Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I think she’s more likely to twist my balls off with one swipe than write me a love letter.
Wait, was that a love letter?
I want to bang you so hard.
Most certainly not a love letter, unless that’s how millennials wax poetic now.
This is why I have a no fraternizing policy. This shit right. Here.
Indignant, I sit and lean back in my chair, making the font larger so I can read it reclined with my hands behind my head, eyes dragging across one ridiculous line after the other.
What the shit is this?
Did you know people around the office call you a sadist? An egomaniac? An insensitive, arrogant prick?
Yeah, I fucking knew that, thank you very much.
I’m not deaf, I’m not blind, and I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about the way I run my company. I am who I am, and no one is going to change me.
And as long as we're being honest, that navy-blue suit you wear? With the crisp white shirt?
I drag my hand down the lapels of said navy-blue suit—another meeting this afternoon requires it—my fingers straightening the starched collar of my dress shirt. Bright blue tie.
I want to bang you so bad.
My eyes dissect that little sentence; the cock in my pressed trousers stirs.
Bang you so bad.
Bang.
Jesus Christ, this is not happening to me right now.
I rake a hand through my hair, an exhausted breath expelling from my lugs. A few more lingering stares and I’m reaching forward, finger hitting the intercom button for Lauren’s desk.
“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”
How many times have I asked her not to call me that?
Dozens.
“Can you come in here with a notebook? I need you to take a memo.”
This email is so highly inappropriate, bordering on sexual harassment, it needs to be addressed company-wide. No. No bordering—it is. And if this has been sent to anyone else in this company, heads would roll.
Heads will roll.
Someone will get fired.
I give the email address a hard stare. HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com
Not only is it unfamiliar, it’s bloody internal. Fabricated. Entirely sexual. Hands roming my body. Rome—not roam.
And a familiar play on my first name.
This is how companies get sued. The last thing I need is bad publicity because of a bad joke bankrupting my company.
It only takes Lauren a few minutes to bustle into my office—attitude adjusted—thank fuck. She closes the door behind her and perches on a chair, just as she’s always done when she’s about to take dictation, iPad in hand ready.
“I need you to take a memo.”
“Ready when you are, boss.”
My eyes momentarily rake along my glaringly white computer monitor, nostrils flaring.
I want to bang you so bad.
Lips part. “Uh…”
Lauren waits.
I clear my throat. “I recently received a very disturbing email—”
Lauren’s mouth falls open and she interrupts, leaning forward conspiratorially. Lowers her voice to a near whisper. “You did? Was it a bomb threat?”
“No.” My lips press together. “As I was saying . . .” I give the iPad a glance. “I recently received a disturbing email, one that not only compromises several of this company’s policies, but also the integrity of Roam, Inc. as a whole.”
Lauren’s eyes widen, but she keeps silent.
I want to bang you so bad.
I haven’t been banged in months.
“Our integrity is being compromised,” I repeat.
“You . . . just said that.”
“I did?”
“Well, not in those exact words but, yes. You’re being redundant.”
“Clean it up for me, then. Shoot me the draft.”
A quick nod. “Got it.”
“As I was saying . . .” What the hell was I saying? My eyes won’t stray from that one fucking line—it’s both driving me crazy and pissing me off simultaneously. “As I was saying.”
“As you were saying.” Lauren is biting back a grin.
This is pointless. I can’t concentrate.
“You know what? I’ll jot something down and get it back to you.”
Now her grin is a full-blown smirk. “Sure.”
Is it Lauren?
No. I shake that thought out of my head. Definitely not Lauren. She has a boyfriend, doesn’t she? I should really pay attention to this shit more. No I shouldn’t, Goddammit—it’s not my job to know about anyone’s personal life once they’re gone for the day.
My forefinger drums the desktop. “I’ll also need to speak to someone in IT. Can you send up the supervisor, uh . . .”
I have no idea whose name to supply.
Hunter was right—I do let human resources do most of the hiring and really need to be more hands-on so shit like doesn’t slip through the cracks. I have no fucking idea who is handling my technical department.
“Carla Johnson, sir.”
Sir.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Get me Mrs. Johnson this afternoon please.”
“It’s Miss.”
“What is?”
“Miss Johnson is unmarried, sir. She’s single.”
Jesus Christ, why is she telling me this? “I’m not interested in Miss Johnson’s marital status, Lauren. I need her intelligence.”
And to give me a name. And to solve this fucking problem: who created this fake account?