll protect you.”

  I’m not alone. He’s with me. I sigh and slip into the black void.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m dreaming. I must be. I’m in John’s bedroom with him, not in my small apartment alone. He drags his hot mouth over my shoulder, cups my breasts with his rough palms. I cover his hands with my fingers, forcing him to squeeze harder, pleasure shooting over my form.

  He nudges his hard cock between my thighs, pressing his hips against my ass. I wiggle against him, needing more, needing him inside me.

  “John,” I moan.

  “Give me a second.” He rolls away from me and cool air sweeps over my back. I huff. This isn’t what I need. A package rustles and he returns, wrapping his arms around me, pressing his latex-covered cock against me.

  I frown. Why is he wearing a condom in my dream? I want to feel him inside me.

  “Open for me, Trella.” He pinches my nipples, the sweet pain punctuating his command, erotic bliss flowing down my spine.

  I obey him, spreading my thighs, and he pushes inside my slick pussy, stretching me open. This is what I need, this fullness, this connection. When he’s inside me, I’m not alone. I’m needed.

  I tilt my hips and John buries himself to his base. A rumble of satisfaction rolls up his chest. His skin rubs against mine.

  He rocks against me, his pace slow and steady, as though my always busy boss has the entire night to please me. I’m not as patient as he is. I grip his hands, closing his fingers around my aching nipples, clutching my breasts to the same rhythm.

  “That’s it,” he murmurs into my ear. “Show me what you like, love, what you need.”

  He called me love. I smile sleepily. This is the best dream ever. We move together as one, our tempo gradually building, the bed rocking. John nuzzles, nips, sucks on my neck, the stubble on his cheeks grazing my skin, sending tremors over my shoulders, down my back.

  “Yes.” I undulate against him, caressing him with my entire body, loving him with everything I have. A wet sheen covers his chest, his arms. I turn my head and lick the moisture off his bulging left bicep, tasting his salt. If all of my fantasies feel this real, this right, I’ll survive our separation, living for the nights when I’ll see, touch, taste, smell him again.

  “Yes,” John agrees, his lips humming against my earlobe. He pumps in and out of my tight pussy, and I savor all of him, the bloom of his cock head, the raised veins on his shaft, the coarse curls on his base.

  I clench around him and he groans. “I won’t last long, not when you grip me like that,” he warns. I laugh and clench him again. “You’re a bad, bad assistant.” He thrusts harder, smacking his hips against my ass.

  “Be bad with me, John.” I transfer one of his hands to my pussy, pressing the tip of his index finger against my clit. He circles the sensitive spot, winding my passion tighter and tighter around me.

  “I won’t last long either,” I confess, my voice husky with need. “Not when you touch me like that.” I push back on him, his fingers making me crazed. “You feel so good.” He owns me with each hard stroke of his cock, dominating my body, my heart, my soul.

  I pant, John grunts and the headboard thumps against the wall, the sounds of our joining intensifying my desire. There is no thought of the morning, of goodbye. There’s only the two of us. In this moment, he’s not a billionaire or my boss. He’s a man and I’m his woman. We’re two beings striving, struggling, fighting for our satisfaction.

  I shake, each pleasure-laden tremor shredding more of my control. John takes me harder and harder, smacking his balls against my skin, and my form heats at all points of contact. He taps one of his fingertips against my clit, his touch causing my inner walls to close around his shaft, pushing us both toward the sweet edge of release.

  “Please.” I reach back
and grip his thighs, digging my nails into his skin.

  “Come for me, Trella.” John teases my shoulder with his teeth. “Come now.” He thrusts hard and nips my skin, the pain propelling me over the vortex.

  I scream, bucking against him. He tightens his hold on me, capturing my writhing body, as he drives one, two, three more times into me. It’s too much, too good, the ecstasy exquisite. I twist as John shudders with fulfillment. He doesn’t release me, folding my curves into his muscle, and I surrender to his power, quieting, my eyelids fluttering closed.

  “I love you, John,” I whisper. This is a dream. I can tell him anything I want. “I’ve always loved you and I will always love you.” I’ve dated enough men to know John is special, the only man for me.

  “I love you too, Trella,” John rumbles. “And I need you. I’ll always need you.” He says the words I want him to say.

  I snuggle deeper into his body and smile, wishing I never had to wake up.

  * * *

  “Double the security detail and clear the area. I won’t be alone.” John’s deep voice rolls over me, a soothing sound I can listen to forever. I lie face down on soft white sheets. The sun’s rays stream in the window, warming my bare back.

  “I’m well aware of the risks,” he says. “We won’t stay long.”

  I turn my head toward him. John sits by the bed, dressed casually in blue jeans and a chest-hugging black T-shirt, his phone pressed to one ear. Although a baseball cap with a tattered bill shades his eyes, I know he’s watching me.

  “We’ll be ready to leave in half an hour.” He lowers the phone.

  “Are you taking me home?” As he promised to take me home last night.

  “You are home.” John shakes his head as though I’m talking nonsense. “I canceled my meetings for the day. We’re going to a site so wear the usual, nothing designer, nothing flashy.”

  I can’t visit a site smelling of sex and him. “I need a shower, sir.” I push myself upright, my body naked and sore. There’s no time to think about the mess he’s made of his schedule, the zillions of meetings I’ll have to rearrange, his confusing comment about me being home. “My clothes--”

  “They’re in the dresser by the window.” John watches me as I walk toward the ensuite bathroom. “You have thirty minutes, Trella.”

  I shower quickly, pull my hair back into a ponytail and don minimal makeup. All of my things have been placed in the bathroom, my hairbrush resting on the vanity’s black marble countertop, my bottle of vitamins hidden in the medicine cabinet.

  When I emerge, John is no longer in the bedroom. The black velvet box is set on one of the nightstands, my earrings, the gift from John, having been removed while I slept. A pair of jeans, a navy blue T-shirt, and thick gray socks are folded on the foot of the neatly made bed, John having made my clothing decisions for me. My clunky work boots are placed on the hardwood floor.

  I dress and rush downstairs with two minutes to spare. John stands by the double doors, a smaller baseball cap in one of his hands. His eyes light up as I descend the stairs. “This should fit you.” He tugs the cap on my head. The fabric smells of engine grease and dust.

  “Whom did you steal this from?” I pull my ponytail through the back closure.

  “I won it fair and square from Ian Smith in the third grade.” John grins, opening the door. We step into the bright sunlight.

  This was his baseball cap, part of his childhood, and he wants me to wear it. I touch the warped bill, my chest warming with love.

  Dave, John’s driver, is seated in a battered four-door sedan. He’s dressed as casually as we are. Another large man sits in the passenger seat. More sedans idle in front of and behind our vehicle. This isn’t abnormal for John. Billionaires are targets for desperate people and he doesn’t take any chances with his people’s safety, traveling in convoys whenever he visits high risk neighborhoods.

  I slide into the backseat. John claims the spot beside me, his arm placed protectively around my shoulders, his thigh pressing against mine. The windows are rolled up, the glass bullet proof.

  “What do you need, sir?” I extract my phone from my back pocket.

  “I don’t need anything.” John takes the device from me and tosses it into the vehicle’s side compartment. “This isn’t a business outing for us and I’m not your boss today.”

  “I thought everything is business for you.” I frown. “And if you’re not my boss today, why do you need me?”

  “I’ll always need you,” he echoes the words in my dream. I gaze at him. Was it a dream? “And I certainly need you today.” John raps his knuckles on the glass dividing the front and back seats. The partition opens and a cup is transferred through the exposure. “Take this.” He presses the cup into my palm. “You’re a mess without your coffee.”

  I sip the delectable java and moan with appreciation. “I do love you.” I’ve said it once. It won’t hurt our relationship if I say it again.

  His lips lift into a small smile, his eyes gleaming. “I know.”

  I grin. My boss is an arrogant bastard. “Why do you certainly need me today?” I pass the cup to John.

  He places his mouth where mine had been and he drinks. “That young fool wasn’t the first person to approach me about developing the neighborhood I grew up in. I said no to all of the other offers, better offers, from more experienced partners.”

  “Then why are you considering the partnership with Bass?” I ask, not expecting an answer. My boss doesn’t explain his decisions. He makes them and moves on.

  “I’m developing the neighborhood now because it’s time.” John shifts in the seat, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. “Because it should be done. Because you can help me.”

  I’ve never heard him admit he needs help, have never seen him this vulnerable. “How can I help you?”

  “You can help me deal.” John turns his head and gazes out the window. School-aged boys in black hoodies and low hanging pants stand on corners. Graffiti decorates every vertical surface. A plastic bag blows along the cracked sidewalk. An alarm sounds. “You can help me face this.” He waves his hand.

  I can help him face his past. “Do you need me to be your assistant, to take on the tasks you’d rather not complete?” I have to be certain, to know exactly what he needs from me.

  “You’re not my assistant today, Trella. I need your support, not more spreadsheets.” His smile holds sadness. “Stand by my side and manage my emotions as only you can. Distract me when it becomes too tough. Slap me when I’m being an irrational ass.”

  “That’s a regular day for me, sir.” I force a joke

  John’s eyes glimmer. “Exactly.”

  He needs me as no one else has ever needed me. He also cares for me. Hearing the words is unnecessary. I feel our connection. “Is the neighborhood much different now?” I take the cup from him and finish the coffee, wishing to be wide awake when we arrive, when he requires my assistance.

  “Nothing has changed in the neighborhood, nothing substantial.” John presses his lips together. “No one has invested here. No one cares.”

  He cares. I hear the passion in his voice.

  “People believe what they see, Trella,” John explains. “If they don’t see change, they won’t believe they can change. If people don’t invest in them, they won’t invest in themselves.”

  This is why he constructs buildings, erecting giant symbols of change, of improvement. I slip my palm into his, silently showing my support, my understanding. John folds his fingers around mine, securing me to him. We sit, holding hands, our souls linked, my thoughts focused on the future, his thoughts revisiting the past.

  His mood becomes more and more grim as the neighborhoods deteriorate. Tension radiates from him in dark and heavy waves. I can’t bear to see him like this.

  I search for a distraction. “Was I supposed to wear panties?” I wiggle, brushing my thigh against his. “You didn’t set out a pair for me.”

  John turns his head
toward me and blinks. “Are you bare under your jeans?”

  “I am.” I nod. “And the zipper is rubbing against an interesting spot.” I squirm.

  “I didn’t set out a bra either.” John runs one of his palms over my back. He should be feeling smooth cotton. “Trella,” he groans. “What are you doing to me?” His mind isn’t on his challenging childhood now.

  I tilt my head back and meet his gaze. “I’m managing you, sir.” I laugh.

  John chuckles. “Actions have consequences.” He tugs on the bill of my baseball cap. “Remember that, love.”

  Love. My smile wavers. Does he love me? Before I can ask, the vehicle slows and all of the mirth fades from John’s face.

  “You won’t leave my side today,” he commands. “If the situation becomes unsafe, we’re leaving, no questions asked.”

  “I understand.” I understand everything. He’s showing me a slice of himself, a part he doesn’t share with many people, a rare vulnerability. He needs me by his side, to help him through this.

  John exits the sedan first, scanning our surroundings, and he reaches for me. His men are positioned casually around us, not so close as to draw attention but near enough to secure the area.

  The building looming in front of us is old and depressingly institutional, the address listed on John’s comprehensive online biography. Two of the giant gray numbers are missing, their outlines permanently etched in the red brick. Windows are cracked, covered with silver duct tape or clear fixative.

  There are no balconies, no flowers, no green space. Every surrounding inch is paved, the patches of black asphalt forming a continual industrial quilt. Squealing children fight over one dirty basketball, playing in the streets around the parked cars. Broken bottles litter the space, the jagged pieces of glass crunching under my boots.