Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Producer by Aubrey Parker

Author:Aubrey Parker [Parker, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: EROS
Published: 2017-01-09T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ALYSSA

I STARE AT MY IPHONE’S screen, close to panic.

Is there a way to recall a text?

Even if I could erase what I just sent to Cole, there wouldn’t be any point. He’s already read it — my deleting it would only confirm what he probably thinks is going on: that I erased it because I was embarrassed, and the only reason to be embarrassed was because I’d done something worthy of shame.

I’ll try hard to prepare myself.

Fucking hell. I had to write it like that? I could have achieved the same level of “maybe double entendre” with something far simpler, like I’ll be ready. The point was to respond in a way that Cole would understand, if he read it right, but that I could deny if I changed my mind.

But the way I wrote it, it sounds like I’ll be naked in the office when he arrives, legs up on the desk and a bottle of lube at the ready.

I’m such an idiot.

I sweated over that text. It took long minutes to compose — first on paper, because I didn’t want him to see me spending forever typing. I tried it a bunch of different ways in my head, and prepare myself was the best I could come up with?

Holy hell.

Now what happens if I want to back out? Engaging further with Cole isn’t even within sniper distance of a good idea. But now I’ve given him the word equivalent of a bare-chested photo with Come and get it written across my tits.

That motherfucker is probably salivating.

My old doubts return.

Cole is an ass. He’s repeatedly demeaned and condescended to me.

To apologize, he sent a loose box of girl stuff — a motherfucking vibrator to loosen my prude self — and a note announcing an appointment rather than requesting it.

He knew from seeing my phone that I’d miss my appointment with Bartleby, but still didn’t bother to wake me. He easily could have, because it turns out he had clothes that fit me.

He lied about not knowing where I lived (I’m deciding to omit possibilities centered on him knowing the building but not the apartment number) so he could get me into his place.

… where he’d tell tales of me trying to grab his dick while I was drunk, which may or may not have been true.

… and where, after offering me a shower, he’d set up camp to watch me, then rip off my towel without asking.

Doubts stack, but for some reason don’t tip the scales. I’m not as indignant about Cole’s behavior as I should be, and I’m definitely more turned on than I want to admit.

Cole probably thinks he tamed the shrew this morning, but my body doesn’t seem to care. It wants to be tamed again. And again. I’m not wearing any panties, and it’s been murder focusing on clients and work while my pussy keeps screaming for attention, bare to the world.

I wonder who the hell I am. I clawed my way to the top.

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