“Mr. Buckingham’s asked that I deliver you to his residence,” he answers professionally.
I can’t help the satisfied smirk that tips up the right corner of my mouth. I powder my face, freshen up my lipstick, and release the top four buttons of my silk blouse. I had breast augmentation surgery a few months ago because age and the pregnancies had taken a toll on the girls. They look phenomenal now, and I’m not beneath showing some cleavage to leverage advantage. Mr. Buckingham and I had some chemistry during our last meeting; I felt it. And you can be damn sure I’m going to use that to my benefit tonight. Let the vixen siege began.
His residence is what can only be called an estate nestled cozily behind an elegant iron fence and automated gate. The moment I lay eyes on his opulent home I’m sent into a daydream tailspin; visions of living here with him and reigning over his empire by his side involuntarily dominate my every thought. My mind and body are vibrating with need. A need that’s completely driven by power and money. A need I will do anything to satisfy.
Fuck the fa?ade I’ve been living, I want this instead. This is my destiny.
The driver pulls into the circle drive and ushers me to the front door, after which he hops back into the vehicle and disappears around the back of the house with my overnight and garment bags.
I’m greeted stiffly at the door by an elderly, regal-looking woman. She side eyes me, and I’m left wishing I had two additional buttons secured on my blouse.
That is until Mr. Buckingham joins us in the expansive foyer, and I notice as his eyes slowly run the line from my five-inch stilettos up my tanned legs to the hem of my unquestionably short, but tasteful, designer skirt before skipping to, and pausing appreciatively on, my cleavage, where he pairs a quick eyebrow raise with a sexy smirk. His eyebrows resume their natural position, but the smirk remains in place when his eyes find mine, and he addresses, “Mrs. McIntyre, so nice to see you again.”
The elderly woman huffs her disapproval and walks away without a word.
Mr. Buckingham leans in too closely to be deemed socially acceptable and whispers, “My mother, please excuse her. She forgets sometimes.”
I smile flirtatiously at his words and ask, “Forgets?”
“That though I’ll always be her son, I am a grown man.”
I nod. Still smiling.
“Who can appreciate an exquisite woman when he sees one,” he continues with a wink. His stare is weighted with an intensity that has me trapped. Unable to move. This is a test. I can feel it. He’s waiting for my reaction.
He’s waiting for me to melt into a puddle at his feet, which is, I’m assuming what most living, breathing women would do. Accepting the compliment with such an overenthusiastic reception that they look a submissive fool by the end of the short, but telling, exchange. Two can play at this game, I think as I lift an eyebrow in challenge.
His smile is undeniably flirty, and he chortles in response. “I knew I liked you from the very beginning, Miranda. We’re going to work well together.”
My heart does somersaults. The position is as good as mine, and I haven’t been here five minutes.
The rest of the afternoon is comprised of business related discussion. Poring over reports. Asking my opinion on several hypothetical, disastrous scenarios and how I would handle them if I were in charge. Asking what changes I would make if I had the full control necessary to do so. Discussing where I see myself in five years, ten years, twenty years. I answer every question confidently. I’m outstanding at my job and have a clear-cut vision of the direction this company needs to head to flourish over the next decade. I don’t just want to grow the company, I want it to be the best in its field. I want to annihilate the competition.
He smiles approvingly while I speak. And it’s not a smile to pacify and keep me talking, he loves what I’m saying. He can feel the passion in my words. They mirror his.
He asks me to stay and join him for dinner.
I do.
Then he asks me to stay and join him for a glass of wine.
One glass turns into two.
Then three.
Three leads to a not-so-innocent exchange on the settee in the living room: playful quips, flirtatious touches, and loaded glances coupled with telling conversation.
When talk becomes laced with brazen innuendo, he offers a fourth glass. I decline and boldly ask, “Are you trying to rid me of my inhibitions?”
I know the telltale signs of sexual desire in a man. I’m practiced in luring them out. The hungry eyes, nostril flare, deep breathing, muscle rigidity, not to mention his cock impressively filling out his dress slacks. He wants me so badly he’d take me right here on the settee in his living room. He licks his lips. “Maybe.”
I flick one more button open on my blouse and whisper, “I don’t have many, but I left them at the door when I came in today.”
He doesn’t ask me to stay and join him in bed.
But I do.
He tells me I’m his new VP the first time I make him come.