Chapter 6

6

June

"This is your wake-up call, Sir."

It's Monday morning, and I wait for him to respond to my greeting. Will he thank me today? I listen on the line for the acknowledgment I'm starting to crave from him. But like every morning over the last seven days, he disconnects without saying hello. My shoulders sag. My lips turn down. Why am I so disappointed? He's a busy CEO. And I'm his assistant doing my job. Nothing else. Of course, he doesn't have the time to acknowledge me. Also, he is a self-centered jerk, so I shouldn't be surprised he didn't thank me for waking him up at the arse-end of dawn.

He has no idea that this morning, I set four alarms on my phone—three of which I snoozed through, only managing to rouse myself on the fourth with less than a minute to go to call him. It was the same the last two days. I should berate him for forcing me to wake up and call him. I should resent him for cutting into my sleep. But the fact is, I want to please him.

I want to do a respectable job. I don't want to fail him. Not that he's going to notice the extra effort I've made. I'll never tell him how I poured coffee into a travel mug next to my bed, so I could take a sip and rouse myself before phoning him. I'll never reveal to him the thrill that grips my body when I dial his number every morning. Besides, he's already paid me for my efforts. He's compensated me by advancing my salary and none of my previous employers have done that.

I used most of what came in to pay off next quarter's rent on my mother's place, and the next semester's fees for my siblings. Anything left over went toward paying my over-due credit card bills.

I yawn, then set the alarm for six a.m. and go back to sleep. Of course, I oversleep, then have to hurry to make it to work by eight a.m., where the first thing I do is get him his coffee.

He ignores me, except to issue a list of orders which I note down on my device—a new one which was waiting for me on my second day of work.

Then, it's on to the staff meeting with his department heads. He has these meetings every Monday morning at nine a.m. and insists I sit in on them and take notes. I know most of them by face as they came in for meetings with him last week. I also emailed instructions to them on behalf of my boss, and while most of them had been fine with it, one of them, his Finance Director, replied to say he didn't take orders from a lowly assistant. His words, not mine. Grr!

I tamped down on my annoyance and responded ultra-sweetly, telling him these were his boss' orders, not mine. I was only the messenger.

Now, the Finance Director hitches a hip against the conference room table where I'm seated to the left of the head of the table. "June Donnelly, huh?" He looks me up and down. "You managed to survive the week, not bad."

"I've been here for six days. But who's counting? Time flies when you're having fun, eh?" I smile up at him in what I hope is a pleasant curve of my lips while trying my best not to shrink away from his presence.

He looks taken aback, then huffs out a laugh. "If you're trying to tell me it's fun working for The Beast, then you're not fooling me, honey."

Ugh, he called me honey. How condescending. I grit my teeth to keep the choice insults from spilling out. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I say blandly.

He eyes me with disbelief. "Surely, you know that's his"—he stabs his thumb in the direction of the seat at the head of the table—" nickname. "

"Is it?" I ask, feigning surprise. As if I, the person who works with him most closely, wouldn't already know everything?

"And with good reason. It must not be easy to look at his scarred face every day."

What the—! That's bold of him. How dare he talk about my boss like that? His face might be scarred, but it only adds to his appeal. I glare at the wanker, thinking, Better than looking at your face, dickhead; not that he notices.

"Anytime you feel like a change of scenery, my office is down the corridor." He leans in and places his hand on my shoulder. "Whatever he's good at, I'm better at it. My numbers speak for themselves." He winks.

Was that a proposition? And he did it blatantly in front of the rest of the team. I'm so shocked, I gape at him open-mouthed. A slight commotion at the front of the room draws my attention toward the door. I find my boss standing there, glaring at me. His gaze is on where the other guy's hand rests on my shoulder. For some reason, I flush. Then pull away so his hand drops. I berate myself. I didn't do anything wrong. So why do I feel so guilty?

The wanker clears his throat and mumbles, "Looks like The Beast is in a mood today."

No shit, Sherlock.

He sidles around to drop into the seat next to me. I pull my chair away from him, closer to the head of the table and toward my boss. Then lower my head and study the screen of my device. My boss stalks past me and sinks into the chair at the head of the table. Instantly, everyone quiets. There's not even any shuffling of paper or coughing. Nothing. Ten other people in the room, and they've all faded into the background; that's how silent they are.

The hair on the nape of my neck rises. I'm so aware of my boss' presence, so conscious of his proximity, that my knees grow weak. The screen of my device fades in and out. I draw in a sharp breath to clear my head, but that only fills my senses with his scent. Instantly, I'm wet. I squeeze my thighs to stop the ache between them, but that doesn't help. I pretend an undue interest in my device and start typing into it when, "Did you hear what I said Ms. Donnelly?" my boss fumes.

"Uh, what?" I glance up at him and flinch when I see the frost in his indigo eyes. Arctic. Frozen wasteland. A glacier that stretches into infinity. He looks like he crunched ice-chips for breakfast then swam ten miles in the freezing English Channel.

"I need the deck teed up on the laptop to project onto the screen," he growls.

"Oh," I glance down at the laptop on the table and realize it's not synced to the projector. The color on my cheeks heightens. "So sorry, I was meaning to do it before the meeting, but I got distracted."

Next to me, the wanker chuckles. I stifle my own growl.

My boss' jaw turns to granite. A muscle jumps at his temple. And his eyes turn to cold fire. Anger thrums in the air between us. He looks so scary that when I jump up and reach for the laptop, my arms tremble. I manage to get my emotions under control and concentrate on syncing the laptop with the projector.

Of course, it doesn't. I sigh, then reboot the laptop.

Above me, my boss' deep voice fills the room as he reels off the figures from the last quarter and outlines the plans for the next. Once more, I straighten, then walk past him to the projector and flick the device off and on. Nope. It doesn't sync.

I sigh aloud. A bead of sweat slides down my spine. Everyone's attention is on my boss, but it doesn't take away from my feeling like I'm on show. It doesn't take away from this need to prove to him that I can do this. I am more than capable of connecting this stupid laptop to this stupid projector.

I flick a glance in my boss' direction, wondering if he's noticed how hard I'm trying to please him? His focus is on the people gathered around the board room. Disappointment squeezes my chest. I look away, gather my thoughts and re-focus on the task at hand. More seconds pass. His dark voice washes over me, and I shiver. My fingers tremble. I sync the devices again, but nope, nothing projects onto the screen. My shoulders slump. I slink back to my seat and stare at the laptop.

"Why don't I help you?" The Finance Director reaches for the laptop at the same time as me. Our fingers brush. I pull back my arm. He pretends not to notice and leans in close enough for our shoulders to brush. I move away, but he simply closes the gap between us until, once more, our shoulders touch.

"You see, this is how you do it." In an exaggeratedly slow fashion, he proceeds to switch the computer off completely. "You count to ten, then re-start," he explains like I'm a dimwit. What a turd. And his mansplaining? Grr! I curl my fingers into fists, resisting the urge to dump the glass of water in front of me on him.

I stare rigidly at the computer as he switches it on. While I wait for it to re-boot, I'm aware of my boss's deep voice continuing to talk about the company's new forays. When the computer blinks on. I let the Finance Director toggle the Bluetooth switch.

"Try it now," he says in a condescending tone. OMG, how annoying. I jump up, walk over to the projector, and this time, the devices sync. Of course, they do. The figures from the laptop screen show up on the big screen, and my boss refers to them without a break in his narrative. I slink back to my seat, and when I sit down, the Finance Director pats my thigh. What the fuck? I sit ramrod straight, staring ahead. I'm so angry, I'm shaking. Then he leans in close enough for his breath to raise the hair on my temple. "Anytime you need another lesson in synching our devices, seek me out. I'd be happy to?—"

"Get out," my boss thunders.

Without even looking at him, I jump up, spin around and begin to make my way to the exit.

"Not you, Ms. Donnelly."

I blink, turn to find he's staring at the Finance Director. "Out," he seethes again.

The Finance Director frowns. "What do you mean? I was simply?—"

In a move that's so quick, he seems to blur, my boss is on his feet. He reaches over, grabs the collar of the Finance Director, and hauls him up. "Security will escort you out."

"Hold on, what is the meaning of this, Davenport?" he blusters.

The door to the meeting room opens, and two security guards walk over to him. They grab each of his arms and begin to haul him off.

"There's been a mistake," he cries.

My boss ignores him. "Make sure he's never seen on the premises again," he orders the security guys.

"B-but what happened?" the wanker stutters.

My boss turns on him. He fixes the wanker with his cold gaze. Silver sparks flash in his eyes. They're stormy cobalt pools swirling with so much emotion, I flinch. He could be Loki, ready to wipe out his enemy. Satan, ready to scorch everything his gaze touches. Anger pours off him in waves. He's not the unfeeling brute I thought him to be. All that emotion is boiling under the surface, looking for an outlet.

Oh, to be at the receiving end of it would be so erotic. The thought makes me feel faint.

"What did I do?" the Finance Director blurts out again.

"What did you do ?" My boss' voice is low, almost casual. But I hear the ominous tone like thunder rumbling in the distance. He continues to glare at the Finance Director, who wilts under his scrutiny.

He swallows, then seems to find his bearings, for he puffs out his chest. "Y-yes, I want to know what I did?"

"You talked down to my assistant. You disrespected my assistant. You patronized her. You belittled her. You humiliated her. You invaded her personal space. You came onto her in front of the entire team."

I listen, thunderstruck. All the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the room. The pressure in the space seems to dip, and there's this sense of impending doom. Like a massive storm is about to break over us.

"How dare you touch her when she was, clearly, uncomfortable?" His voice is so cold, so diamond-hard, so filled with rage, it sends a pulse of liquid heat shooting through my veins. Seeing my boss angry on my behalf is like sinking my teeth into the darkest, most bitter, most decadent chocolate cake. No, it's better He noticed what the other guy was doing. He was aware of just how much the wanker was patronizing me. How he was coming onto me. He. Noticed. Me. And now, he's standing up for me? Oh. My. God. I grip the edge of the table with such force, pain shoots up my arm.

"How dare you undermine my assistant's dignity?" My boss' voice drops even lower in pitch. "Get out of here before I throw you out myself."

"You're firing me over her?" The other guy sneers, "She's not worth it, you know."

My boss's shoulders seem to swell. The buttons on his jacket strain, and I'm sure they're going to pop any moment. In fact, I'm positive the seams of his sleeves are going to tear, thanks to how his biceps bulge. His gaze narrows on the Finance Director, who pales.

His Adam's apple bobs. "I'm going to sue the shit out of you Davenport," he cries. Then he's out of the room. The door closes behind him .

My boss straightens his tie, then glances around. "Dismissed."

I watch as the men and women who watched the proceedings with open-mouthed surprise scramble to their feet.

Thanks to me, his meeting went to pieces. I failed him. I swallow down my disappointment.

There's a clatter of chairs, the clop-clop of ladies' heels, then they're gone.

I take a few steps toward the door when, "Not you, Ms. Donnelly."

Oh. I freeze, but don't turn to face him.

"Come here," he says softly.

I turn and, making sure to keep my chin lowered, shuffle toward him. When I come to a stop next to him, I swallow. "I... I didn't do anything." Except, I feel guilty for not pulling away when that wanker touched me. In my mind, I already belong to my boss. I belong to him? The realization crashes into my chest with the force of a storm which had been building all along.

"Is that right?" My boss's cold, hard voice interrupts my thoughts.

I nod. Unable to meet his gaze for reasons I can't comprehend, I murmur, "He's the one who?—"

"I'm aware." The menace in his tone makes me shiver. He sounds so tough. So livid. When he stays silent for a few seconds, I risk a glance at his face, then wish I hadn't, for he's glaring at me. The tips of his ears are white, which is not a good sign, is it? His jaw has gone even harder, if that's possible. And the way the muscles spasm at the tops of his cheekbones? I'm sure he's going to crack a molar.

He reaches out and, before I can react, he slips off my spectacles, then folds them and slides them into his shirt pocket. To say I'm surprised is putting it mildly. I want to ask him what he's doing but he snaps, "Bend over."

"Excuse me?" I gape at him.

"Hands on the conference table, bend over at the waist, and put your cheek on the surface."

I'm not sure why I comply. And I don't know why this doesn't feel like sexual harassment, but it doesn't. In fact... It feels like whatever he's going to do to me is atonement for letting some other man touch me. Whatever he has in mind is going to help me find redemption, and it feels right. It feels like I've waited all my life to have this man pin me with his fierce look and give me his complete attention. Everything inside of me wants me to obey him, so I do.

I turn to face the boardroom table. I flatten one hand on the surface, then the other. I lower myself forward slowly, until my cheek is pressed into the surface. For a few seconds, the only sound in the space is my breathing. The tension builds, pressing down on me. My stomach churns with anticipation. A heavy pulse kicks in at my wrists, at my temples. My nipples throb. Then he kicks my ankles apart, and I gasp.

"You deserve to be punished for not standing up for yourself when someone insulted your professional standing."

He's right.

"You deserve to be punished for letting another man touch you. Do you agree?"

I nod.

"Say it aloud, if you do," he snaps.

"I... I agree."

I cry out when his palm connects with my backside. One-two-three-four —I count as he spanks my alternate arse cheeks. Each time he connects with my backside, I rise up on my tiptoes. Each time he spanks me, the pulse between my legs blooms bigger. Thicker. More insistent. Until it spills over into my thighs, my lower belly, bounces down to my toes, and up, up, up to my pussy lips and my spine, and bursts into a fountain of light behind my eyes. Oh my god! Did I just climax?

I float down to earth and when I open my eyes, it's to find he's massaging my behind through my skirt, my panties, and my stockings.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and a whine leaves my lips. Ohmigod, what's wrong with me? Why did that feel so good?

"You may straighten and put yourself to rights," he says in a bored voice.

I push up to standing, then wince when my backside throbs.

"Does it hurt?" There's a note of curiosity in his voice, matched by the gleam in his eyes. A shiver grips me. The fact that he cares enough to ask means so much, and I don't question it.

"It does"—I nod— "but in a good way."

Satisfaction laces his features. Then he slips my spectacles out of his pocket and slides them back on my face. He positions them just so, then looks me up and down. "You'll remember me every time you sit down in your chair. You'll remember that you're not supposed to encourage men to look at you."

"What the— What?" My jaw drops. "Are you saying it's my fault he touched me?" And here, I'd been thinking he rushed to protect my honor by firing the executive.

He draws himself up to his full height, "What I'm saying is that this skirt"—he stares at the offending garment—"is too tight."

"Are you calling me, fat?" I whisper.

He looks genuinely taken aback. "Are you trying to elicit compliments from me?"

It's my turn to feel baffled. "But you said my clothes are too tight?—"

"Your figure is perfect, as you are well aware."

I push my spectacles up my nose. "Uh, no, I'm not, actually."

His brows draw down. "Surely, you jest. Your curves are exquisite."

"Really?" I cry.

He goes on as if I haven't spoken. "I'm sorry if I implied it was your fault that bastard came onto you. That wasn't my intention at all. But I didn't like the way he stared at you, and how he seemed to be overly familiar with you." He scowls. "Why didn't you tell him off?"

"Uh, I'm an assistant and he's an executive, and I didn't want to lose my job." Also, I didn't want to mess up my boss' meeting. But I don't say that aloud.

A look of understanding flashes across his features. "You have my permission to tell off any asshole who dares behave inappropriately with you, except?—"

"You?" I ask timidly.

"Except me," he says slowly. "Do you find it strange that I say that?"

I lower my gaze and shake my head. "I... I find it appropriate. When you take liberties with me... It feels..." I search for the correct word then settle for, "Right?"

"Hmm."

I sneak a peek at his face to find him watching me with a strange look in his eyes.

"You didn't find it disconcerting when I?— "

"Spanked me?" My bottom pulses in response, and I resist the urge to shuffle my feet and find a more comfortable position. "I should have, but... It felt... Correct for you to do so. I made a mistake, and you punished me, so I'll remember not to do it again."

He grunts. "I'm not going to apologize for it," he warns.

"I don't expect you to."

"This doesn't mean anything." He takes a step back. "I had an urge. I indulged it. But it doesn't imply there's something here." He motions to the space between us before shoving his hand in his pocket. "Understand?"

"You mean, you're not going to marry me?" I gaze at him wide-eyed. "But please. You touched me, so you should. Imagine how happy we'll be?" I paste a goofy smile on my face. "In fact, we'll make such pretty babies.

He blanches. I swear, the man goes completely white.

It's so funny—and pathetic—that the thought of marrying me turned my very macho boss pale, I allow myself a chuckle. It's either that or cry, and no way, am I going to do that.

"Relax." With a panache I manage to drag from the depths of my being, I wave my hand in the air. "I was kidding. You spanked me. I enjoyed it. It was an interchange between consenting adults. It doesn't mean anything."

Actually, it means a lot to me, but I'm not telling him that. No one has made me feel this cherished before. The fact that he wanted me enough to spank me and bring me to orgasm...makes me feel so wanted. Something I yearned for every time a foster family told me I wasn't welcome at their place. I push the thoughts aside.

"Excellent," my boss says in a relieved tone that makes my heart squeeze in my chest.

What was I expecting? A relationship? Ha. This strange—whatever it was—was some kind of sexual encounter. And I should treat it like that. I tamp down the part of me that wishes it to be more, then square my shoulders. "Right then, best I get on with my job."

I grab my tablet and my phone, as well as my pen and notebook, and march out of the boardroom. I drop them off on my desk, then continue on down the corridor to the ladies' room at the far end. It's empty. I turn my back on the row of sinks, then pull down my skirt, my stockings, and my panties. I glance over my shoulder at my reflection.

Jesus, my entire bottom has turned red, and I can see the imprint of his palm on my butt-cheeks. I place my much smaller palm over the fingerprints. Sparks. A shudder grips me. That's hot. That's twisted. That's sexy. And I want more. I hear the sound of someone in the next stall flushing. I sit on the toilet, do my business, then straighten my clothes. I wash my hands and head out.

I spend the rest of my day getting through my to-do-list and replying to his emails, then taking notes while I sit in on his next meeting with the acquisitions team. This one passes without incident, though I flinch at the coldness in his voice and have to try hard not to show my disapproval at his instructions for the takeover of a company. He shrugs aside the fact that it can be a risk to the Davenport Group to do so, that they might be overstretching. He wants to take risks and isn't going to shy away from it.

I'm no mathematical genius, but even I can tell, it's a foolhardy move to go after this company. Or perhaps, he knows something the rest of his team doesn't.

Then, it's on to compiling the sales figures from his team, and the next thing I knew, it's five-thirty p.m. and the office has emptied out.

Mary comes by on her way out and nods at me. "Heard about what happened in the staff meeting, and if you ask me, that chump had it coming."

"Umm, okay?" I venture. "I hope it doesn't cause Mr. Davenport any problems. The guy was livid when he was being dragged out by the security guys."

"Nothing Knox can't handle." She waves a hand.

Just then, a delivery guy walks over and proceeds to place cartons of food on my desk. "Um, I didn't order that."

"It says it's for Kelly Assistant."

I sigh. So, we're back to that?

I accept the delivery, and he leaves. I stare at the cartons in bemusement. "Do you think he?—"

"Knox ordered it, all right." She gives me a funny look. "Guess he must feel sorry."

"Feel sorry?" I frown .

"For acting like a twat, which I assume he must have been over the last week."

Or was he apologizing for saying there couldn't be anything else between us and trying to smooth my hurt feelings?

My landline buzzes, and when I answer it, he growls, "Need the California team on the phone. Did the estimates for the new office in Birmingham come in? You need to brief the recruitment agency for a new Finance Director. And where's the new advertising campaign?"

I look up to see Mary wave and leave, then turn my attention back to the phone.

"The California team will call you in five minutes. The Birmingham estimates are in your inbox. The recruitment agency will send you a shortlist of candidates by nine p.m. tonight and the new advertising campaign will be in your inbox tomorrow by nine a.m."

There's silence then, "You already spoke to the recruitment agency?"

"First thing I did when I got back to my desk after the staff meeting."

"And the advertising campaign?—"

"The agency needed a few more hours. It's not going to impact the media deadlines."

"But—"

"And I know you don't want any half-baked ideas. A few more hours won't break the bank, and it'll give the creatives a chance to flesh out their concepts so there's a better chance of you receiving a campaign that's effective."

I'm sure he's going to protest, but to my surprise, he drawls, "Good call."

I blink. Then sit back in my chair and close my eyes. A smile curves my lips. I bask in his approval, enjoying the fact that I surprised him and pleased him, at the same time. All the demanding work this afternoon was worth it. A bloom of pleasure surges in my chest. "Thank you. And also, for the dinner."

"Can't have my employees starving." He disconnects.

I place the phone down slowly, then take my seat. I wrap up everything else on my to-do list, stopping to eat in between. The Chinese food he had delivered is from a well-known restaurant and tastes really good. It's also light enough that, despite my tiredness, it doesn't weigh heavily in my stomach. In fact, it revives me enough to keep going for a few more hours. I should leave. Things can wait until tomorrow, but I want to impress him with my diligence. If I work hard, surely, he'll notice and appreciate my efforts again? I'll do anything for a few more words of praise from his mouth.

At eight p.m., I stretch, then switch off my computer. I gather my things and cast a glance in the direction of the closed door of his office. I take a step in that direction, then stop.

No, he hasn't eaten yet. In fact, he didn't even ask me to get him lunch, and when I emailed him to ask, he didn't reply. Yes, he's been at work since very early; but really, that's none of my business. His family owns the company, so he's putting in the hours to build his own legacy. Besides, he's a grown man. He can take care of himself. I turn and walk away, then find I can't leave thinking of him working on an empty stomach. When he ordered the Chinese takeaway for me, he hadn't ordered any for himself. Seriously the man needs a keeper.

I sigh, head back to his door and pull it open. The office is in darkness, except for the lamp on his desk. He's working on his computer and doesn't look up when I head inside.

"Can I order you dinner before I leave?"

No answer.

"I can't have my boss starving."

Maybe it's the fact that I'm using his words back on him, that makes him lift his head. "Goodbye." That's all he says before he focuses his attention back on his screen.

Fine, whatever. I tried. I pivot and turn to leave, and I swear, I can feel his gaze follow me. But that must be my imagination.

I reach the door when he calls out, "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. And yes, you can order me dinner."

So, he was tracking my progress to the door? I turn, but he's back to looking at his computer. So maybe not. But the fact that he answered me... I take that as a positive sign.

The next two weeks, he's away for business. An around-the-world trip that has him hopping from London to LA, then onto Buenos Aires, then Singapore and Mumbai. He never misses any of his video conferences or agreements which need his signatures. Perks of having his own private aircraft, I suppose. The number of times zones this man has crossed is enough to give me a headache.

During this time, I get to know his team thoroughly, especially since he has me pass his directives to them and prefers me to answer their questions and pass on to him the ones I need help with. He insists that all communication to him be streamlined through me, and while I'm hesitant at first, I grow into my role. Surprisingly, his remaining department leads turn out to be good people who are focused on getting the job done and making his and their lives easier by working as a team. In addition to getting to know the department heads better, I also become familiar with the people reporting to them. And I come to the dawning realization that I can make a difference by helping to communicate my boss' thinking in more detail to them.

I'm privy to the workings of his mind and I realize, he doesn't have the patience to break down his strategies for his team. As a result, many of them feel lost or left behind when it comes to the implementation of his plans. I spend time breaking down my boss' ideas to his team. It results in them better understanding his intentions and appreciating the big picture which, so far, only my boss has envisioned.

It makes me feel good to do this. I feel needed. I'm bridging the communication gap between my boss and his management team. I'm making a real difference to the future of my boss' company, and I feel so happy about it.

Not that I can share this with my boss because, for the entire time he's gone, there's not one personal message from him. Nothing except official emails. Our communication has been strictly professional. I shouldn't be surprised. After all, he did emphasize there'd be nothing personal between us. And now that his handprint on my arse has faded, I confess, it's becoming difficult to remember that day.

Then, it's the day of the royal reception. When I wake up, there's a car waiting to collect me from my place to the office. So, my boss was thinking about me, after all? My chest squeezes with happiness.

He realized how difficult it would be for me to transport the clothes he sent me on the Tube. So, he made things easier for me. Despite the fact I'll be beholden to him again, I suck up my pride and use the car. Mainly because it makes me feel special that he arranged it for me. It also makes me realize he didn't completely forget about me while he was gone.

You wouldn't know it from how he barely acknowledges me when I bring him his morning coffee. Yes, he's back. And the anticipation building inside me had, perhaps, as much to do with counting down the days to his return, as it did the chance to attend this event.

The day passes with the usual rounds of meetings—with the advertising agency, then the PR agency, then the technical team, followed by a sales forecast meeting, where the numbers make my brain hurt. My boss seems energized in the meeting. Clearly, he thrives on numbers. Given the choice, he'd eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He shows no sign of letting up, and when five p.m. rolls around, I'm beat. I stretch and yawn.

I need to start getting dressed if we're going to leave by six p.m. for the royal reception.

I rise to my feet and grab the garment box I placed under the desk. I sense someone approaching and when I look up, it's to find a woman wearing white scrubs headed my way. She has a kind face and streaks of grey at her temple.

"Ms. June Donnelly?"

"Yes?" I frown.

"This way, please; your team is waiting."

"My team?"

"Your glam team, so we can get you ready for this evening."

"Glam team?" I scoff. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The phone on my desk rings. I balance the garment box on the desk and pick up the phone, more out of habit than anything else.

"You will go with the glam team and allow them to help you get dressed for the evening," my boss orders.

These are the first words he's spoken to me since he left on his trip. For a few moments, I savor the rich timbre of his words. That deep darkness of his tone. My stomach flip-flops, and I have to squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to stem the flow of moisture from my pussy.

"You hear me, Kelly Assistant?"

Oh, he didn't do that! Just like that, all of my yearnings shatter. "It's June. And don't pretend you don't know my name; you called me by it in the staff meeting." And this woman just called me 'Ms. June Donnelly.' What game is he playing at?

"You done?" he growls.

And damn, if that doesn't piss me off even more. And turn me on. Which pisses me off even more. Though secretly, I'm loving the fact that he called me and ordered me in his bossy tone. I'm so pathetic. I draw on the angry side of me and huff, "I don't need this. I can dress myself. And I have my own cosmetics."

Which is a lie. I don't wear makeup. Other than a bit of lipstick and eyeliner. Could never afford it, so never got into the habit.

"It's not about you. It's my image I'm worried about. You'll be accompanying me as my assistant, and I need you to uphold my reputation." His voice is cold and brooks no argument.

I deflate a little. I mean, it's nice to have a team to help me get dressed, but would it have killed him to come across as a little warmer, a little more enthusiastic about this process?

"Fine," I bite out.

"Fine." He slaps down the phone.

I squeeze the receiver and glare at it, then gently lower it to the cradle. I'm going to pretend my pussy is not dripping, thanks to that dark edge that laced his voice.

"May I?" The woman holds out her hand.

I glance at her outstretched palms then slide the garment box onto them.

"Follow me, please." She heads down the corridor.

Forty-five minutes later, I've had a manicure and pedicure and a quick massage, and my face has been done up, as well as my hair— all thanks to an entire team of people who sprang into action. I'm wearing the deep green Alexander McQueen, and the dress looks even more beautiful now that I'm wearing it. It's crafted from fine silk chiffon, creating a flowing, ethereal silhouette. The bodice features a V-neckline, and the sleeves provide coverage appropriate for the royal occasion.

I step onto the small platform the glam team wheeled into the conference room, which was converted into my dressing room. And yes, they've also placed a mirror in front of me. I stare at my reflection.

I removed my glasses and wore my contact lenses. The glam team has exaggerated the shape of my eyes, so they seem bigger. The brown of my irises is accentuated by the dress. My complexion is a flawless complexion, ruby red lips, hair which has been curled and left to flow down her back. And the dress—a green satin wrap dress that flatters my curves and highlights my best assets. My breasts look perfect, my waist looks tiny, and my hips… My hips are the highlight. The style doesn't hide; it aims to showcase me and my figure.

The waist is defined by a band of deeper emerald-green satin, cinched in to create a flattering silhouette. From this band, the skirt falls in gentle pleats to just above the ankle, allowing a glimpse of elegant shoes and ease of movement.

Delicate beadwork in various shades of green—from pale mint to deep forest—adorns the bodice and gradually scatters down the skirt.

I slip into the Louboutin's, which are so comfortable, I'm sure I can run in them. In addition, I'm wearing a fascinator. It's what I found when I opened the third box the delivery guys brought to my place. The dress code at the royal reception demands a headpiece. And what I have on is a headband featuring a base of fine sinamay straw, sculpted into a graceful, asymmetrical shape that curves gently to frame my face. Emerging from this foundation is a spray of long, curled ostrich feathers in a complementary shade of blush pink. When I move my head, the feathers dance and sway, adding a sense of lightness and motion to the piece. A swirl of fine netting cascades down one side, providing a soft, veil-like effect.

The headpiece elevates what I'm wearing from a normal gown to that of a dress fit for a royal reception. And the slight veil makes me feel like a princess.

"Wow," I breathe, appreciating the full effect of the eyeshadow, which makes my eyes seem so much more prominent.

"You like it?" The woman who came to fetch me earlier and who was the leader of the glam team claps her hands.

"I… I love it." Tears glimmer in my eyes. "I've never felt this beautiful."

"You are exquisite." The woman smiles. The rest of the team nods in agreement. And that burning sensation at the backs of my eyes spreads to my nose. I sniff and her features pinch in alarm. "Oh no, dear. We don't want you to spoil the makeup, do we?"

She glances at one of the other girls who moves forward and touches up my eyeliner.

Then the door opens. The hair on the back of my neck rises. My gaze locks with the devil's in the mirror. A devil in a charcoal black tuxedo and blue tie, which turns his eyes into glittering sapphires.

Instantly, the rest of the team begins to gather their bags and other equipment. In minutes, the last of them depart, leaving me with my boss.