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“I was exhausted, sir.”
“Exhausted! I was the one doing all of the work.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Now, be a good girl and scrub me down.”
Mr. Peak doesn’t have to ask me twice. It would be my pleasure.
I don’t know what part of Mr. Peak is my favorite. His chest is just a wall of power. I take a large sponge and run large circles across that fifty-two inch chest. Then there is Mr. Peak’s eyes. They are deep, penetrating brown eyes. He can look at you and he can look through you all at the same time. Then there my boss’s strong muscular arms. Just looking at those muscles makes me melt. Oh and don’t let me forget that as**s. You can bounce a quarter of that strong backside. I squeeze the sponge and watch the suds just cascade over that sculpted rump. Nice!
Of course, there is what’s between my boss’s legs. Sometimes, I am scared to even look at it. Let’s just say I love the way it feels inside of me!
After the shower, we relax in the living room. I turn on the TV and watch the E! Channel. Mr. Peak checks the financial news on his iPad. It doesn’t take five minutes before I see my own face on TV. I sit up and stare. Though I have seen myself in dozens of newspaper and tabloid articles, this is the first time I am seeing myself on TV.
I just stare. A sudden burst of electricity runs through my body as the reporter talks about me. “The New York social scene is abuzz with the sudden rise of Manhattan socialite Sarah Sulamari, the main squeeze of reclusive hedge fund billionaire Ryan Peak. At last week’s Met Gala, the 20-year old employee at Mr. Peak’s hedge fund turned heads with a Vera Wang dress and a sharp tongue to the paparazzi,” the reporter announces as they replay my red carpet walk.
I look over at my boss, who never even lifts his head. Mr. Peak is completely immersed in his financial news. I lean in and whisper into his ear, “They are talking about me on TV.” Mr. Peak strokes my hair as a way to acknowledge me and as a way to control my outburst.
We cuddle together while I take in some more celebrity news. My boss speed-reads through some of the most complex financial information imaginable. As the afternoon wears on, Mr. Peak gets up and tells me that he has to go back into the office.
“Would you like me to go with you, Sir?” I ask.
“Why don’t you stay here and book us a dinner tonight. 10 p.m. Use my name. No one in the city will deny us a table.”
I smile. Sure, my boss is completely immersed in his work. However, he always has time for me.
I give Mr. Peak a nice, big kiss before he goes back into the office. I feel so pumped up that I decide to do a half hour on the stationary bike in the town home’s gym. I have never felt so alive as right now.
As I work up a nice sweat, Mr. Peak’s butler appears outside the home gym’s entrance and clears his throat. “Miss Sulamari, there is a guest at the door.”
“Oh, do you know who it is?”
“He is J.T. Marcos.”
I stop cycling. J.T. Marcos - the hottest director in Hollywood. He is here in the city! He wants to see me.
I hop off of the bike and instantly get rattled. I look at the butler. “Tell him I’m coming! I’m coming!” I yell to the butler. Oh f**k! I’m sweaty. I strip off my clothes and rush into the gym’s shower. I can’t believe the director just popped on over unannounced. This could be my big break in the movies. Of course, this is something Mr. Peak may not want. Dammit! My boss can’t get mad at me for simply meeting with the director.
In no time I’m out of the shower and wrapped in a towel. I run up to the elevator and travel to the fifth floor. Fuck! What should I wear?! I throw on a little red dress. Then I dash back to the elevator and head to the ground floor.
When the door opens, I take a deep breath and walk over to the town home’s reception area. J.T. Marcos is leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. He is a tall, thin younger guy dressed in a leather jacket, sunglasses with ripped and faded blue jeans. The guy has that skanky “I don’t give a f**k” attitude that I used to fall for when I was in High School.
“Mr. Marcos!” I say.
The director takes off his sunglasses and smiles. “Call me James,” he says as he gives me a hug.
“I wasn’t expecting you. This is a surprise.”
J.T. Marcos looks me up and down. “I had to see you in person before I fly back to the West Coast. I just wanted to confirm what was in my head.”
“And what is in your head?”
“That you could play the title role in my next film.”
Oh come on. This guy has to be f**king with me. Anyone who acts in J.T. Marcos’s films becomes a sought after commodity in Hollywood. I have never even acted in front of a camera.
