Bossy Daddy(6)

By: Mia Madison

She reels off an address that I struggle to post to memory as I hunt through my purse for a pen.

“Report to Rachel on the thirty ninth floor tomorrow at nine. She'll fill you in on what's required.”

“But I -”

“Rachel, thirty ninth floor,” Sharla James repeats with an impatient twang.

Obviously I'm not going to get any further than that with her. The question of employment contracts and salary and everything else will have to wait until tomorrow. Or maybe Stack Industries doesn't bother with any niceties for the minion interns hired to do all the crappiest jobs even the lowest paid regular staff won't do.

“Don't be late.”


Miss James cuts the call, leaving me standing on the street in shock. She definitely hadn't seemed like she intended to even consider me for a position. The way she jettisoned me from the office after two disdainful questions told me I wasn't in the running. And here she was calling me back for a job an hour later. I guess you never can tell what's coming at you next in life.

I get home to find Amanda moving boxes into the house. The downstairs family rooms are already rearranged and almost unrecognizable. Certainly no longer comfortable. I can't move out soon enough. I scoot up to my room before Amanda notices me. I don't feel like getting into any dumb conversation. I've got a life to plan.

Now that I've got a job, I can rent an apartment and then, finally, I can get to work on my sex life. Which is non-existent and has never been in existence. I know that's bizarre for a woman in her twenties but I have my dreams of what a sex life should be and so far they haven't come close to being fulfilled.

Maybe I'm fantasizing about what love should be like, but I'm pretty sure it shouldn't be the groping tumble that every guy I've met so far has put me through. I want to feel something more than the urgency of getting some stupid V card stamped – and I bet it was a guy that came up with that terminology.

I throw a few things into a box, ready for when I move out, even though I haven't started at the job or found an apartment. Way too much advance planning, I know, but I'm so ready. Then I lay back on my bed and imagine the man who'll come over with a bottle of wine and some flowers at my new place. I'll be throwing together some pasta sauce for him, anticipating how the evening will go after we've made it through my lousy cooking.

How he'll push me up against the wall in the kitchen and pin my wrists above my head. Holding me restrained like that, so I'm vulnerable to whatever he wants to do to me, I want it to be hard and fast and out of control passion.

My hands travel down between my thighs and I'm already wet. My clit is swollen and needy for my imaginings to become reality. I close my eyes again, I need to get off. Without my permission, the same face swims up before me, making my clit throb. He's so gorgeous, all rough stubbled jaw and dangerous dark eyes.

It's wrong, but I cant help it. I stroke the length of my agonized slit and whisper Smith's name.

Chapter FIVE


I step onto the elevator – a private elevator to the thirty ninth floor – and I've already entered a different world.

On auto-pilot, I reach to the right hand panel to press the button. But there is no panel. Funny how disorienting that is, something you take for granted not being in place. I turn to the left thinking the designer of the elevator, if there is such a thing, I never imagined that as a job, has it backwards. There isn't a panel that side either. The door slides shut and for a moment I panic. I'm shut inside a box unable to make it move and with no doors open button.

“Thirty Nine, Miss Tinder?”

Oh my god, my heart goes flying out of my skin.

The elevator is not only talking to me, it knows my name.

“Yes,” I squeak. “Please.”

Are you supposed to be polite to a machine? It's not even a machine really, just a metal box on pulleys. A moving jail cell.

Then I realize we're already riding up, so smoothly I couldn't tell we'd lifted off. Still my hand reaches for the side wall, to steady myself. Smooth glass. At my touch it changes color from neutral to a soft lilac. I'm bathed in an exotic glow of light from the elevator that makes me crave a cocktail and some music by Drake. Then we leave the darkness of the shaft and the city appears, spread out at my feet.

“Oh, wow,” both my hands splay against the glass wall. I've got a tiny hint of vertigo, never expecting to be rising up above the city with only a pane of funky glass separating me and the ground.

Once I get my balance, it's beautiful. The buildings and streets are all laid out before me. This plastic-manufacturing corporation must be doing exceptionally well. Maybe it won't be as bad as I'd anticipated, to be working here.

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