Page 20 of Undeniably Corrupt (Boston’s Irresistible Billionaires #7)

I ’ve been staring out my window all morning after my breakfast with Liora when Alesha pops her head into my office.

“Can we please get rid of your new assistant?”

That catches my attention, and I spin around to face her, my hands on my lap. “Why?” Liora mentioned that Alesha is jealous of my past relationship with her, and it’s clear as day to anyone that Alesha doesn’t like her. But I wonder if there’s something else.

“Because she’s incompetent,” she snips, entering my office uninvited and shutting the door behind her.

Boldly, she walks over to me and sits on the corner of my desk, crossing her legs in her skirt and allowing it to rise up to her mid-thigh.

I don’t look, not even the least bit tempted, and she frowns.

Alesha is older than me by at least five or so years. When I hired her, she was still married. This flirting or sexual advances, or whatever you want to call it, didn’t start until her divorce was finalized about six months ago. I’ve been ignoring it, but since Liora came on, she’s upped her game.

“How is she incompetent?” I ask.

Other than being new and knowing nothing about cybersecurity, everyone else on the floor seems to adore Liora. She’s sweet and personable, and I happen to know she adjusts things on my calendar for my staff when they need it.

“Come on, Vander. You know she is. She doesn’t know the first thing about cybersecurity. More than that, she’s creating issues. She removed my access to your calendar, and when I confronted her about it, she said you’re the only person who should have access.”

That stops me for a minute. I had no clue Alesha—or anyone else, for that matter—had access to my calendar.

Not that it has anything on there but work shit, but still.

Liora removed her access to protect me and my need for space and privacy.

Champagne must have allowed it, as no one else could have.

Alesha continues to rant on about ten things she feels Liora is doing wrong, which are either bullshit or aren’t part of her job description. “I understand she’s your ex-girlfriend or whatever, but?—”

“That’s not why I hired her.”

She likes that response and bends forward a little, trying to tempt me with a peek of cleavage, and I just can’t with this. I just can’t.

“She’s right about my calendar, Alesha. No one should have access but me.”

She flushes, growing defensive. “There are more issues than just the calendar. You know that.”

“I’ll speak to her.” Because I didn’t mention Vega or her father the other day, and I need another read on her.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

At breakfast we didn’t talk about work. We didn’t talk about Lavender Lake or her family or mine either.

We fought over movies and music, and she asked me about my drumming.

It was fun, and it felt like a date despite my saying it wasn’t .

Alesha touches her chest. “You’ll do that for me? You’ll fire her?”

“No. I said I’d speak to her. I never mentioned firing her, nor do I plan to. And any conversation I have with my assistant is for me to have and not you or anyone else. And if I discover that you’re being rude or disrespectful to her, you and I will have a problem.”

“But Vander?—”

“You can go now. Thanks for bringing your issues to my attention. I’ll speak with her about them now.”

With a pinch of her lips, she quietly gets her bony ass off my desk and leaves my office. My phone sits quietly on my desk, and I pick it up.

Me: Will you come in here for a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.

Angel: And that’s something you can’t do via text or phone?

I sigh. This girl.

Me: Obviously not if I’m asking you to come in here.

Angel: I’ll be right there, sir.

Brat.

A minute later, she’s at my door holding her iPad against a hideous floral dress that’s a little too big. All of her clothes are like this. Ill-fitting and old. My teeth are set on edge.

“What are you wearing?”

She sighs. “I spilled soup all over my sweater and pants and had to change. Thankfully I had a spare outfit here.”

“Close the door.”

She does, walking awkwardly in her shoes that are as ugly and beat up as her dress. I noticed them this morning and hated them then.

“Are your feet okay?”

Then something hits me. Was she dancing last night? Is that why she’s walking like that?

She stops and glances down at her feet, only to laugh. “Um, yeah. My shoes are a little tight.”

“Come here,” I practically growl and tap the edge of my desk where Alesha was just sitting.

“What? No. Why?”

“Not everything has to be a fight, Liora. Just come here.”

She does her best to walk like her feet aren’t killing her, but it’s a hard sell.

“Will it hold my weight?” she asks as she stares warily at the glass.

“Do you think I’d let you sit on it otherwise?”

I get a cheeky smirk. “One never knows with you.”

I roll my eyes and point, and dutifully she sits, crossing her legs the way Alesha did, but adjusting her awful dress so it doesn’t ride up. Except that’s not going to fly with me. Rolling over to her, I grab her feet and set them in my lap, startling her.

“What are you doing?”

I slip her shoes off one by one and drop them to the floor. “Were you dancing last night?” I ask as I start to rub at the red lines indented into her small feet. She always had such cute, small feet with bubblegum pink toenails. Now her toenails are bare, and her feet are overworked.

Her breath hitches as I get to a particularly sore spot, her eyes on my hands as I work her feet. “Is that what you called me in for? To ask about my feet and if I was out dancing last night?”

“Just answer me.”

“Vander, what are you doing…” Her voice trails off, and her ey es practically roll back into her head as a soft moan escapes her lips. “God, that feels good.”

Before I know what the fuck I’m doing, or maybe because I have little to no self-control when it comes to her, I slide her on the desk and shift her around until her legs are no longer crossed and she’s sitting directly in front of me.

Her eyes snap open wide, her jaw slipping as I work the balls of her feet while spreading her thighs wider for me. “What are you doing? We can’t.”

“I hate you in that dress. I hate you in these shoes. I hate you fucking dancing.”

She shakes her head, her blonde hair bouncing around her arms and chest. “That’s not your call to make. None of it is. My life, my choices.”

She’s right, and I hate that too. It’s driving me crazy.

I want to dress her in beautiful and expensive things that only I get to take off her.

I want her beneath me, writhing in ecstasy as I make her come over and over again.

I want my name on her lips and all that fear and all those dark shadows beneath her eyes eradicated forever.

The only thing Liora James should know is fucking happiness because despite the shit hand she’s been playing for far too long, she’s all smiles and laughter and teasing jokes.

She’s goddamn sunshine, and that’s the only thing that should ever be in her life. Not darkness.

I’m an idiot. She could be out to hurt me, but instinctively I don’t think she is.

I don’t think that’s who she is. Still, it’s so difficult for me not to be jaded after what happened at MIT.

They were my friends. My closest there. I trusted them.

And then they betrayed me. But it wasn’t just a knife to the back.

It was shackles on my wrists and ankles and orange jumpsuits.

It was a universal wake-up call to be wary and distrustful because everyone, fucking everyone , has their own agenda .

My thumbs dig in, rubbing circles into her soft flesh. I’m hard and mesmerized by her response.

“How did this become your life? Do you really have nothing to do with your family?”

She tries to jerk her feet away, but I’m not letting them go. Instead, I widen her legs until they’re on either side of my hips, and I can see straight up her dress to the scrap of satin covering her pussy. Then I move my ministrations up to her calves.

“Fuck.” Her eyes close and her head falls back, and Christ, she is fucking stunning. “Please stop doing this, and please never stop.” She shakes her head. “Why are you asking me things and touching me like this?”

I don’t have an answer. I honestly don’t. She’s near me, and I touch her. It’s how I seem to be programmed. It’s how I was always programmed. My best friend told me he’d kill me if I ever touched his little sister, and still I couldn’t stay away.

“Answer me.”

“No. I won’t talk to you about it, so don’t ask. You can rub me till your fingers fall off, but that won’t change.”

Interesting. And alarming, considering the visit from Vega. I shouldn’t be touching her for more reasons than she’s my assistant. She has power over me, something I’ve given to no one else, and it seems whatever secrets she has exploit that.

My hands continue to rub and knead, climbing higher. “Tell me about your ex.”

“What’s there to tell, ah—” My fingers tickle over her panties, her pussy so warm with a sweet little wet spot staining them right over her cunt.

“Put your hands back on the desk and open your thighs wider for me.”

She glances toward the door, but I’ve already pressed the button that tints the glass to opaque, and the door is shut. No one can see her, and no one ever enters when my door is closed, at least not without knocking. Her hands fall back to the glass, her hips angling up and toward me.

“Now tell me.”

“I can’t talk about him while you’re doing that.”

“Yes, you can.”

I scoot her closer to the edge of the desk where her pussy is right in front of me.

Then I go back to massaging her feet because I want her to tell me something true, and I think this is one she will. I’m planning to do things to him, but I need to know how far I should go with them.