Executive Toy Read online

  Contents

  KINDLE Header

  BLURB

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Other Amazon

  EXECUTIVE TOY

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright, Legal Notice and Disclaimer:

  EXECUTIVE TOY © 2014 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 ©2014 by Cormar Covers

  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.

  Why join my mailing list? Because I release new stories at a special price to thank my readers!

  xoxo,

  Cleo

  Other Titles By Cleo

  After Forever/Bisexual Billionaire Trilogy (Threesome Romance) Careless

  Hopeless

  Fearless

  After Forever Box Set

  Office Toy Series (BDSM Gang Bang Romance) Office Toy

  Client Satisfaction

  Company Vacation

  Flex Time

  Soft Skills

  Executive Package

  Executive Toy Series (BDSM Gang Bang Romance) Executive Toy

  By a Dangerous Man (BDSM Erotic Romantic Suspense) Trapped by a Dangerous Man

  Wanted by a Dangerous Man

  Saved by a Dangerous Man

  Tempted by a Dangerous Man

  Seduced by a Dangerous Man

  (Season Two—coming soon)

  Dared by a Dangerous Man

  The Shark Shifter Paranormal Romance

  Touching Paradise

  Master of the Deep

  Oceans Untamed (coming soon)

  Blood in the Water (coming soon)

  Shark Burn (coming soon)

  Take Me Hard Series (BDSM Romance)

  Ride Me Hard

  Love Me Hard

  Use Me Hard

  Take Me Hard Compilation #1

  Push Me Hard

  Fantasy Playland Series (BDSM)

  Sleeping Lady

  Sleeping chez Sade

  Wide Awake

  Wide Open

  His Kiss

  Fantasy Playland Box Set

  Mistress Moi Series (Femdom)

  My Three Slaves

  Cuckold Chuck

  Faye-Faye and the Sadist

  Bad Boyfriend Series (Femdom Romance)

  Bad Boyfriend

  Anthologies

  Underground Erotica

  Executive Toy

  To stay alive, Lindsay has always relied on her looks and her wits. It’s not always enough, and underneath her carefully polished exterior is a desperate woman who will do anything to survive.

  When she’s called to account for her misuse of the company credit card, she hopes to flirt her way out of trouble. Instead she finds herself faced with a gorgeous stranger who is immune to her manipulation, and she’s shocked by the punishment he deals out.

  No one in the office can tell her who the stranger is, and when she encounters him again weeks later, things take another unexpected turn… times three. Three handsome, rich businessmen. In their arms, she almost feels safe.

  But she knows the truth: safe is an illusion, and staying alive is all that matters.

  Chapter 1

  It’s just after 5:00, and I can’t put it off any longer. I push away from my desk and stand, tucking my crisp white shirt into the waistband of my tight navy blue skirt. If I had known that I’d be in trouble today, I would have worn something prettier… more feminine and innocent.

  Still, this outfit was good enough to sign one new client in the morning and to re-sign an existing client in the afternoon. That doesn’t beat my record, not by a long shot, but it’s a damned respectable showing.

  Nervousness jitters down my skin. Five weeks at Sunrise Imports and I’m already in serious trouble. Now that is a record for me. There’s a very good reason I’ve had seven different jobs even though I’m only twenty-three years old, and it’s not because I’m incompetent. When you’re running from your past, sometimes you get to take little breathers… but sometimes you drop everything and go.

  I run my fingers through my waist-length blonde hair. Blonde isn’t my natural color, but I wear it like a stop sign. It works with my pale blue eyes and porcelain skin. I’m mostly Irish, but I tell people I’m Swedish. Sounds more exotic.

  With a sigh, I stand up as straight as I can. A quick glance around confirms that unless someone is hiding under a desk, I’m completely alone in this part of the office. It’s Friday; my coworkers quietly slipped away already. They all have friends and family to go home to.

  Perfect. I don’t want a witness for what I’m about to do.

  I throw my arms wide and arch my back, then I suck in a huge chestful of air and force an exaggerated smile to my face. To a casual observer, it probably looks like I’m celebrating, like I’m triumphantly crossing a finish line, the tape streaming over my torso.

  According to a sales book I read, this is a “socially dominant” position, and by adopting it for five seconds, I can flood my brain with dominant hormones, whatever those are. I’ve incorporated it as part of my sales routine to build myself up. Doing it makes me feel like an idiot, and it might be a placebo effect, but I swear it works.

  I hold the pose for the requisite time, then I tack on a few extra seconds for good luck. The man I’m about to see is a humorless troll. You want to know what he looks like? It’s most easily put like this: Donald Quackk (yes, with two k’s) is the punch line to every joke ever written about accountants.

  Head high, I walk briskly down the hallway. Well, as briskly as my tight, knee-length pencil skirt allows. The cheap office carpet feels uneven under my stilettos. I pass the break room and its olfactory cloud of coffee and microwaved popcorn. I haven’t been down this way all day, and the reason for that is because Donald Quackk’s office is just next door.

  The door is closed. I hope this means my plan worked, that he got tired of waiting for me and went home, but he was so insistent earlier that I’m not getting my hopes up. He asked me to come by when I arrived in the morning, then he stopped by to repeat the request four separate times throughout the day, each time mopping his brow with a dingy handkerchief.

  I know I’ll have to face him eventually, but if I have the weekend, I can figure out a strategy, maybe keep my job.

  Mentally crossing my fingers, I raise my hand and knock.

  “Come in.”

  Damn. I push the door open, my gaze lowered to the floor. This is not a socially dominant position, I tell myself, and I jerk my eyes to the desk.

  For a moment, everything freezes: the blood in my veins, the whoosh of the central air conditioner, the thoughts in my head.

  Donald Quackk is not the man sitting behind his desk. In fact, the man I’m staring at—and oh, god, I am staring—is the anti-Quackk, from a parallel dimension where birds swim in the ocean and fish nest in the trees.

  He is… smoking hot. That’s not an expression I often use. In fact, this is the first time that assessment has ever crossed my mind. He wears a blue pinstrip
e suit, a white shirt, and a disappointingly somber tie. But he could be wearing a spacesuit and that wouldn’t hide his obviously broad shoulders. His flawless skin is lightly tanned—from playing sports outdoors, I’m betting. Short dark hair, perfectly styled, completes his look.

  My eyes finish roaming his extra-fine body, or what I can see of it, and when I look at his face again I know I’m screwed. Because not only doesn’t his gaze sweep up and down my body in that involuntary male reflex, his eyebrows don’t even move.

  He is unimpressed.

  I’m so fired.

  Chapter 2

  The man rises to his feet. Shit, but he’s tall. I’m average height without the four-inch heels I’m wearing. If we were standing toe to toe, I’d have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact with this man.

  I hold his gaze, annoyance prickling my skin. I’m good at two things in the world. I’ve got pretty solid sales skills, which I’ve worked hard to hone, and I’m attractive. First thing in the morning, maybe just so-so. Ok, ok, it’s pretty rough. But give me twenty minutes with makeup and the right clothes, and I look like a model. Maybe not a fashion magazine cover girl, but definitely not the kind of model stuck handing out pretzel samples and coupons at the grocery store entrance. I make the most of what I have. Not saying I’m everyone’s type, but even men who prefer short, curvy girls usually give me a once-over, and they’re always polite.

  This man isn’t planning to be polite. I see it in the entitled tilt of his head.

  I kind of want to smack him.

  “Where’s Donald?” I ask. It comes out like a demand. When I’m nervous, I get defensive. It’s a weakness, I know, but I’m so rarely nervous that it’s not usually a problem.

  “Are you Lindsay?” The rumbling of his voice is make-my-panties-wet sexy.

  “Depends,” I say before I can stop myself. The man’s chin comes up in surprise, and his eyebrows draw together. His eyes, I notice, are a piercing blue.

  “Depends on what?” he asks.

  The way he says it, I can’t tell if he’s challenging me, daring me to continue down the insubordinate path I chose without meaning to. The reason I can’t tell is because he sounds curious, and I wonder if he’s actually never heard that response in a movie or a book before.

  “Depends who’s asking,” I say. “Where are you from that you don’t know that?”

  “Canada,” he says. I can tell from the tightening of his lips that I’ve annoyed him. Well, now he and I are even. “From Toronto. It’s a little city about a four-hour drive from here. I would expect someone with a college degree to know that.”

  According to my file, I have a degree from an online university. I actually took a few classes, and they were no joke. Since I can’t tell for sure if he’s being sarcastic or not, I decide to ignore what he said. “Is Donald gone for the weekend?” I ask. “He wanted me to stop by—”

  “I’ll be going over your expense account with you in his stead,” the man says. He pulls out a folder from a small stack. There is a bundle of receipts clipped to the inside.

  “Rude,” I mouth to his lowered head. Aloud I ask, “Is that all Donald wanted? No need to keep you here. I’ll just see him on Monday.”

  “We’ll do it now,” the man says. His tone leaves no room for argument. If you’ve ever been sent to the principal’s office, you know exactly what I mean. He’s so confident, so smug, that I want to throw something heavy at him. But I’ve only got one thing handy, which is my smile, and I let him have it.

  “Sure,” I say, pulling back my shoulders so my breasts strain against the front of my white shirt. “I can answer a quick question or two if it’ll help Donald.”

  The man raises his eyes from the folder to me, and for the first time, there’s a reaction on his face. Except it isn’t what I’d hoped for. It’s not that wild, desperate need to please that men often get when confronted with a pretty blonde of Playboy proportions.

  It’s amusement. And as I didn’t just tell a joke, there’s no way that’s a good sign.

  “There are twenty items of questionable merit,” he says as he peruses a list I’m too far away to read. I get the sense he’s enjoying this. “Hair salon. Receipts totaling $400.” He looks up at me.

  “What’s the question?” My palms have gotten clammy, and each breath feels like a struggle, but I do my best to keep it from showing.

  “How is that a deductible business expense?”

  I throw my smile at him again, and like the previous one, it bounces off without any effect whatsoever. “I see the confusion now,” I say airily. “I was hired to bring in new clients, you see—”

  “As are all of our sales associates.”

  I run my fingers down a handful of hair. “I’m not a natural blonde.” I say it in a stage whisper, like I’m letting him in on a secret.

  “Obviously,” he says, giving the first indication that he’s even noticed what I look like. He picks up a pen and clicks the top to expose the ball point. “However, it’s not a company expense.”

  “But I sign more business this way.”

  “I’m sure you’d do fine with red hair or purple hair or whatever your natural color is,” he says dismissively. “The expense is disallowed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That I’m not allowing you to take it.”

  At that moment, I officially hate him. “I know what the word means,” I say through clenched teeth. “What happens with disallowed expenses?”

  “You’re liable for them, of course,” he says.

  “Of course.” I would be hissing, but this arrogant man obviously has quite a bit of power over me. Getting fired is one thing… I expect I’ll be cleaning out my desk after he gets done with me. But disallowed expenses… I can’t afford to pay the company back right now.

  The worst part is that none of this should be happening. I had believed that I would have another three weeks before the expenses were reviewed. By then I could have returned to my previous town of residence and emptied out my safe deposit box there. Then it would have been easy to write the company a check and apologize for accidentally using the corporate card.

  But I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. The jerk has finished making a note in the file, and he’s running his finger down the list of expenses again.

  Then, out of nowhere, it gets weird. He’s an exceptionally good-looking man, but he’s obviously a dick. I don’t like assholes, and believe me, I meet a lot of them over the course of a day. Assholes turn me off.

  But I’m so not turned off right now. Instead, I’m wondering what kind of thrusting power he’s got, and what that broad chest would feel like under my fingernails. I want to see a crack in his armor. I want to shatter his calm exterior.

  Twisted, even for me, and I shake the thought off.

  “Nail salon visits for $120.” He looks at me. “Were you possibly hoping to sell them an automated assembly line?”

  Asshole.

  “I bite my nails if they’re not painted,” I explain. “Not only does it make for an unkempt appearance, but I tend to do it indiscriminately throughout the day. Clients don’t find it charming.”

  Blue eyes stare at me a long moment, and I think maybe he’s going to let this one through. All I need is one… just one to prime the pump, to get him on my side. I hold my breath.

  “Disallowed,” he says. He makes his note.

  “If you already know you’re going to disallow everything, why do I have to stand here and listen to you do this?”

  “I’m not disallowing everything. Here, we’ve got gas expenses.” He looks up and smiles, and he’s so gorgeous it’s unfair. “I’ll allow those.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He doesn’t react to that, but a moment later he’s frowning. “Agent Provocateur. $650.”

  “I couldn’t get through the day without their support,” I say quickly and confidently. I feel beads of perspiration break out all over.

  “It’s a
lingerie store,” he says. “Men aren’t as clueless as you seem to think. I’m disallowing—”

  “But…” I successfully interrupt him, but I’ve got nothing to say in my defense, no follow-up.

  And he just stares at me, his face that mask that makes me seethe.

  He’s enjoying this.

  I don’t even think about it, but I find my fingers on the small, cool buttons of my blouse. I slowly undo the top button and I pause, waiting for him to tell me to stop, to ask what I’m doing.

  He doesn’t, though. He’s just watching me, his eyes on my face of all things.

  Fine. Jerk.

  So I continue. The third button is right between my breasts.

  I’m angry now, so I keep going. At least that’s what I tell myself, because I’m enjoying it. Even if he isn’t watching the growing amount of soft, bare skin on display, he’s also not looking at that damned folder and yapping about my expenses.

  When the blouse is completely undone, I slowly pull the shirt open, baring my chest to him. I’m wearing a pink bra with lace on the underside of the cups. The bra thrusts my breasts up and together, making an impressive display of cleavage that is nothing like what nature gave me. Like I said, I know how to work with what I’ve got.

  Now his eyes dip down, but just for a moment. The triumph that flashes through me pales in comparison to the sudden rush of attraction I feel when I look down and see that Mr. Disallowed is pitching a family-sized tent.

  Not so immune after all. I consider saying this to him, but he speaks first.

  “What are you doing?” His firm voice doesn’t sound upset or unsettled.

  “Well, I can’t pay you back. And unlike the nail polish and hair dye, at least I can surrender the bra.”