Bossy pants, p.1
Bossy Pants, page 1
Bossy Pants
Tana Rose
Copyright © 2023 Tana Rose
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Tana Rose
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Also by Tana Rose
To anyone who's ever wanted to
get it on with their boss
Hating someone feels disturbingly similar to being in love with them.
-Sally Thorne, The Hating Game
Chapter 1
Lincoln
Sometimes, I hate my life.
I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, I do. Poor little rich boy. Raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, attended ivy league college, met my business partner—the billionaire Cabot Harkness—there. After we graduated, we immediately started our company, and it was an instant success. I told you I know. I understand that in the eyes of many, I live a blessed life. That the life I lead is one to aspire to.
But Jesus, sometimes I just want to feel something.
That’s the problem. For all the benefits I have in my life, I don’t feel a goddamn thing.
I barely feel the pussy that’s wrapped around my cock at this very minute. The girl bent over my desk has a fall of blond hair and a nice plump ass that jiggles with every one of my thrusts. One of my hands is pressed between her fabric covered shoulder blades, pinning her down, while the other grips her hip, just under where I’ve rucked up her skirt.
This is how sex is for me these days, always clothed, always fast and dirty. The girls don’t mind. They know what they’re getting into with me. I am Breaker’s Point’s most eligible bachelor since Cabot met his girl and became blissfully unavailable. The gossip rags delight in splashing me all over their pages, showing me with a different girl every time.
Because one thing I am not is monogamous.
So the girls know, and they don’t mind, so long as they can say they got to fuck Lincoln George.
Soft cries bloom into loud moans, and my eyes flick up to my shut but not locked door. I know my personal assistant is out there, likely trying to ignore the sounds coming from in here, but she should be used to it by now. I only have sex here or if I’m feeling like I need a longer session, there’s a sex club I frequent that provides everything I could think to use.
The girl—Valerie, I think—reaches back, trying to grip my hips to get me closer, to take me deeper, harder. I don’t fucking think so. She gasps and whimpers when I slam her hand down on the desk and keep it there. “What did I tell you?” I growl.
She whimpers again. “Not to touch you.”
“That’s right,” I snarl, squeezing her wrist. “You didn’t follow the rules, and now you don’t get to come.”
Her gray eyes widen in surprise. “Wait. What?”
“Punishment,” I groan as my balls tighten at the word. I fucking love it. Love the control and the submission that these girls give me, even if they don’t realize it’s happening.
“Linc, you can’t be-”
She cuts off as my hips stall, my head throws back as pleasure races toward me. I come, filling the condom, while Valerie tries to buck her hips to reach that point with me, but she’s not going to get it. She broke a rule. She doesn’t get to come. Simple as that.
I grunt as I pull out of her, carefully holding the condom in place to make sure it doesn’t slip. The last fucking thing I need is a pregnancy scare. Every woman I have sex with tells me they're on birth control, but I sure as fuck am not taking any chances. I always wear a condom that I provide, without fail.
She lays there, breathing heavy, pussy out and glistening like she thinks if she just waits I’ll change my mind. It’s never going to happen. Ever. My rules are the rules. I never bend them. I never break them.
She’s still there by the time I’ve discarded the condom and straightened out my clothes. A glance at the clock tells me I have a meeting with Cabot in ten minutes, so I retreat to my private bathroom, and finish putting the finishing touches on my appearance.
I know what women think when they look at me. Sex on a stick. Lust personified. A tall drink of I’d-like-to-fuck-that. This isn’t even me blowing smoke up my own ass. Those are actual comments made to me by women. I love it. I work hard on my body, on maintaining that persona.
It’s imperative to remain as put together as I can.
I take a moment to smooth my dark hair and scrub a hand over my perpetual five o’clock shadow. I haven’t been sleeping well, and it shows in the shadows under my bright blue eyes. Eyes I share with all three of my siblings.
I straighten my tie—green because it’s Wednesday—and make sure my shirt is fully tucked into my charcoal gray suit pants before I leave again.
She’s still in my office, sitting in my chair with her arms crossed over her generous breasts as she gives me an unimpressed look. “Are you serious?”
I stride to the door and hook my suit jacket off the coat rack there, slipping my arms through and smoothing out the lapels before I look back over at her. “You can find your own way out, I’m sure.” When her full lips part, like she’s going to argue with me, I hold up a hand to stall her words. “I am a very busy man, Valerie. I don’t have time to coddle someone who cannot follow specific instructions. So, let me break it down for you. I gave you rules. You agreed to them. You broke them. You were punished. End of story.”
Her mouth falls open and I swear I see a line of silver shimmer along the lower lashes. As if crying would ever sway me. “I thought it was part of the game,” she whispers.
I lift a shoulder and reach for the door handle. “It was. And you lost.”
Giovanna, my personal assistant, glances up as I step out, before lowering her eyes to her desk, waiting for any intrusion I might give her. I suppose it might be hard to look your boss in the face when you’ve just heard him fucking a woman, but really, she should be used to it by now. “Miss Peralta, will you see Valerie out please? If she raises a fuss, call security.”
Giovanna’s dark eyes flick up to the open door of my office, where I know Valerie is watching, likely with a disgruntled look on her face. I don’t turn to look, though. I wait until Giovanna nods and murmurs, “Yes, Mr. George.” And then I turn down the hall and head toward my business partner’s office.
I haven’t made it far when a honey sweet laugh reaches my ears, making my back tense and adrenaline rush through me. “Well, I’m glad you like them,” says a voice that sets my teeth on edge, laced with the slightest southern accent.
“Seriously, Liv, you’re wasted here. You should open a bakery. You’d make a killing on the donuts alone.”
My teeth grit.
The laugh sounds again, as Liv—Olivia Hart—brushes off the compliment. “Oh, shoot!” she blurts. “Is that the time?”
Without another word, I hear the steady clop, clop, clop of cheap heels on the linoleum, and then the woman herself appears, darting out of the breakroom for this floor with a cup of black coffee in one hand, a plate of what looks like almond poppyseed muffins in the other, and a stack of files wedged into her armpit, precariously close to sliding out and spilling on the floor.
She pulls up short when she sees me hovering in the hallway with a scowl on my face. I can’t help it. Anytime I’m around this woman, my mood sours. I think it has to do with how endlessly, relentlessly cheerful she is. She’s so sweet it makes my teeth ache. Everyone knows teeth pain is the worst.
She arches one dark blond brow and shifts on her Target heels, drawing attention to her long slim legs and curvy as fuck hips. “Can I help you with something, Mr. George?” Her tone, while polite, is decidedly less sweet whenever she talks to me. That radiant smile she gives to everyone else, the one that reaches her amber eyes and plumps up her freckled cheeks, is nowhere to be seen.
It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. Olivia Hart doesn’t like me. She’s not the first and she certainly won’t be the last. I roll my shoulders, like I’m shrugging off the weight of her dislike, and jerk my chin at the stack of paper under her arm. “Are those the charity initiative files?”
She gives a jerky nod, shifting again. “Yes.”
“I’ll tak
“I can’t give you them,” she says, meeting my gaze.
I sigh and resist the urge to swipe a hand over my face. It would give too much away if I did. It’s bad enough that I already sighed around her. “Give me the files, Miss Hart.”
Her jaw tightens at my harsh tone. I watch her breasts rise, straining the buttons on her shirt, as she takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “I can’t give them to you-” she starts.
I cut her off, reaching for the files again. “I am your boss, Miss Hart. You work for me. Give me the damn files.”
Another step back as she thrusts the plate holding the muffins in my direction that’s going to stop me. “Hold your britches, bossy pants. I work for Mr. Harkness, not you. He asked for these files, so I’m taking them to him. I can send you the digital versions when I get back to my desk, if you’d like?”
“Bossy pants?” Her cheeks flush pink as her teeth sink into her lower lip. Fuck. She has to know what the sight of that would do to any heterosexual man. An image of my teeth replacing hers, testing the plushness of her mouth, hits me, and I have to take a moment to force the thought away.
Olivia’s gold eyes look away from me. “I’m sorry. I just… he needs the files. I’m already late taking them to him.”
Another sigh puffs out of me. “Olivia.” Her eyes widen at my use of her first name. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve never called her that before. “I’m heading to a meeting with Cabot to discuss the charities. They look like they’re about to drop.” I motion at her full hands. “I was trying to help you.”
I keep my voice carefully disassociated, like it is anytime I interact with an employee. There have been too many times where a female has read too much into my actions, my words, and tried to seduce me, which results in me needing to fire them. I may be Breaker’s Point’s reigning man whore, but I don’t fuck my employees. I don’t need my work life to get messy.
I mean, messier than it already is, what with my tendency to bring women here to fuck.
Her cheeks go pink, and her plush mouth falls open in a surprised ‘o’ that invites a hard cock to slide through them. I push the thought away again, even as my dick stirs to life in my pants. “I’m sorry, Mr. George,” she says, eyes dropping submissively to the floor. Her lowered lashes and contrite tone do nothing to combat the half chub I’m currently sporting. “You caught me on a bad morning.”
I want to say something about how she seemed fine, chatting with Jake from marketing, but I don’t want her to think that I care, because I don’t. Of course, I don’t. “We all have bad mornings, Miss Hart. It doesn’t excuse inappropriate behavior.”
She tips her chin down even farther as she nods. Fuck, I’d love to see her do that when she’s on her knees in a waiting posture.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Lincoln? You don’t shit where you eat.
“May I?” I motion at the files again and this time she doesn’t move as I reach for them. My fingers curl around the paper, my knuckles brush against the side of her breast, and I hear her sharp inhale at the contact. A spark zings up my arm and I have to grit my teeth against the further swelling in my pants. From just barely touching her breast.
Fuck.
As soon as the files are secure in my hand, she jerks back and stumbles to the side, rushing around me to head to Cabot’s office. I trail behind her, watching her heart-shaped ass in her ill-fitting skirt that looks like it was maybe fashionable thirty years ago, but now just looks dated.
I don’t know much about Olivia. She’s only been working here for a month, but I know that all of her clothes are second hand or bought at Target. Cheap versions of the nicer brands most of our employees splurge for. None of her clothes are tailored to her body, and thank God for that, because Olivia Hart dressed in clothes that actually fit her? Forget about it. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her.
She glances over her shoulder at me as she reaches Cabot’s office, checking how close I am, if I’m following her. Spoiler alert: I am. Bobbing along in the wake of her scent that reminds me of a sun-drenched field full of wildflowers, soft and delicate and sweet.
I fucking hate that smell.
I can’t get it out of my fucking head.
I’ve taken to mostly avoiding her in order to avoid the scent. But even though Cabot and my offices are on opposite sides of this floor, with the breakroom, a conference room and two other offices in between, I still catch whiffs of Olivia Hart and it makes me fucking hard every time.
Like now as I step into my business partner’s office, I’m sporting a half chub that only gets worse when Olivia bends over to place the coffee and the muffins on Cabot’s desk, skirt pulling tight over the curve of her ass.
“Mr. George has the files you asked for,” she tells him as she straightens, sliding her delicate hands over her thighs to smooth out her skirt where it’s ridden up.
Cabot looks up at her, a smile on his lips, but he doesn’t dip his gaze lower than her face. Cabot has always been the consummate gentleman where women are concerned. He treats all the women in the office like humans, like they matter, whereas I hired my assistant based on the symmetry of her face and the size of her rack.
My point is that Cabot is the boss everyone wants. I am… not.
“Thank you, Liv.”
She tips her head, sending blond hair sliding over her shoulders. “Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Harkness?”
He reaches for the muffin and breaks off a piece before popping it in his mouth. My brows arch at the groan that leaves him. It’s as inappropriate as I’ve ever seen him in any of his interactions with employees. “Jesus, Liv. Did you make these?” He shakes his head, breaking off another piece. “What am I saying? Of course you did. You might have missed your calling.”
Liv laughs, nervous and shy, pink flooding her face as she looks away from him, down at the floor, hands clasping together in front. “Oh, heavens, no. I could never be a baker. I just like to stay busy.”
Cabot grins at her. “I know. But you have a gift.”
I clear my throat, hating the way they’re interacting with each other, hating that he’s making her blush in a good way with compliments. Unlike me. I always make her flush with frustration. Which, if I’m honest, is adorable as hell.
“Maybe you should bring some to Verity,” I say her name like a reminder. To both of them. They shouldn’t be fucking flirting when he’s happily in love with another woman. Verity deserves better than that.
Cabot’s eyes flash to mine, a brow arched at my harsh tone, but I ignore him. Moving to the window to look out. Olivia doesn’t miss a beat. “I can wrap up some of what’s left if you want to take it home to her.”
I can hear the smile in Cabot’s voice as he says, almost gently, “Thank you, Liv. That would be great. Verity will love these.”
There’s a click of her heels and then the soft closing of the door. My shoulders relax as I feel her absence, no longer bearing the weight of her presence. “Care to tell me what the hell that was?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and turn to face my business partner. “Nope.” My chin jerks to the files on his desk. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
Chapter 2
Olivia
“What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?” I mutter to myself as I tidy the break room. No one else on this floor does it, so it’s almost always me that loads the little dishwasher, wipes down the counter and rinses the coffee pot at the end of the day. There’s an espresso machine that I have yet to learn how to use that also needs a good wipe down, every so often. Once a week I go through the fridge and toss anything past its expiration.
I don’t mind the act of cleaning, especially when I’m nervous. Or upset. Or frustrated. Basically, any time my brain is spiraling, I enjoy cleaning. I enjoy keeping my hands busy. Organizing the clutter helps me organize my mind.
Unfortunately, this happens so often here that there isn’t much for me to clean up. I’ve already reorganized all the paper files, instituting a much easier to navigate system than what Mr. Harkness’s previous assistant used, which seemed to be by account date and not by name. Don’t ask me how she found anything.
