Chapter 8 - Werewolves of Wallstreet Series Novel Free Online

“Good. My first paycheck should cover the first big tuition payment, and then we can work on chipping down the room and board debt.”

My mom shakes her head. “I can handle the loan payments. This isn’t your responsibility, you know.”

“It’s only fair. The reason I can land a job on Wall Street is because of the education I got. I’m paying it forward.”

A few years after my birth, my mom received a letter informing her of funds available for my education, and instructing her to send me to school here. The money came from a mystery donor, but it doesn’t take a huge leap of logic to guess that it was from my father’s side of the family. Hush money for the bastard child.

That’s how I ended up at Landhower. It was supposed to be a gift, a boon to give me a leg up in life. A panacea for all the years growing up with a single mom who scraped together enough money to buy me school clothes and also make rent. She couldn’t afford child-care, so I hung out with Aubrey in our apartment building after school and lived on generic brand mac and cheese that I learned to make myself.

For four years, I walked these halls with rich kids, knowing my douchebag dad was once one of them. That I was unwillingly part of his legacy. I’d have preferred going to a public school over accepting scraps from my sperm-donor’s table, but my mom was so excited for me. She even scrambled to get a job here, so Brayden could also attend under the free tuition program for staff members. His daddy wasn’t rich enough to assuage his guilt by paying his bastard’s tuition. Brayden has no money for college.

But with my new job, I can make it right. I just have to last four years.

“Are sure you’re all right, honey?” My mom tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, just like Aiden Adalwulf did earlier today. I force my grimace from my face.

“Of course. Just hungry. I worked through lunch today.”

“Oh, we can’t have that. I’ll call your boss, tell her it’s illegal not to give you a break.”

“My boss is a him now. I got a promotion.” I imagine her dialing Blackthroat and scolding him and shudder. That would get me fired for sure.

“That’s wonderful! We have to celebrate.” She bends to close down her computer and links her arm with mine. “Brayden’s first week of school and your promotion. I knew you’d knock their socks off.”

“Mmmm.” We head out of the ivy covered office building to the staff parking lot. I’m climbing into my mom’s faded Prius when I spot Forbes the frat boy. He zooms by in a red Range Rover, blasting trap music, eyes half on the road and half on his phone. He seems to have shaken off his disappointment about his failing grade.

In the morning, my mom will get a call from his father accusing her of misunderstanding his son’s genius. Forbes will get a pass. And when he grows up, he’ll get a VP position at the Fortune 500 company founded by his grandfather and an assistant who holds his whole world together and puts out the fires he starts.

An assistant like me.

Was Brick Blackthroat ever an entitled teen, slouching around a private campus in a nondescript t-shirt and hoodie that cost more than my mom’s car? I try to imagine him here, goofing off with his frat bros, and I can’t. He’s too focused, too competitive. All the privilege in the world isn’t enough if you’re driven to be the best. You can cut corners and fake it to the world, but deep down, you know.

Blackthroat won’t settle for less than the top prize in anything. School, sport, or now capitalism-it’s all a game he plays to win. He holds himself, and his college-buds-turned-executives, to the highest standards. No whining, no excuses. He wouldn’t slink into his professor’s office to ask for an extension. He’d study all night, ace the quiz, and ask for more work.

I can relate.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t hated every minute of my time at Moon Co. It’s a challenge, and I love a challenge. It’s a no BS, high stakes culture molded by the drive for ultimate success. If I survive, I could thrive.

I don’t know what’s more unsettling: the fact that I might be a fit for Moon Co. or that deep down, Brick Blackthroat is like me.

Madi

A week later, I strut into work in a new dress and heels. Over the weekend, Aubrey and I went to a boutique I’ve always loved and bought a sexy new outfit to celebrate surviving my first week. My salary is six figures, plus a bump in pay after the probationary period.

If I last.

I’m working hard to decode everything that makes up Brick Blackthroat. He has two main expressions: a surly glare and a disgusted glower. He gets irritated by all interruptions and interacting with anyone but his executive team (including or especially me). For that reason, he appreciates when I’m direct. He doesn’t have time or attention span for beating around the bush. I credit my success with my job negotiations to being direct. It was easier for him to agree and get rid of me since my requests made sense.

Other than the water bottle incident, which we have both apparently decided to never mention, we have a decent working relationship. He definitely doesn’t like to take or return phone calls, so I’m working on trying to get more information out of people when they call to see if I can deal with them myself or redirect them to someone else at Moon Co.

Mr. Blackthroat exits the elevator, and I get up from my desk and come around to thrust the most pressing phone messages at him. “Mr. Benson’s assistant tried to cancel your one to one, so Benson Senior could make tee time, but I got the country club to book a private room for him to give you fifteen minutes. I also have an update on the Adirondack land-“

Blackthroat stops and pivots, ignoring the phone messages I’m trying to thrust at him. He glares at my new dress. Specifically, at the cutout of my chest. It’s one of the peek-a-boo dresses that shows a little skin. Tasteful, but flirtatious. That’s what the saleswoman said, anyway.

Blackthroat looks like the sight, or rather hint, of my cleavage absolutely disgusts him. “What is this?” He waves a hand over my chest.

“Excuse me?” I keep my voice polite but firm.

“Why am I seeing your cleavage?”

I look down to make sure my tits aren’t hanging out-they aren’t-then slowly look back up, making a moment out of it.

Frankly, I’m a little pissed. Up to this point, the Big Bad Boss hasn’t personally offended me. I tend to have thick skin. But I happen to think I look great in this dress, and there is definitely nothing shameful or wrong with it. Also, it feels personal. His usual complaints and reprimands are related to job performance, not the way people look.

“There is no cleavage,” I clip because it’s true. The window cut-out in my dress is well above the cleavage area. “Just the skin above my breast bone. Why do you find it offensive?” I tilt my head like I’m genuinely curious, but I’m sure he doesn’t miss the flash of anger in my eyes. “Do you have a hard time seeing skin?”

A muscle tics in his jaw. I’ve gone too far.

“Enough,” he warns, holding up his hand. “Don’t wear that again.” I’m already dismissed, and he’s on his way to his office.

I watch his retreating back, still annoyed. “Should I find a burka?” I call as he enters his office.

Oops. Probably went too far.

He closes the door, ignoring me.

I wait a few minutes. No call comes from HR telling me I’m fired.

Good to know. Blackthroat tolerates a little pushback when it’s deserved, and in this case, it was totally deserved. Where does he get off telling me not to wear this dress?

I text Aubrey,

Blackthroat found the peek-a-boo dress offensive. I may or may not have gotten a little snarky with him over it.

Do you still have a job? She texts back.

For now.

I wonder why? I’ll bet he’s into you.

More like disgusted,

I type, but her words worm into my veins and give me a little thrill. This is another sign he’s attracted to me, right? My pulse picks up speed.

Brick Blackthroat, the sexy billionaire, attracted to his lowly secretary?

That might be where his disgust came from. He wants me but would never slum with the secretary. Maybe he hates the weakness it shows in him that he even noticed my cleavage.

Is he gay?

Aubrey fires back.

I consider the question. I don’t have much to go on, but the more I think about it, the more sure I am that Aubrey’s original assessment is right. I look great in this dress, and it makes him think about doing dirty things with me, which pisses him off.

Oh my God, I so want to do dirty things with him!

No, I type. I take a selfie and send it to her.

Offensive?

I ask.

Hot! she types back. You look amazing. More please. Wear only peek-a-boo dresses. That would be hilarious.

Lol.

I’m going to hit the store on my way home to find you another one. New life mission. Piss off your boss with dresses that make you look hot.

* * *

Brick

On Friday, my little temptress of an assistant comes in wearing another dress with a window to her boobs.

She is screwing with me.

Quite possibly she wants to get fired over this. I suddenly wish I knew more about her, so I can figure out her angle. Is she a feminist who’s taking a stand against the objectification of the female body? Or is she conniving, hoping to get fired and then file a lawsuit? Or is she just testing boundaries, curious to see how far she can push me?

I realize I dug myself into this hole. I showed my hand by saying something in the first place. A guy in control of his urges wouldn’t have to warn his assistant not to wear something that makes her tits look edible. The trouble is, the longer New Girl works here, the more appealing she gets. I like her brains. Her confidence. Her sass. I can’t find anything to complain about the way she performs the job although I still complain, simply to keep her on her toes.

She fields my calls better than anyone has. She’s quick with any task I give her, often beating me to the punch with the requests she can anticipate. She makes decisions she’s really not qualified to make, but I let her because it keeps the idiots out of my office and off my phone line.

I wish to fuck she looked like an old hag.

Because all I can think about is how she would taste with her back flat on my desk and her legs spread wide.

I’ve done my best to keep a distance between us. To ensure our interactions are as short as possible. I don’t like to be in her presence for too long, or her nutmeg and orange scent starts driving me insane.

Yet I also find myself staying in the office more than usual, needing to breathe it in during all hours of the day.

I stride over to where she’s sitting at her desk fielding a phone call with someone who’s obviously a pain in the ass to deal with. Totally my fault for never answering calls, and I don’t give a shit.

“Hang up,” I snap.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson, I will get that message to him as soon as possible, but I have to take another call. Have a great day.” She hangs up the phone despite the barking voice on the other end still making demands.

“Good morning, Mr. Blackthroat.” She offers a pleasant smile as she stands to greet me.

Definitely fucking with me.

My nostrils flare. “What did I tell you about this?” I make a circling gesture over the window to her boobs. The dress is gunmetal gray with cutouts on the shoulders as well as the cleavage. I want to put my lips to each place and nibble. Lick. Find out if she tastes as good as she smells. I want to rip the dress off her and find out what kind of lingerie she wears beneath it. Satin or lace? Or plain cotton. I can’t decide.

Is Madison Evans experienced in bed, or did she spend her nights in college studying?

So many questions I want answers to.

She doesn’t look down this time. Instead she lifts her nose a bit in the air and shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her tone is pleasant and business-like.

My gaze traces the cutout, then lifts to her eyes. “I told you not to wear those dresses.”

She brings her fingertip to the edge of the window and lightly traces along it. This time she doesn’t show me her irritation. Her confidence is fully in place. “There is absolutely nothing obscene about my dress. If you find it distracting…” She pauses and cocks her head like she’s waiting for me to confirm or deny.

I don’t know, would it be distracting if I put you on your hands and knees on top of your desk and put my tongue inside you?

I glare back.

“If so, then that’s your problem. I won’t be the girl who is sent home from school for her bra straps showing because it distracts the boys. As if their education is more valuable than hers.”

I frown. Feminist, then. Got it.

She’s not wrong. It’s not her fault her taste in dresses pushes me dangerously close to breaking every rule I have about touching employees and humans. But the fact that she’s right does nothing to cut through my annoyance. “In this case, my attention is more valuable than yours, Ms. Evans. I am your boss. My time and focus are the primary asset of this corporation, and your job is to safeguard that asset. Understand?”

“So you do find my dresses distracting?”

“I find this conversation a waste of my time. I told you not to wear the dress again. Now you’re wearing another one, and you’re bordering on insubordination. I won’t send you home to change, but I will dock you for the day’s pay. If you want to keep this job, you’ll do what I tell you, understand?”

“I am not wearing the same dress, so no orders were disobeyed, and I’d think twice about firing me over the cut of a dress, or you will have a lawsuit on your hands. Sir.”

Oh no. Nobody fucking threatens me, especially not an employee.

“Listen to me, little girl. I would destroy you in a legal battle. My lawyers know how to turn a hangnail into a ten year lawsuit that could cost you millions. Which I doubt you have.” I look down my nose at her. I don’t mean it to be condescending, I’m just being a prick. But for some reason, this is the insult that lands. My wolf hates the flush of anger and shame that rises to her cheeks.

Huh. I guess my sassy secretary is touchy about money. But she doesn’t crack. Of course she doesn’t. It’s why I enjoy her so much.

In fact, instead of escalating our argument, she dials back the aggression. She touches the skin inside the window again. It’s a soft, lingering touch. A suggestive one. She’s touching herself the way a lover would. I draw blood on the inside of my cheek.

Cocking a hip, she looks up at me from under those long lashes and asks, “You would destroy me because I defied you or because you really can’t stand the small window to the skin above my breasts?”

Just her mention of the word breasts sends my blood plummeting below my waist.

I’m trying to prevent the lawsuit that would arise when I pushed you to your knees and shoved my cock in that window to see how it feels to glide between those twin peaches.

“Both.” I turn and walk away before I reveal anything more. I’ve already royally fucked this up, and we both know it.

“Oh, and Mr. Blackthroat?”

I don’t turn, I just keep walking to my office.

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