The Boss

Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Monica Belle

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Copyright

A wildly entertaining story of a feisty office girl and her sauve older boss.

‘Stephen chuckled, a sound at once so dirty but so authoritative it left me blushing hotter than ever and thoroughly confused. What he was suggesting was utterly outrageous, and yet with his cool authority it came across as the most natural thing in the world.'

Felicity is a girl with two different sides to her character, and each leads its own life. There's Fizz – wild child, drummer in a retro punk band, and car thief. And there's Felicity – a quiet, polite, and ultra efficient office worker. But as her attractive, controlling boss takes an interest in her, Felicity finds it hard to keep the two parts of her life separate.

A dilemma which poses the question: will being with Stephen mean choosing between personas and sacrificing so much of her life? But then, it also appears that Stephen has some very peculiar and addictive ideas about intimacy himself.

Monica Belle is an Oxbridge graduate and the author of several successful
Black Lace
novels, including
Black Lipstick Kisses
,
Bound In Blue
,
Noble Vices
,
Office Perks
,
Pagan Heat
,
The Boss
,
The Choice
,
To Seek a Master
,
Valentina's Rules
,
Wild By Nature
and
Wild In The Country
.

Noble Vices

Valentina's Rules

Wild in the Country

Wild by Nature

Office Perks

Pagan Heat

Bound in Blue

I'D NEVER FELT
so high as I went into my solo, striking the sticks in faster and harder to a crescendo that had the entire pub on their feet and screaming. I leapt up, kicking out at the bass, smashing one stick on the rim of my snare, letting go of the other and, as Josie's guitar cut back in, ripping the tear in my top wide open.

The yells of encouragement that greeted the sight of my bare breasts drove me higher still. I wrenched the tattered remains of my top off as the music rose to a metallic scream louder even than the human ones, then it faded, dying with a feeble whine to something approaching silence as the lights came up. A male voice called out from the back of the room, brash and authoritative.

‘This venue is in breach of council regulations. You will leave quietly by the nearest exit . . .'

He went on quite a bit more, but I was already leaving by the nearest exit. Or I was trying to. My top was a write-off and I needed my coat anyway, from behind the bar. By the time I got it Josie and Dave Shaw where already in full flow with the Voice of Authority, only for him to turn on me as I tried to sneak past.

‘You will remain here.'

The cheeky bastard had actually reached for my coat sleeve but I moved back out of reach. If he wanted
witnesses or whatever there were plenty of other people who didn't seem to want to leave. Not me.

‘I'm already gone.'

‘You will remain here. I require your name and address as the one responsible for the breach of regulations.'

‘Me? How?'

He stiffened, his face slightly red and his eyes protruding for all the world like a pair of boiled eggs before he replied in a voice even stuffier than before.

‘The Dog and Duck does not have a striptease licence.'

It took a moment for what he was saying to sink in, and another one before I could decide whether to be outraged or amused.

‘That wasn't a striptease!'

‘According to council regulations –'

‘I don't give a fuck about council regulations. All I did was take my top off!'

‘An act of indecent exposure that may clearly be classified as an element of striptease, and therefore –'

‘Bollocks! Striptease has to be slow, otherwise it wouldn't be a tease, would it?'

‘The speed at which you undressed is not germane to the issue.'

‘Yes it is.'

‘No it isn't.'

‘Yes it is.'

‘No it . . . Look, I am not going to discuss the matter. You performed an indecent act while hired to perform here at the Dog and Duck, and therefore I –'

‘Christ, you talk a load of bollocks! I was paid to play the drums, not as a stripper, and it was just for a kick, not a striptease. If I was doing a striptease I wouldn't
have been standing behind a drum kit, would I? And I'd have taken my clothes off nice and slowly, pretending I was going to show a bit more and then not doing it, all that stuff. I'd have worn some sexy gear too, not a ripped-up top, maybe a nice lacy bra and matching knickers, maybe stockings too. Do you like stockings? I bet you love stockings. Red or black? No, I know your sort, you're so repressed you're bound to be a pervert, so it's got to be white, maybe under a school uniform? Yeah, I bet that's your bag, tight white knickers under a pleated skirt, so tight you can see my . . .'

I couldn't help myself, because the dirtier I got the redder his face was going, and it was only because Josie was making urgent gestures at me over his shoulder that I stopped. He was making gulping motions with his mouth, a bit like a goldfish, but managed to pull out a little notebook and a biro.

‘Your name and address, please.'

‘OK, if you insist. Lisa Simpson, 742 Evergreen Terrace, Springfield.'

He'd written half of it down before he stopped, but this time I really was already gone. Maybe he called after me, maybe he didn't, but I was through the stores and out the back in just seconds. The night felt cool after the heat of the club, making the prickle of sweat on my skin feel chilly and rather nice.

Not many people had bothered to come out, just a scattering hanging around the front doors or their cars to see if there would be any fun. Hoping to cadge a lift, I made for the cars. You could tell which car belonged to the Voice of Authority. A blue Astra parked diagonally to the pavement. These people always like to think they're in the anti-terrorist squad or something.

He hadn't even bothered to close the window, and
the keys were in the ignition . . . and the keys were in the ignition.

Well, what else could I do? I had to get home and the guy was a complete arsehole. Normally I wouldn't have done it, but I'm allergic to complete arseholes. Besides, he had acne.

I was in the car. I had the ignition on. I'd have run down Pete Manton if I hadn't looked over my shoulder. He stuck his head in the window.

‘Hey, Fizz, new car?'

‘It's not mine. It belongs to the council bloke inside, so get in or piss off.'

‘I'm in.'

I was moving before he'd closed the door, with cheers and laughter following us as people realised I'd stolen the car. There was just a stab of apprehension before I was laughing too in wild exhilaration for what I'd done, and what I might be doing later. Pete was cute and I knew he'd had his eye on me, but that was to come. For now it was time to drive.

We were going to get reported, no question, so I hit out on the fen roads, touching eighty on the long straights, with Pete clinging to his seat and my head singing with adrenalin. I love to drive fast in a stolen car, a double thrill that lifts me high above all the dross of living on bugger-all in a small, boring town. It's as good as drumming, better than sex, mostly; the three things that have kept me sane over my teenage years.

I know I might get caught and I know I might get killed. But I don't care. Life must be for living. It's what people like the Voice of Authority can never see. They think we get pissed and joyride and fuck because we don't know any better. We know all right, and we
know the life they want us to live, like a bunch of polite little state slaves. I'd rather crash and burn.

We nearly did, doing the ton on the long straight down to Brandon Bank when some prat on a push-bike appeared out of nowhere, no lights, nothing. He must have heard us coming, but he hadn't even had the sense to get out of the way. I hit the brakes and we hit gravel, then the bike, just one second after he'd thrown himself off into the ditch.

You do not know, cannot know, what one hundred miles per hour feels like until you lose control at that speed. I thought I was dead. I filled up with terror and self-pity and above all a ghastly sense of regret and helplessness, and then it was over. Mercifully, our wheels had taken hold again, because I'd been there before and had taken my foot off the brake. For maybe two seconds I was completely, calmly in control, allowing our speed to reduce slowly and shifting down a gear as soon as I safely could. Then the reaction hit me, like pins and needles in all four limbs at once while I was in desperate need of air.

I slowed and stopped, pulling off into a muddy gateway where tractors had been turning. My whole body was shaking and I lay back into the seat, my eyes closed, wanting to scream but not knowing if it was in fear or elation. I wanted sex too, to be held tight and fucked and fucked and fucked, in affirmation of my life and my existence. Finally Pete managed to find his voice.

‘Jesus, Fizz!'

‘Don't say another word. Just fuck me.'

I'd reached out to find his crotch, squeezing the full, soft mass through the denim of his jeans. He turned to
me with a look of amazement but he didn't stop me as I pulled him out and started to tug him erect. I wanted him on top of me, and inside me, quickly. He didn't need to turn me on, because I was there already, my feelings built up since the moment I'd taken my drumsticks in hand.

He needed a little help, his cock limp and bloodless, stirring only slowly in my hand as I played with him. Not that he was exactly resisting, just numb, but I knew how to deal with that. Leaning over, I took him into my mouth. His response was a whimper of pleasure, a little grunt of surprise as my fingers found the seat control and a long sigh as I began to suck him properly.

Now he was responding, his cock growing quickly as his fingers tangled in my hair, his other hand groping for the zip to my jacket. I let him, eager to be bare once more as his fingers fumbled open my zip and pushed within. A shrug and my jacket was off, sending a thrill of pleasure through me to be naked in the cool darkness of the car. I turned the light on to let him see, and to let me see him, his cock rising from his open jeans, wet and virile and exactly what I needed. He'd taken hold of himself as I rose, his eyes fixed to my chest as he pulled on his shaft. I love to watch a man grow excited for my body, to see all that desire just because I'm naked. I took my breasts in my hands, holding them out and stroking my nipples, to evoke a soft, urgent groan from somewhere deep in his throat.

He made a grab for me, pulling me down on top of him and pressing his mouth to mine. His hands were groping for my bum, so eager he didn't know whether to feel or try and get my knickers down. I gave him a helping hand, reaching back to guide him between my
thighs as I straddled his body, using his cock to push my knickers out of the way and sliding him deep inside. He was thrusting into me immediately, far too urgent, but I needed it too much to slow him down; instead I wriggled on his cock in my need to get friction to my sex.

I heard him grunt and I knew he'd come, but I wasn't finished, not me. As he lay back with a sigh I was scrambling up his body, my legs cocked wide across his torso, and then his face. I could just see his eyes in the dim light, full of shock and surprise as he spoke.