Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Often.
“Y—yes,” I squeak out. I want to laugh at myself for being intimidated. This is something I do all the time—get called in here. It just feels wrong right now, after that chat. And there’s something off about Leon’s gaze this time. Something sharp. The way he’s looking at me isn’t right. It hits my lady bits, making my body glow like—like—fireflies.
His fingers keep drumming on his knee. Black. His suit is black today. His dress shirt is too. I think about those devil comments from the chat. If he threw me over his shoulder and dragged me to hell, I don’t think I’d fight. I’d beg him to let me rule at his side as his dark Lady Poo. Yup. He’s that freaking fine with broad shoulders that test the limits of his suit even though they were made especially for him, lean muscles, and probably a twelve-pack hidden away under those clothes. Those comments about his booty weren’t far off the mark either, much as I’m ashamed to admit it.
Leon grunts. That grunt either means, please pay attention, or I know you’re thinking about licking my abs and checking out my fine rear end. My face freaking flames red hot. I jerk my eyes back up to his, clutching the notepad in my lap a little tighter.
I’m wearing a white blouse and a black pencil skirt, which is pretty much the universal uniform of executive assistants everywhere, but right now, I kind of wish I was wearing a suit of armor.
“If I asked you to do something in the name of work, would you do it?”
I’m not sure if it means he’s talking about a promotion or something really bad. It kind of seems like the latter because suddenly, Leon shifts just a fraction. It’s hardly a movement at all, but I know him because I’ve watched him—and no, not in a creepy way. I’m just really observant, and he’s also my job, so it pays to be hyperaware sometimes—but he does it, and Leon doesn’t do things like that.
The chats. Oh my god, he knows about the chats. “Umm, like if we’re talking about finding someone, tying them up, and throwing them in the river, then I don’t think so.”
He grunts at me, which is laughter for Leon. I suddenly feel way too hot on the inside, like my ovaries are boiling. “I was talking about keeping this company together and keeping your job. Would you do something to keep your job? Of course, there would be a rather large bonus attached to the request for your troubles.”
Oh fuck. He’s going to ask me to do a hit. I know it. Probably death by poisonous muffins. Or fetch nefarious coffees for the offending members of that chat. Dear god, I’m going to jail. Or I’m dead. Because he wouldn’t ask me to off someone and then let me get away with knowing that he asked, would he?
“Uh, that’s kind of vague.” I’m barely holding my shit together right now. I thought Leon was a nice guy under that gruff exterior. Because every hard-ass bosshole of a boss hides a soft, mushy interior because they don’t want anyone to know how they really are sweet inside, don’t they?
Leon stands up, walks over to the office door, and shuts it. Then, he flips the lock. Holy shit, why is he flipping the lock? Maybe he wants to talk about some kind of raise or promotion. Perhaps he’s noticed how hard I’ve been working, and he wants me to take on more responsibility. Or it could be about a sensitive issue about a client that needs handling. We do get those on occasion. People aren’t always happy to have their lives meddled with, even if it’s to save their company, and they’re the ones paying in the first place. Sometimes they don’t always come to us. Sometimes Leon finds them.
He sits back down, and I notice how his pants ride up at the ankles, away from his expensive black leather shoes, revealing black socks. No skin. I’ve never seen Leon anything less than put together. He never does that delicious guy thing and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, but I freely admit that I’ve shamelessly fantasized about his veiny, golden, muscular forearms on more than one occasion.
Not that kind of occasion.
Just occasions like when I’m bored, sitting at my desk, and have a few extra minutes to think about things.
“This might sound strange,” Leon says, his voice low, so low. So no one else can hear. “I need you to legitimately marry me, but the marriage itself would be fake.”
I nearly fall off my chair. Holy freaking farge, what? “I—uh—marriage?” The word explodes out there between us, and I say it like I’m asking who cooked sardines in the staff lunchroom microwave, let them explode, and then left that mess for me to find and clean up. Nothing puts me in a worse mood than baked-on sardine explosions.