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EMMA
“Tis the season,” I sing as I spoon sugar into a steaming hot mug of coffee—extra strong, extra hot, and extra sweet. Just the way Mr. Maverick likes it. He also takes it black. I like to think it matches the color of his heart. The man is hell to work for. Before me, he was going through an assistant a month. There’s an office betting pool going as to how long they think I’m going to last. I put in a secret bet that I’d make it to six months; I’m currently at four. And I’ve gotta tell you, it’s a struggle. I’m perpetually optimistic, but as the months have worn away, even I’m struggling to remain upbeat. But I have my ways. For example, right now, I’m sucking on the spoon I’m about to stir his coffee with.
Enjoy a little saliva with your coffee, Mr. Maverick?
It may seem petty, but it’s the little things that help me get through my day. After all, I’ve got a lot of money riding on this. That pool is up to five grand.
I hum the rest of the tune while I stir the coffee then position the china mug on a dish and place a tiny sugarplum next to it as a treat. Mr. Maverick isn’t one to accept treats normally, but it’s Christmas Eve and I made these myself—they don’t even have any spit in them—and everyone in the office has been raving about them all day. So how can he resist? He can’t. Lincoln Maverick may be a workaholic grump, but as his personal assistant, I’m privy to the fact he has a serious and secret sweet tooth. The man has a drawer full of candy bars in his desk. But don’t let that fool you. He looks like a fitness model. Actually, better than a fitness model. He’s tall, broad and muscular with a face that would make the angel on top of the Christmas tree weep at his beauty. On the rare occasions when I’ve seen him smile, it’s made me weak at the knees. From what I can tell, he’s completely unattached. Unsurprising since all he does is work and bark orders, and call me with unreasonable expectations. I swear I haven’t had a relaxing moment since I started working for Maverick Publishing.
I’ve taken to sleeping clothed because I’ll close my eyes then get a phone call telling me he needs a new white shirt because he spilled something on it and I’ll be forced to go to his apartment, get a new shirt and tie then rush it to the office where he’s always,alwaysseatedbehind that desk. Once, I had to drive two hours to pick up his mother and deliver her to him for a special birthday dinner that I organized. While they ate a gourmet meal, I sat in my car eating a snickers I grabbed at the gas station. I’m at his complete beck and call. He keeps me so busy, I’m at risk of losing the curves the women in my family are known for. When my grandmother sees me at our annual Christmas Eve dinner tonight, she’s going to pile my plate so high, I’ll be eating until next Wednesday. I can’t wait.
The buzzing of the cell phone he forces me to keep on me at all times pulls me out of my momentary daydream.What now?
LINCOLN
Where the hell is she? I sent her for coffee three minutes ago and normally it takes her two minutes and forty-five seconds to get it back to me. She’s dragging her feet and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not knowing where she is and what she’s doing. It’s like an obsession that I can’t shake. Emma Rose may be my assistant and therefore off limits, but the moment that curvy ass of hers came swinging into my office, she was mine and no one else’s.
“You rang?” Her breathy voice announces her arrival so I put down the phone, giving her a cursory glance while drinking in every stunning detail. She’s wearing a festive red dress that fits to her curves like a glove fits a hand. The swell of her massive breasts pushes at the neckline, heaving up and down hypnotically with her breath. Her small waist causes the material to bunch slightly then stretch out again over her gorgeously abundant hips and shapely thighs. My fingers tingle at the thought of gripping those hips, digging my fingers into her soft flesh and taking one of those precious tits in my mouth. And now my dick’s hard.Jesus, what am I doing?
“Put it on my desk,” I bark, looking away before she gets a clue about what I think whenever I look at her—those full lips around my shaft, that silken brown hair wrapped around my hand.I’d have her on her knees every morning if doing so wouldn’t lose me the company that’s been in my family for generations. This last four months has been an exercise in self control. My hand has never seen so much action; I’ve pulled myself raw thinking about her, but it never brings relief. Ineedthe real thing. I can’thavethe real thing. I’m going crazy. But at the end of the day, the company comes first.
Not that the company will matter if I don’t publish a bestseller in the next few months. With the way publishing has changed in recent years, our running costs are higher than our profits. We took risks and paid too many big advances that didn’t earn out. I swear, some author’s sample chapters are the only part that’s good about a book.
Maybe I’ve just lost my killer instinct.
Maybe I’m not the top of the totem like I thought I was.
If things don’t improve, I’ll be the last Maverick to sit at the head of the table in the Maverick Publishing boardroom. I swear I can hear my grandfather turning in his grave every time I withdraw from my personal account to bolster the company accounts. Something’s got to give. Something has to change. But what?
“Here you go, sir,” Emma says, her voice so soft and sweet I have to fight a moan when the sound hits my ears.Maybe I just need to get laid…
My fingers dig into the armrests of my chair as I fight for restraint, causing the leather and wood to creak under the strength of my grip.
“Is everything OK?” Emma asks, twisting the mug so the handle is facing me.
“It’s fine,” I grunt, waving her away. “Go make sure my ten o’clock is on their way.”
“Of course.” She does this little curtsy which is completely adorable and totally unnecessary, but it’s something she does every time I give an order.
“Wait,” I say before she turns away. “What the hell is this?” I extend an index finger to a coconut covered ball sitting on the dish beneath my mug.
“It’s a sugarplum.” Each syllable gets higher as she speaks, ending in a broad smile. “‘‘Tis the season, sir.”
I frown. “What?”
“To be jolly? You know, Christmas.”
My brow knits even tighter. “Isn’t that next week?”
She laughs and it sounds like a bell. “It’stomorrow. It’s also in your diary. The entire day is blacked out and you have a car arriving at six to drive you out to your mother’s.”
Shit. I’ve been so stressed over our bottom line, I lost track of the date. “What did I get her?”
“A beautiful silk scarf. She’ll love it.”
Another reason I can’t claim this beauty—she’s the best damn assistant I’ve ever had. She learns fast, anticipates and goes above and beyond. Ineedherhere. With me. As much as I want to fuck the woman and make her a constant in every part of my life, in this office is where I need her most. She is quite literally my rock and my strength. She rules me.
She just doesn’t know it.
