Flex Time (Office Toy) Read online

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  FLEX TIME

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  Copyright, Legal Notice and Disclaimer:

  FLEX TIME © 2013 by Cleo Peitsche. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for entertainment purposes only.

  This book contains mature content and is solely for adults.

  Cover Photo ©2013 by Pouch Pictures

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for purchasing this ebook. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I look forward to sharing more of my stories with you.

  For the latest updates, find me on Twitter: @amazingcleo

  xoxo,

  Cleo

  One of Cunningham’s assistants placed a client folder on the edge of Elle’s desk. “It’s my wife’s birthday, so I’m going home early,” he said, already moving away. “You don’t have anything to go out, I hope.”

  “No. See you tomorrow.” Elle opened the folder and flipped through the pages of glossy ads. “You’re kidding me!”

  The assistant, who had only just disappeared out of view, stuck his head around the corner, blinking in surprise.

  “Not you,” Elle said with a distracted smile. The new client was an upscale bridal shop. Elle cursed under her breath as she looked over photos of previous campaigns. Cunningham—wealthy co-owner of Cunningham & Associates, where she worked, and one of her three demanding lovers—had to be out of his mind sending this project to her.

  She flipped through the ads trying to find a single instance where her aesthetic could be applied. The art had an elegant yet romantic quality, marked by long, flowing lines. It was confident with a touch of upper-class fairy tale.

  Her work was confident, too, but with more of an “ordinary folks” vibe. Just like her.

  Thinking that the client sought a change of direction, she dug around until she located the interview summary. Nope. They wanted a similar design to announce the opening of their newest location.

  Elle closed the folder, took a deep breath, and opened her email.

  She carefully typed: Cunningham, While I appreciate the vote of confidence, I don’t think I’m qualified for this project. Maybe it’s better if you give it to Marcy since she has a lot of experience with high-end boutiques.

  Which Cunningham damned well knew. Why was he doing this to her? He was normally all about matching the right artist to the job. She had never designed something like what this client wanted.

  Now that they were trying to begin a real relationship, did he expect her to go from awkward Elle to Elle, upscale artist? When he’d said that being in a relationship with three men wouldn’t be easy for her, she thought he meant that the logistics could get complicated.

  She typed Cunningham’s name into the recipient field. Her finger hovered over the mouse, but those few millimeters felt like an uncrossable ocean. Sending the email would mark a new phase in their relationship. Since the moment she’d met Cunningham, she had never, ever told him “no.”

  That worked just fine for sex, where they wanted the same thing: she needed to have her body full of hard, alpha males, and he enjoyed watching her struggle to accommodate and serve him, Jonathan, and Nolan.

  He liked to spank her.

  Use her.

  Make her scream his name until she went hoarse.

  Elle shifted, feeling herself getting wet. If she told him “no,” he might punish her with his large, firm hands.

  Or he might just walk away.

  A flutelike chime sounded, and Cunningham’s name popped up. Her heart fluttered in her chest—could he possibly know she was on the verge of denying him?

  But no, he just wanted a status update on the Caulfield project.

  She quickly responded that she was actually ahead of schedule, then looked at the time and decided that she deserved to take a lunch break. Because a toasted bagel slathered in cream cheese and with a slice of tomato would make everything sunnier.

  Smiling, Elle worked her feet into her heels and grabbed her phone and purse.

  Even before she’d stood up, Cunningham had sent an email back. It was one sentence long.

  Then we will have lunch together.

  Damn.

  Lunch with Cunningham wouldn’t be at the deli Nolan had gotten her hooked on. Cunningham would take her to a snooty place where an obsequious waiter would give her a black or white linen napkin based on what color skirt she wore.

  Elle looked down at her silky button-down shirtdress. It had been chosen by her lovers—they provided her a proper business wardrobe as part of her employee compensation package—and this tangerine shirtdress was one of the few semi-casual pieces.

  Fancy was nice, and she liked being spoiled, but she didn’t feel comfortable in Cunningham’s favorite restaurants. She hadn’t gone to an expensive college, she didn’t own polo ponies or a yacht, and she didn’t understand the stock market, let alone invest in it.

  When Cunningham dragged her into one of those places, she saw her inadequacy reflected in the eyes of every coiffed, manicured woman. They were wondering why a man like Cunningham, thrill-seeker, gazillionaire, built like a secret superhero, would choose her.

  She used to think she looked like the girl next door with her average body and straight, reddish-brown hair. Now she realized that she was the girl next door. Average. And that was actually ok. Too bad Cunningham didn’t seem to accept it.

  Elle closed the message. She would just pretend she hadn’t gotten Cunningham’s summons. It was the most rebellious thing she’d ever contemplated, and she immediately felt guilty.

  But geez, sometimes a girl just needed a little time to think.

  Thirty minutes later, the bustling deli had distracted her from most of her worries. Diners propped their elbows on the tables, grabbed food off each other’s plates with their bare hands. They laughed louder than they needed to, snapped photos with their phones. It was so lively, so human.

  With a pang, she regretted that Nolan was still away on personal business. The last few days a temp had been manning the receptionist’s desk where Nolan—inexplicably, since he was even wealthier than Cunningham—worked.

  She’d wanted Cunningham to admit he had feelings for her and to take their relationship beyond lust-driven gang bangs. He suggested trying it for a month, and if the fit was right, to continue on. Jonathan and Nolan had enthusiastically agreed.

  Nolan would have had insight in how to deal with Cunningham. If only she had a girlfriend to candidly talk things over with. She couldn’t just blurt out, “One of my dominant lovers is acting weird, what should I do?”

  She licked crumbs off her fingers, then picked up the second half of her sinfully rich, cinnamon raisin bagel sandwich and bit into it, savoring the satisfying toasted crunch and decadent cream cheese. As she chewed, she slowly realized that the deli’s atmosphere had changed noticeably; conversations were a bit more subdued, and women were sending meaningful glances toward the main entrance.

  Elle twisted, then immediately turned back around, but the image was burned into her retinas.

  Cunningham stood there, scanning the room for her. He was imposing, tall and broad. He had the kind of body she would have drawn if she wanted to suggest virility, confidence, and power.

  His tasteful, expensive suit couldn’t hide t
hat.

  And she couldn’t hide from him.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned back around. Their eyes met, and it was like a charge of electricity zapped between them. It was impossible to breathe; somehow all the oxygen in the room flowed right to Cunningham. The man was power incarnate.

  She felt her face reddening as a few of the women sent envious glances her way. She knew what they were thinking. Girl next door.

  Cunningham walked directly to her, shoving empty chairs aside rather than following the logical pathway, and anyone who wasn’t looking before was sure as hell staring now.

  Goddamn, but the way he came right at her was making her nipples harden in anticipation.

  “You have to order at the counter,” Elle said. Her voice sounded surprisingly steady.

  Cunningham loomed over her. From where she sat, she had an excellent view of his square jaw, perfect for nibbling and covering in kisses. Not that she’d ever tried. It’d be like cuddling up to a tiger. He tilted his chin down, his dark eyes staring right into her soul, it seemed.

  “It’s after 1:00. What makes you think I haven’t eaten lunch?”

  Damn. Oh, dammit all to hell. It was clear from the way he stared at her that he knew she’d gotten his email, and he knew she’d disobeyed him.

  “Lucky guess? You are in a deli …” she said weakly, then grabbed her soda and gulped down several mouthfuls of overly sweet liquid.

  Cunningham crossed his arms over his deep, sturdy chest. What he was thinking, she couldn’t guess. She picked up her bagel, and he reached over, took it out of her hand and dropped it onto the waxed paper.

  He pulled the paper toward him, and Elle watched apprehensively as he carefully wrapped the rest of her lunch.

  “We’ll finish this in my office.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was talking about her food or about the discussion of her avoiding his summons. “Ok,” she squeaked. She rose, but Cunningham walked to the counter. Elle nervously chewed on her bottom lip, feeling silly standing there.

  Cunningham said something in his quiet, rumbling voice to the dainty cashier, who grabbed a notepad and began jotting down his order.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. We don’t deliver,” the cashier said loud enough for Elle to hear, her pen hovering in midair.

  Cunningham stiffened, then he reached into a pocket and extracted a few bills, ohmigosh, he wasn’t … but he was.

  A three-hundred-dollar tip went into the jar just so that he didn’t have to wait five minutes for his lunch.

  The only thing Elle wanted was for the cashier to tell him no. Please, Elle pleaded, please just stand your ground.

  But the cashier’s eyes nearly popped out. She looked over her shoulder and jerked her head, and another employee came hurrying over.

  “Leave them with the receptionist,” Cunningham said.

  Elle’s jaw tightened, and she stared daggers at Cunningham, who didn’t seem at all concerned. He hooked an arm around her shoulders and steered her through the hushed deli. He didn’t appear to notice that everyone was staring at them.

  And even if he had noticed, Elle was sure he didn’t care.

  When they walked into Cunningham’s office, Elle was surprised to find Jonathan sprawled on the sofa, reading a graphic design magazine. His tie was askew and his sleeves were sloppily rolled up, revealing lean forearms. One of his long legs was draped over the sofa’s arm.

  Jonathan, with his playboy good looks and devil-may-care attitude, was in many ways the antithesis of Cunningham. Even their coloring was opposite: Cunningham was tan, Jonathan fair.

  Cunningham kept his hair short. Controlled. In the few months that she’d been working there, Cunningham was always impeccably put together.

  Jonathan’s blonde hair was perennially messy in a movie star sort of way. He was so beautiful that people often mistook him for a celebrity, and he’d gotten in the habit of quickly scrawling illegible autographs rather than trying to convince the blushing fans that they were mistaken.

  Cunningham, on the other hand, would never let himself be inconvenienced by a stranger. Sometimes Elle thought the only thing he and Jonathan had in common was that they enjoyed sharing a woman.

  “Lunch is on the way,” Cunningham. He closed the door. “Elle, strip.”

  “But—” She caught herself, her eyes wide, but it was too late; she had almost argued with Cunningham. Storm clouds gathered in his eyes.

  “Bad girl, Elle,” Jonathan chided. He dogeared the page he was reading and tossed the magazine aside, then sat up and leaned forward. An anticipatory smile touched his full lips.

  The front of his pants was already tented.

  Elle unbuttoned her silky shirtdress, soon revealing her black and tan bra and matching panties.

  Cunningham preferred her in a garter belt and stockings, so she rarely went without, but that day she hadn’t bothered; the shirtdress was a little too clingy, and the outline would have been visible. She shivered and hoped that Cunningham realized that she wasn’t trying to be disobedient.

  Jonathan reached over and gathered up the luxurious fabric as it slipped off her shoulders. He held it to his nose and inhaled, then motioned with his fingers for her to keep the clothes coming.

  She tossed over the bra, then wriggled out of the panties, swinging her hips more than strictly necessary. Cunningham leaned against his desk, his legs crossed at the ankle, his head slightly cocked as he stared at her. When Elle leaned over to step out of the panties, she snuck a glance at his pants and confirmed what she’d already spotted out the corner of her eye.

  Hard.

  Just the thought of Cunningham being all excited and ready was better foreplay than an hour of groping with most guys. But Cunningham wasn’t most guys.

  And neither was Jonathan. Or Nolan, wherever he was.

  She handed her panties to Jonathan.

  “Shoes off.”

  Elle looked at Jonathan in surprise, then hastily removed her heels. Cunningham leaned over his desk and came up with a shoebox.

  “Come.”

  Elle approached hesitantly. The last time Cunningham had personally seen to her wardrobe (as opposed to having Nolan handle it), he’d also fitted her with a remote control vibrator and sent her off with two sexy, dominant clients. It had turned into a fun if somewhat scary evening.

  He grabbed her around the waist and easily swung her up so that she was standing on his desk. Elle stayed crouched over, keeping her hands on his shoulders. Being higher than Cunningham felt wrong, psychologically. Plus, if she straightened, he’d be staring right at her pussy, and no way was she comfortable with that.

  With a smooth gesture, he flicked away the shoebox’s lid, sending it tumbling to the floor. Inside sat a pair of gorgeous shiny black stilettos with the highest heels Elle had ever seen.

  “Eight inches,” Cunningham said. He ran a warm hand from the back of her knee, slowly down her calf, and over her ankle. Elle shifted and brought her leg up, and he slipped the shoe on.

  It fit perfectly.

  “Other foot.”

  Elle slowly transferred her weight without yielding her grasp on Cunningham. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk in them. Even 4” chunky heels were sometimes a little difficult.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulder—all muscle—and balanced carefully while he put the other shoe on her foot.

  “Stand up.”

  Elle whimpered and slowly straightened, her arms out and ready to protect her face if she toppled over. Suddenly, being higher than Cunningham didn’t feel like a position of power. She was now closer to the ceiling than to the floor, and there was nothing to hold on to. She was exposed, vulnerable.

  “Move your legs apart,” Cunningham ordered.

  Behind him, Jonathan was slowly standing. His gaze roamed appreciatively over her naked body.

  Elle haltingly inched her legs apart. She breathed shallowly, trying not to do anything that might cause her to fall over. It wasn’t just the he
els; Cunningham’s desk was coated in some sort of lacquer, likely as protection from water damage.

  Whatever it was, she felt like she was standing on a patch of ice. Except if she fell, she could seriously be hurt.

  “Lace your fingers behind your head.”

  She did, slowly. She’d never thought she’d need to use her safe word just from standing, but she was tempted to now.

  Except if she used it, Cunningham might get upset. No, it wasn’t him being upset that worried her. She’d already let him down, and she didn’t want to hurt him any more than she already had.

  “Elbows back. Stand straight.” Cunningham nodded. “Now turn and face away.”

  Elle tensed up but she obeyed, moving very, very slowly, her hips neutral. If she fell, she’d have to go toward Cunningham. He would catch her.

  Of that she had no doubt.

  When she finished turning, Cunningham barked, “Stop slouching, and keep your elbows back and out.”

  Elle straightened, wondering what Cunningham planned to do to her.

  After a few minutes, her arms were getting tired, and her calves, too, because her toes vainly tried to grip the bottoms of the shoes for stability.

  The trembling started slowly, but soon she was shaking all over as muscle fatigue set in.

  Jonathan circled behind the desk and raised a hand to her pussy. She hadn’t known she was wet until his fingers slid easily over and around her folds.

  “Elle,” Jonathan said as he studied his glistening fingers, “did you know that when Cunningham or I send an email, we can see when it’s read?”

  She most certainly hadn’t.

  She swallowed and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  “You will be.” He licked his fingers like they were covered in sugar, leisurely sucking them clean. Then he nodded firmly at Cunningham.

  “Bend over, Elle,” Cunningham said. “Legs straight.”

  She obeyed, going lower and lower until her ass was in the air. She could have touched the desk if not for the heels. It was infinitely less precarious than standing straight, but Elle was more anxious than ever.