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I’ll admit that pissing her off turns me into a fucking teenage boy with raging hormones.
Fortunately, I know how to handle and control my urges now. But I like my women fiery and strong. I prefer that they’re appeasable, but with her it’s different.
It’s the tension between us that makes me hard as a fucking rock. And there’s no denying that she’s fucking drop-dead gorgeous. Her long, toned legs and tight ass make her storming away one of my favorite things to watch.
It’s become a fun hobby of mine.
And fuck, those pouty pink lips that always pucker when she’s thinking, ready to spew another insult my way? I’ll always remember how they felt wrapped around my dick.
The amount time I’ve spent imagining it—imagining her—is honestly absurd.
But let’s be honest; I waste my time on much worse things.
“Sir! Where have you been!?” my grumpy old secretary screams at me as I open my office doors.
“Ahh! Shush Marge,” I say, sternly, grabbing onto my head, my headache now pounding.
“No, Mr. Sharpe, I will not shush. I’ve called you more than ten times this morning. Where have you been!? Did you read The Capitalist Chronicle article yet?”
Jesus, this woman is maddening. It’s like the world suddenly stopped turning just because I didn’t answer my damn phone.
I tightly smile and nod at her, slowly taking off my sunglasses.
Her voice knows exactly how to slice right through me, especially when it’s still in the process of de-numbing itself.
Oh, how I wish I could get the hot blondes I used to have. Unfortunately, the higher-ups didn’t appreciate the extra-curricular activities they participated in with yours truly.
I, on the other hand, had found it very productive.
Now, I have Marge...shit, I forgot her full name. Anyway, it’s the secretary from the nursing home of hell.
“Mr. Sharpe!”
“Marge, calm down. Everything will be fine. And good morning to you, too, by the way.”
I smirk at her, hoping that my charm will calm her the fuck down.
I take my phone out of my back pocket to check for her calls. And it’s there—fifteen missed calls from Marge, ten text messages from random numbers, and one URGENT email from Mark, an executive board director.
Fuck.
“Would you care to tell me what is so pressing that you had to call me fifteen times? Or would you like to continue to yell at me for not answering them?” I ask her, my charm quickly dissipating and evolving into anger.
My condescending tone doesn’t go unnoticed.
She moves her feeble and tiny self from behind her desk to meet me head-on. She straightens her shoulders and pats down her blouse, looking as if she is preparing for a show-down.
I ready myself as well. She might be small, but damn she is mighty and slightly scary.
“Mr. Sharpe, if you’d care to get your head out of your ass—or the bottle for that matter—I would like to inform you that the board of directors, including Elsa Blakely and her board are here to speak with you.”
She crosses her arms to polish off her informative insult.
I ignore the part where she calls me an ass and focus mainly on the cluster fuck that is gathered in my conference room.
I knew there’d be a backlash from my stint the other night, but I never imagined that the whole goddamn board—including hers—would come here to reprimand me.
I run my hands through my hair in exhaustion and frustration and take a sip of my coffee.
