PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Shapeshifter Romance: The Vampire's Stolen Bride (BBW Fantasy Alpha Male Romance Books) (New Adult Vampire Fun Mature Young Adult Billionaire Steamy Love and Romance Novella) (33 page)

Chapter 7

              “We can’t stay here all night, sir.” I try to say something responsible as I check my hair in the mirror—which is a disaster. I look like I’ve been struck by lightning on one side of my head—and the flower? Forget about it, I have no idea where it’s gone.

              “Why don’t we head to the office. I have a few things I still need to wrap up before calling it a night.” He contemplates something, hesitates then, “I mean, if you want to.”

              “Yeah, of course. Totally.” I sound ridiculous—so my age. When will I learn that indifference doesn’t work when trying to play it cool?

              I turn the ignition and shift into reverse, my body still outside of itself. If in fact this is all happening, I am ill-equipped to comprehend the very intoxicating implication that Congressman Orange is into me. Either I’ve had one epically long day and have no idea I’m hallucinating, or I’m totally having an office affair with my boss, an elected official, who also happens to be the most eligible bachelor to ever call Central Florida his home.

****

On the way to headquarters he takes a call from his campaign manager who, as I’ve gathered from his incessant apologizing, has been trying to reach him all night.

              He places his hand on my knee, strokes it with his thumb, “Yes Bryn, I know, I’ve been…” his grip tightens then releases, “busy.”

              He leans my direction, glances and smiles over at me occasionally, reassuring me he’s right where he wants to be. He tells Bryn he’ll give her a call as soon as he gets to the office.

              I’m humbled that he slips off his shoes, sets his things on my back seat. These actions provide a sense of comfort for me. It calms me to see him relaxed in my world.

              “How are you feeling?”

              “Confused, maybe surprised…” I say honestly.

              “About?”

              He shuts down his phone, is genuinely interested in my thoughts.

              “I mean, what’s actually happening right now, why are you doing this?”

              “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

              ‘Girls like me just don’t get picked by guys like, you,’
I wish I had the nerve to say. There’s no way to clarify my apprehension without sounding completely insecure.

              I shrug. “I don’t know. This night has been just all so… unexpected. I’m not sure that this is even happening.”

              “Me neither,” he admits.

              The conversation between us grows very human the closer we get to the office.

He says his feelings have been difficult to come to terms with; but a combination of the timing being right, and how beautiful I looked tonight, it really forced his hand. I ask him how long he’s been feeling this way about me,  and I wonder how someone so outspoken, so unafraid to confront people could hide something like this for so long. He says it was for all of the obvious reasons. Some people would find his association with me taboo; maybe even frown upon how unpopular or unbecoming it is of a man with his influence to venture so far away from the mainstream norm.

              “There are people in this world who really do judge you for things like that. It’s scary to be bold in this way—especially when you want to be taken seriously in some circles. I’ve worked very hard for the things that I have. I’m not the most brave person in the world. My style is to do things safely, conduct myself within certain boundaries to make the most of high-risk situations. That includes my personal life.” He points out that it takes some serious courage on his part to go against the grain in more ways than one. Not only am I a black woman, I’m not the stereotypical mold one associates with beauty. He admits to finding himself attracted to women with curves. “Voluptuous women just do it for me,” he affirms.

              Taking a deep breath, he turns down the A/C, and tells me the real reason he wanted me at the event tonight. He just didn’t want other staff there; he needed to be alone with me and saw an opportunity. He goes on to explain that he saw how much this community meant to me, and wanted to be there not just to thank them first hand, but to show me that he wasn’t a dick.

              He says his campaign staff is always up his ass, that I’m the realest person in his life. That all of these years he’s trusted my judgment, grown increasingly impressed with how honestly I approach my work, and is inspired by my insight.

              “Really?” I say, completely at a loss for words. I’m stunned by his admission, his humility. He’s exactly who I thought he was, and more.

              “I don’t know, Chantelle. You just have a unique way of helping me see clearly. When you come into my office every morning, your radiance reminds me of why I got into politics in the first place. Real people can do remarkable things if you truly see them as your equal, and learn from one another. You remind me to consider other perspectives when I lose sight of what’s important. I truly love that about you. You’re…” he glares at me quizzically, trying to find the right adjective I suppose.

              “I’m…?” I try not to blush.

              “You’re a brilliant woman. My status, for want of a better way to say it, doesn’t intimidate you—nothing does. I admire that.”

              “Thank you, sir.”

              “Please, stop being so formal with me.”

              “It’s difficult not to.”

              The sound of our laughter loosens the seriousness, as I pull up to the ticketed lot adjacent to our building.

              “Why are you parking here?”

              “This is where I always park.”

              “Well not tonight. Pull around to the reserve garage.”

              “Won’t they tow me?”

              He scans me with eyes that make me shiver, “It’s my building. They won’t tow you if I tell them not to. In fact, park in my spot.”

              I pull up to the long yellow arm stretched across the garage entry marked RESTRICTED. Congressman Orange hands me a card key from his jacket pocket. I wave it in front of the tiny black box mounted outside of the guard shack.

              “Access granted,” a woman’s robotic voice announces as the arm lifts.

              “Fancy,” I say, eyeing him.

              “Welcome to the other side.” He takes my hand. He kisses the back of it quickly, releasing it in just enough time to remind me to stay to the right. His spot is the first one we come to, closest to the glass doors leading directly to the elevator lobby.

A black granite sign with raised gold writing reads: RESERVED – David E. Orange. It’s the only one like it. The other spots are just numbered with red and white towing sign warnings posted for violators.

              “My car looks weird here.” My 2010 Civic doesn’t belong in front of a sign as fancy as his.

              “It’s fine.”

              “Oh wow, look at that,” I say, pulling into his spot carefully. “Now
that’s
a reserved parking car.”

              He half smiles, partially listening, as he waits for his iPhone to power up, and slips it into his pocket, “It’s mine.”

Chapter 8

              “Congressman Orange. Miss,” a security guard greets us with a nod. It’s the first time I’ve walked into this building and been acknowledged by anyone other than the homeless man who stands at the street entry every day, holding the door open for people in exchange for spare change.

              The thought makes me glance to the main doors at the other end of the lobby. To my surprise, he’s still out there, sitting in the corner reading a crumbly-looking old newspaper. It’s yellowing; it can’t be current.

              “Hold on one second,” I say to the Congressman, making my way over to the main entrance. In my workbag, I always keep copies of the latest publications. I do try to stay in-the-know as it relates to his re-election campaign. While technically I’m not on his campaign staff, I enjoy staying up-to-date on what he’s doing in and around the community. It helps me do my job well. Stay a step ahead, so to speak. If I’m going to be a good office manager and assistant, it’s just smart to know what’s going on in his world. At work, he tells me what I need to know; but as an assistant, you try to learn your boss’s habits, personality, preferences—you do your dandiest to keep them happy.

              “Excuse me, sir?” I say, pushing the front door to the street open. The homeless man sits up, is somewhat taken aback, maybe because someone is in the building at this hour.

              “I’m sorry, ma’am, let me get out of your way. I was just leaving.”

              “No, don’t leave. I just wanted you to have these.” He takes the small stack of publications I had in my tote.

              “And this.” A large, familiar hand reaches out from behind me holding a folded hundred-dollar bill. I whip around.

              “Sir?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.

              “Is-isn’t this you?” The man’s eyes grow humongous. He holds up one of the publications I just handed him. An Orlando Sentinel featuring the Congressman on the front page.

              “Indeed,” he acknowledges, pulling me back into the lobby by the elbow. “You have a good night, sir.”

              “God bless you, man—and you too, lady!”

              “Good night!” I wave as the door retracts shut. Orange grips the brass handlebar, jiggling it to make sure the door locked back.

              “You have to be careful,” he says, spinning us around to the elevators.

              “He’s out there every day. He’s harmless.”

              “Still, you just never know.”

              “Oh you’re the one to talk. Who walks around town handing out hundred dollar bills?”

              “Billionaires.”

              The word rattles me.
Billionaire.
Jesus Christ.

              The elevator dings opens, “After you.”

              Everything seems so sparkly and marble-y because I’m with him. I’ve never thought that money makes the world go round—still don’t—but it sure does make the world seem more shiny and glittery.

Chapter 9

              I check my Facebook while he closes out the night. Lindsay, his volunteer coordinator, calls to let him know their tally of all the phone bank calls, how many volunteers showed up, and how many calls they got through. He paces the room on his iPhone, doesn’t even sit at his desk. It feels cool to see how he conducts himself in his office. How he paces back and forth along the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows during his calls, stops directly in the center with his feet apart, left arm crossed under the other when he’s listening intently. I’m usually on the other side of the wall refilling my coffee, staring at my computer screen, answering phone calls and conferencing him in. Observing him in his element right now is a bit of a treat. I’m most impressed with just how much he’s staying on top of. From my end, it’s easy to believe that all of his staff do the thinking. But for the short time I’ve been sitting here, he’s negotiated and finalized a revised contract for a last-minute city project, recalled win numbers and percentages from previous years for Bryn to help her narrow down a target area for canvassing tomorrow, reminded his attorney to take a second look at a certain clause or statute that may affect a hotel project he’s thinking about launching in Dubai, and called his driver to remind him to pick up his dry cleaning. I mean, I’m exhausted just watching him keep up with all of this.

              This dude is
busy.
How on Earth does he survive without
more
staff?

              Both of us are surprised to hear his office phone ring—especially at this hour. The pattern of the ringtone sounds like the call is being place from within the building.

              “Hello? Yes… un-huh... Well I’m here working late and wanted my staff to park safely. Yes it’s fine. I do authorize it. Yes. Thank you.”

              He hangs up, “Who was that?”

              “Security. They wanted to warn me of a suspicious vehicle parked in my spot.”

              “My car isn’t suspicious!”

              “Yes, but it’s not mine.”

              He loosens his tie, undoes the top button of his collar then powers down his cell,               “Okay,” he says exhaling, “That’s enough phone calling for the day.”

              “Congressman Orange?” I say closing my laptop.

              “Yes, Chantelle Williams?

              “I really liked, um,” I have no idea how to say what I’m about to say. Fortunately, I have an inability to edit my thoughts, “How did you, um…”

              “Say what you feel. We’re not on the clock. This is just you and I.”

              “I liked the way you, like, said stuff.”

              Eloquent, Chantelle.

              His eyes flick up to me from his hands. He seems…I don’t know… confused? Intrigued?

              “What
stuff
?” He paces over to me, sits on the edge of his desk.

              “Like how you talked. Said, um,” I clear my throat. “Dirty things.”

              If I weren’t such a prominent tone of brown, he’d see me blushing from ear to ear.

              He sets down his phone.

              “Is that something you enjoyed?”

              “Yes,” I say weakly, hoping he hears the hope in my undertone.

              “Would you like for me to do that again? Say dirty stuff?”

              He slips his tie from around his neck, balls it into his fist.

              I nod, “Yes.”

              “That’s why you came up here with me. You were hoping I’d do that to you again.”               He knows he’s dead on, got me figured out. He gets up knowingly, glides over to the door and locks it. Now we’re completely alone, in our own world. I’m nervous and excited at the same time as he turns off the lights and moves back toward me.

              “Up,” he requests in the form of a command. “Place your hands on my desk, please.”

              His office looks different at night. I’ve always thought of it as the perfect setting for the kinds of affairs you read about in books. I wondered what it’d be like to engage in illicit office behavior, but never thought it’d be me, much less with my billionaire boss who happens to be an elected official. People like him fuck blondes with fake tits, chase young fresh-out-of-the-sorority-house tail.

              “Like this?” I say flattening my palms to the black leather pad centered on his desk. I’m facing the wall of windows, intrigued that I see our reflection. I’m like a voyeur present at my own fucking.

              He approaches me from behind, staring right at my ass, “Yes, just like that.”

              I close my eyes feeling the back of my dress lift.

              “I’ve wanted you bent over my desk for quite some time.”

              Ah!

              He cracks his hand on my ass.

              My mind goes cloudy.

              Is he spanking me?

             
Slap!

              He hits me again.

              “Still,” he says, pressing my chest to the desk. I’m not sure what I’m confused about more right now. The fact that I’m being spanked, or that I’m one hundred percent turned on by the idea of being objectified in this way, that I’m the source of sexual fulfillment for him.

              I wriggle with delight.

             
Slap!

              “Ooh!”

              “I said still, Chantelle.”

              Ugh, irritating. I want to see his face, how he looks at me…

              I could see myself in the reflection, if my cheek weren’t planted on his desk. I mean, I’ve been instructed not to move, and it’s fun to play along, so...

              “Sir,” I ask quietly.

              He growls, “Yes?”

              “May I look forward, please?”

              “You like what I’m doing to you right now, don’t you?”

              “Yes.”

             
Slap!

              “Yes who, Chantelle.”

              “Yes sir.”

              I say it quickly. Jesus, I wasn’t expecting that last one. Squeezing my eyes shut, I’m anticipating one more.

              My ass stings on the right side. I don’t know how he lands with such accuracy! Like, literally the same spot every time. I can feel the imprint of his palm…

              My exposed cunt suddenly feels very lonely. I’m swollen with desire there, needing to feel him again. I either need to squeeze my thighs together, or for him to…              
Smack!

              “Aaaah, fuck!”

              He pokes his head around to check on me. I catch a brief glimpse of the huge erection he has before he steps back. A beat later he makes small soothing circles with his hand right on the sting. I close my eyes again, finding this moment a nice change in pace.

              “Are you okay? Was that too much?”

              “I’ve never done that before.”

              “You’ve never been spanked?”

              I shake my head, “But I liked it.”

              “Good. It excites me, too.”

              Hearing him honest in this way is such a turn-on. Like, bad.

              “Is it okay for me to get up, now?”

              “You’re so obedient. Of course you can get up. I’m pleased that you even let me do that.”

              “I think I like that kind of stuff.”

              “Is that right?”

              “Mmhm.”

              I pull him in by the belt. It’s time for me to show him what I can do. I motion for him to sit. He settles into the chair uncomfortably. It’s not his. A foreign object his visitor sit in, no comparison to the fancy chair he sits in on the other side of his desk.

              “Hard, isn’t it?”

              “I didn’t realize it was so uncomfortable.”

              “Your cock, silly.”

              “Mm, go on.”

              And I do. I tell him I want him to fuck my pussy again, but not before he makes me come with his filthy mouth. He tells me he should be punished for his thoughts, that this is only the tip the iceberg of the things he wants to do to me. He leans back into the chair, undoes his pants and starts on his cock. He says some day he wants to hear me beg for it, works himself right in front of me, waiting for a comeback.

              “God, I want your pussy in my face.”

              Whoa. He’s
good.

              He grows a crooked smile, “You liked that, didn’t you?”

              I can’t hide my amusement.

              “Easy when it’s the truth,” he says, standing up. My heart races as he moves toward me… over me… I get onto the desk, go to my elbows. For the second time tonight he undoes the snap between my legs, fingers my pussy and inserts himself. I drop back, feeling his thrusts completely, because now my sex is completely spread, legs open all the way with both knees up instead of one.