The Good Assistant, my sexy new contemporary erotic romance, will be releasing on October 21st.
Here’s the second scene
I stare at her. “How does he look at me?”
“Like he wants to lock you in his man cave. He’s super protective of you.” She tilts her head. “But maybe that’s because you’re his assistant. He relies upon you.”
John Powers doesn’t rely upon anyone. He built his real estate empire on his own, having no industry contacts, overcoming poverty and a lack of a college education.
“I always speak before I think.” Stacie laughs. “Forget I said anything.”
She talks about switching jobs and her new roommate and the movie she saw last night, her conversation not requiring any contribution from me.
This is a good thing as all I can think about is her observation about my boss. She has to be wrong. John doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even lust after the gorgeous supermodels and actresses he dates, his attitude toward the women apathetic.
The elevator doors open at the marketing floor. “This is me.” Stacie laughs again. “It was good talking to you, Miss Grant.” She exits, her skirt flipping upward, revealing more of her tanned legs.
I gaze at my reflection. The hem of my black skirt suit reaches my knees. I impulsively reach under my jacket and pull my skirt three inches higher.
My cheeks heat. I’m a fool. John won’t notice the length of my skirt. I’m his assistant, a woman who picks up his dry cleaning, manages his schedule and arranges his dates.
The doors open, revealing the slick, stylish executive floor. I smile at Nancy, the receptionist, as I pass her antique desk. She wears a headset, her lips moving, her words hushed. Although it is five thirty-five in the afternoon, four men in dark suits wait in the brown leather chairs.
They aren’t waiting for John. My boss is attending a charity dinner tonight. His meetings for the day are done.
I hustle along the hallway, my heels falling soundlessly on the padded brown carpet. Gold-framed pictures depicting Powers-owned real estate hang on the beige walls. The desks are spaced widely apart, the corner offices claimed by board members. Every meeting room is filled with corporate decision-makers.
The ultimate decision-maker has his door open, uncaring about his state of undress. I rush into John’s personal domain and skid to a stop, my heart squeezing, my body humming with awareness.
My boss stands facing his floor to ceiling windows, gloriously naked from the waist upward, his shoulders broad and his back straight. Silver scars, remnants of his rough childhood, slash his golden skin. His tan is natural, his forearms darker than his shoulders, and his dark brown hair is cropped close to his head. Tuxedo pants hug his narrow hips, his feet are braced apart and a phone is pressed to his ear.
A massive mahogany desk paired with a brown leather captain’s chair dominates one end of the office. The shelves lining the interior walls are filled with textbooks, every weighty volume read by my self-educated boss. John’s suit, shirt, and tie are discarded over the two guest chairs positioned in front of the desk.
I stride to the brass coat rack and hang his shirt beside his tuxedo jacket. John turns, and his gaze meets mine, his brown eyes dark and smoldering, resembling the richest, most decadent hot chocolate. My stomach flutters.
His profile is sharp, his thin blade-like nose and defined chin striking rather than classically handsome. More scars circle his neck. According to internet reports, a druggie slashed my boss’ throat when he was a teenager. Not even that brush with death could slow him down.
My gaze drops and my pulse increases. John’s tuxedo pants are undone, the v exposing stark white cotton briefs. A trail of fine brown hair travels downward from the indent at his navel, disappearing under the waistband. I lick my lips, wishing to follow this path with my tongue.
“What?” John barks into his phone. “Hell no, Bass.” He returns his gaze to the blue sky, his focus on the call. I remove the shirt from the wire hanger. “There has to be profitability in this project. I’m running a business, not a charity.”
This isn’t the complete truth. Powers Corporation does give money to charity. I tap his fingers. John lifts his arm, his frown deepening, and I slip the shirtsleeve over his hand, his musky male scent engulfing me.
John leans into me, lowering his big body, allowing me to dress him. The soft cotton pulls tight across his wide shoulders, his back muscles ripple and his biceps bulge. He’s a man in his prime, strong and beautiful, and I long to drag my lips over his tanned skin, to taste every inch of him.
Good assistants don’t taste their bosses.
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My boss, John Powers, represents everything I want in a man. He’s the CEO and founder of a powerful company, that position having made him a billionaire, striking in an I-survived-a-bar-brawl sort of way, and too clever for my sanity.
I’m his assistant and desperately in love with him. I’d willingly serve him both in the boardroom and in the bedroom.
There’s one problem.
He doesn’t mix business with pleasure.
Ever.
Pre-order Now:
On Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Good-Assistant-City-Sizzle-Book-ebook/dp/B013O33EKM
On ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thegoodassistant-1870006-340.html
On B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-good-assistant-cynthia-sax/1122572951
