Page 8 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

Chapter 3

I chargethe lingerie to his account, trying to overlook the fact that Jared King even has an account at Délicat. That perhaps he’s done this before.

In all likelihood with another employee, someone I know or have seen around the office.

I don’t care. Tonight he’s doing it with me. And the thrill it gives me both turns me on and frightens me.

Because what exactly are we doing? That’s the question that keeps running through my head on a continuous loop while Mr. King’s — Jared’s — driver takes me back to my apartment to “get ready.” I have a black bag perched on my lap, my — my — new lingerie folded in tissue paper and tucked into a gold box inside, a black satin ribbon so soft it looks likes blank ink, tied around the top. The final total? $1,250. Which is exactly what I pay for my not-very-nice studio apartment.

The car glides to a stop in front of my apartment in Somerville, a shabby building with peeling white siding that does not look a like a place where a luxury car often stops. Even though I reach to open my own door, the driver is out of the car and opening it for me before I can make it.

“I will be back to pick you up at 8pm, Miss Carson,” he says, his face professionally impassive.

“Thank you,” I reply.

I climb the four flights to my apartment with my shoes in my hand until I reach the door of my tiny studio, which faces an alley. Even with the walk-up and the dank, dark view, I can still just barely afford. Sure, my salary at King Advertising is decent, but it’s still an entry-level job, and I’ve just begun starting to pay off my massive student loans from Boston University.

I toss my purse on the floor near the door and gently place the Délicat bag on the card table in the kitchen. The clock on the oven reads 5:30pm, giving me just over two and a half hours to “get ready,” per Jared’s instructions. Whatever that means. I glance at the black bag and realized it might take me that long just to get back into the bra, panties, and corset. But there’s something I need to do first.

My laptop is sitting on my coffee table, a scratch-and-dent purchase from IKEA, sitting in front of the shabby floral couch from my parents’ basement in Worcester. I open it and pull up a fresh Google search page and type in Jared’s name.

For having such a common name, he comes up immediately. The first page of search results are all him. I guess that’s what comes of being a billionaire bachelor. No one is going to mistake you for Jared King the plumber from Nebraska.

The first hit is the company website, which of course I’ve scoured top to bottom. I’d done my fair share of research on the company before I interviewed for the job. Founded four years ago and quickly grew to be the biggest firm in Boston, third largest on the East Coast. Specializes in luxury brands and high-end corporations. Has an entire division devoted to low-cost assistance for nonprofit organizations specializing in children and families.

All facts that had made King Advertising my dream company from the time I started job searching during my senior year. And because I’d graduated at the top of my class in the business school, with internships in Boston and New York and stellar references from faculty and supervisors, I’d had no trouble landing the job.

But in all my research, I’d paid very little attention to the company’s founder, Jared King. It didn’t seem necessary, when my interview was with HR and I was applying to be a junior copywriter. I didn’t expect to ever see Jared King, much less work with him. And besides, what did I care about some rich playboy anyway? I knew his reputation, and that seemed enough. He would be my boss’s boss’s boss, so his personal life didn’t seem like much of my concern.

But now I’ve got a bag filled with over a $1,000 worth of lingerie and instructions to wear it on a date tonight for a meal that will probably cost just as much, with a man who has a photo of my lace-covered ass on his phone right now.

Suddenly Boston’s Most Eligible Billionaire seems very much my concern.

So I skip the King Advertising website and pull up the profile from Boston Magazine, the very one that’s framed across from his assistant’s desk.

It’s not very long. Apparently being eligible doesn’t make him very forthcoming.

Four years at the Naval Academy, where he graduated first in his class. Four years as a commissioned officer in the Navy post-graduation, yet despite a bright future in the military, he left as soon as his commission was up to start King Advertising at the age of twenty-six.

According to the reporter, Jared had been linked to several prominent names in the last four years, from supermodels to CEOs to heiresses to daughters of revered political families, but none of the women stuck. It seemed they served mostly as arm candy, and then he moved on.

After reading the article twice, I click on an image search and feel my stomach instantly bloom with desire.

Photo after photo of Jared King, almost all of them showing him in an impeccably tailored suit.

There’s one of him shaking hands with the President at his Naval Academy graduation, Jared looking dashing and sexy in his dress whites.

There are several of him in a tuxedo at various charity functions looking like a dirty Disney prince with his dark, smoldering eyes and light stubble across his chiseled chin.

And buried far down the search page is one photo of him wearing swim trunks, a vintage cut that make him look like a classic Hollywood movie star, his skin tan, his abs rippling into a perfect six pack. I swear to god just looking at it makes me come.

What could he possibly want with me?

I glance around my apartment, the walls mostly bare save for a bulletin board and a couple of movie posters that had migrated over from my dorm room. All my furniture came either from the side of the road, my parents’ basement, or an IKEA special. None of the clothes in my closet were purchased at full-price, and the only store on Newbury Street I frequent is H&M.

My parents aren’t politicians or professional rich people. My mother teaches kindergarten at a Catholic school in Worcester, and my dad is a mechanic for the MBTA. The most exotic place we traveled was Bar Harbor for a week every summer, where we feasted on lobster rolls and tried to convince ourselves that the water wasn’t too cold for swimming.

But none of that even compares to the biggest barrier that stands between me and Jared King. This sexy, chiseled billionaire photographed with beautiful women, who buys them expensive lingerie and speaks in that liquid growl, whose employees fantasize about getting bent over his desk, is not going to want anything to do with a virgin like me.