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1
AMELIA
My boss slams the printouts onto my desk.
“You think these are good enough?”
His voice is a deep rumble of fury.
I look up at him, swallowing hard. Is it terror or lust I’m feeling right now? The rest of the dealership freezes. Rafael Bianchi’s voice commands attention.
Unfortunately for me, he’s as sexy as he is scary, and the combination does things to me.
All I want to do is rip open my blouse and beg him to take my virginity right here, right now.
“Well?” he asks, folding his enormous arms across his chest. “What’s your explanation?”
“I’m doing my best, Sir.” My voice is wavering but only partially from fear. Mostly it’s from the hunger that comes after a year of working with this man, this God in an Italian suit.
He waves a hand around the dealership, pointing at one luxury car after another. “You think the creators of these did their best? They hunted perfection. They strove for it. Every single day. That’s what we do here. We hunt perfection and we find it.”
“I am trying, Sir. Really I am.”
He taps my work. “I hired you because you told me you were great at graphic design. This isnotgood enough. I demand perfection.”
I lower my eyes, my ass tingling. I want him to spank me for being bad. I want his huge strong hand slapping down on my ass before he takes my V-card and tears it into tiny little pieces.
“This isn’t just any auction,” he continues, screwing up my design and tossing it into the trash bin. “We’re selling a 1957 Ferrari 250 GT. Victor Ivanov will be there. Richard Delaney, Vincent Onfrio. Do these names mean anything to you?”
“Should they?”
“They are the only men in New York with enough wealth to win that auction. I want you to prove that we are the best here at Bianchi Automotive. That starts with the design for these posters. Do it again.”
His words sting, feeding the ever-present imposter syndrome that gnaws at my confidence. I feel my lip start to wobble.
“If you can’t handle the pressure, you know where the door is.”
“I can handle it, I promise.”
“So reach into yourself. Bring out the perfection that’s in there.”
I don’t know if he’s right.
Despite having worked here for a year, I still feel like the inexperienced nineteen-year-old who first stepped through these doors, desperate to prove herself.
“I understand, Mr. Bianchi. I won’t let you down,” I muster with a confidence I don’t feel, my hands trembling slightly as they clutch the pen.
He gives me a look that I wish he’d follow up with a kiss. He gives me this look a lot. A brooding scowl but with something under it, some flicker of amusement, or something else. My pussy aches with need every time he looks at me this way.
“I’ll do better,” I say quietly, unable to meet his eyes any longer.
“I will have to discipline you if this continues. It is unacceptable.”
I stare at my computer, my mind racing, and not just with lust. This job, this opportunity at the dealership, it’s my stepping stone to something greater – a chance to support my family.
Maybe, one day, achieve my dream of being a self-employed graphic designer. But under the weight of Mr. Bianchi’s expectations and my own fears, that dream feels more like a distant fantasy.
He stands in front of me, and out of nowhere, he reaches for me, lifting my chin with his finger. His eyes, a piercing shade of icy blue, methodically survey me. “Is that clear?” he asks.
