His hand stays on my shoulder as he watches me take a sip of my drink. “Hey, we’re good, right? I didn’t mean to overstep today…”
Quickly shaking my head, I give him a reassuring expression. “Yeah, we’re good. She’s just my secretary. I was serious.”
Holding his hands up in surrender, he nods. “I believe you. I was just having a little fun. I didn’t mean to—”
“Garrett, it’s fine. She’s just…too young for all of this. I didn’t really want her getting involved.”
I know before the words are out of my mouth that it’s a hypocritical thing to say. We have plenty of twenty-one-year-old women working for us. Subs, Dommes, dancers, waitresses, performers, whatever. As long as they are of age then age doesn’t matter.
“You were about to tell me where you found her,” he says with a quizzical wrinkle in his brow.
A minute ago, I was about to tell him, but suddenly I’m not ready. Once I let it out that I’ve hired my son’s ex-girlfriend, things will get complicated. It’s almost like I don’t want them judging me for something I haven’t even done yet. Nothing sexual can occur between me and Charlotte. I hired her solely for the purpose of trying to get my son back—how, I’m still not quite sure, but it has to work. All that matters is I don’t cross that line.
“Another time,” I mutter over the rim of my glass.
“Hey,” Hunter says, holding up his drink, “can you guys believe we’re finally doing this? We need to toast.”
“We’re still six weeks away,” Maggie reminds him. “Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m not jinxing it. The sign is on the door, the opening event is scheduled. We’ve hired a staff and have a full membership. You guys…we’re opening a fucking sex club.”
“Cheers to that,” Garrett says, lifting his drink.
The rest of us echo him, clinking our glasses before throwing them back, and then we fall silent as the words settle in. We’re opening a fucking sex club.
RULE #11: DON’T COMPARE YOUR HOT BOSS TO YOUR DAD MOMENTS BEFORE TOUCHING HIS HEART LINE.
Charlie
“Oh my God,” I stammer, opening my email to find a picture of a woman suspended from the ceiling, naked and wrapped in black cord. She looks like she was caught in a fishing net, and although I can’t see her backside clearly, I’m willing to bet it’s in a prime location for…access.
Emerson furrows his brow as he glares at me.
“Everything all right?”
“These applications…”
A deep chuckle echoes from his corner of the room, and I look up at him in shock. “I mean, what even is this?”
He stands and walks over to see my computer screen. Resting his hands on the back of my chair, he leans over me and stares at the same image I am. “It’s called Shibari,” he says quietly, his deep voice rumbling through my body.
“Is that something you…hire people for?” I ask, gulping on a breath.
“It was Garrett’s idea to have a rope bondage presentation, so we need a few experts to demonstrate.”
“It looks like it hurts,” I grimace. It’s difficult to look at, and even more uncomfortable to be scrolling through the various pictures this woman has sent with Beau’s dad standing over my shoulder.
“You’d be surprised how many people want to be tied up and…”
I turn my face and gaze up into his eyes. When he looks back down at me, my skin grows hot.
“That’s a little more than tied up,” I reply in a low whisper.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” he says.
I drag in a deep breath, inhaling the cedar musk scent of his cologne.
“Have you?” I ask carefully.
“Been tied up like that?” His tone is laced with humor as he leans back. I can no longer smell his cologne, and it’s disappointing. “No.”
“I meant…never mind.” This is getting uncomfortable. The notion I held two weeks ago about being able to be a sex club owner’s secretary without talking about sex is basically out the window. We keep cornering ourselves in conversations that inevitably end up inappropriate. It doesn’t help that I don’t know when to quit. “I ask too many questions.”
“Yes, you do.”
It also doesn’t help that over the past fourteen days, I’ve grown more and more attracted to Emerson. Maybe it’s curiosity or daddy issues or just a plain old crush, but the fact that he’s forty has become attractive instead of sickening. Most guys my age are a mess. Emerson is the epitome of perfection. Everything he owns is upper-echelon expensive and even his skin is clear and perfect. I find myself wanting to run my fingers through his short beard and scratch my nails through his salt-and-pepper hair.
And I bet a man his age has more skills in bed than a guy who’s only been doing it for a couple years. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
Looking back at the image on the screen, I think about the woman in the photo. She’s beautiful with long black hair and a body most of us would kill for. I wish for one moment I could have the confidence it must have taken to be in the life she’s living. And I don’t mean tied up, but knowing what she wants and going out and taking it.
Emerson hasn’t brought me back to the club since the first day, when he caught me in the throne room with Garrett. Even if he mentions needing to go see Hunter or Maggie, he scowls and adds, “I’ll go later.” As if to say, he’d rather go alone.
I find his overprotectiveness both endearing and annoying. My father was vainly protective in a way that never felt genuine. He tried to tell me the boys I couldn’t date but only because he was territorial and stubborn.
Emerson is protective in a different way, although I can’t put my finger on how it’s different.
The job itself is cake. I go through his emails for him, forwarding the applications to Garrett, the mundane stuff to Maggie, the building stuff to Hunter, and the financial stuff to Emerson. Then I bring him coffee, do lunch runs, file paperwork, and take notes while he’s on calls.
And I’m actually starting to get comfortable in my new clothes. I found a boutique online that delivers quickly and has the cutest secretary-style clothing I have ever seen. I love the look on Emerson’s face each day as I stroll in, scanning my body with his eyes. I have learned that when he bites his lower lip and looks away, he dislikes it. When he compliments me with a simple, “You look nice,” he just thinks it’s okay. But when he stares too long, clenching his fists and letting out a deep sigh, then he really, really likes it.
He asks me about my personal life a lot more than I expected him to, and I tell him about Sophie—without giving away anything personal or going into too much detail. And I tell him about my mom, and how my dad left. He scowls when I bring up my dad, but he doesn’t say much, probably feeling like it’s really none of his business to assert his opinion.
And he always asks me about Beau, but I can tell it’s hard for him to bring him up. He doesn’t push me to call him anymore, not after I told him how Beau treated me. And it makes me wonder sometimes if Emerson will still keep me as his secretary when he realizes that I’m not going to lure Beau back home. If I can’t bring his son back, I’m basically useless to him—at least where Beau is involved.
“I need your opinion,” he says from his desk as I click Send on the roped-up girl, shooting it over to Garrett with a click of a button.
He’s sitting at his desk, staring at his computer. I pull up the chair across from him and settle on my knees as I lean over his giant mahogany desk.
“What’s up?”
“The club opening party is next month, and I can’t decide between these two suits.” I pause, glancing at his face before turning toward the screen. Emerson Grant is asking me for fashion advice. That would be like me asking a Golden Retriever to help me do my taxes.