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Bad girl Lacy Reed doesn’t care what anyone thinks—until her naked selfies show up on her boss’s cell phone.
Brandon Cole never smiles, ever. Not even when Lacy’s indecent selfies appear on his phone. Already a VP before age thirty, he doesn’t need Lacy to discover his well hidden secret.
and Excerpt comes from Rachelle Ayala, who gives us a saucy tale of a Christmas Flirt!
Flirt by Rachelle Ayala
(Excerpt copyright © 2014, Rachelle Ayala)
“Miss Reed, please come to my office.” The sexy, smooth voice of my boss’s boss, Mr. Cole, vibrates through the handset.
He called me Miss Reed. Why so formal? I’m just the intern everyone knows as Lacy Reed, the wild and crazy one they get to do all the publicity stunts for Shopahol’s Immersion Gaming division. And yes, I’m lucky to get this job and no, I’ve never met Mr. Brandon Cole up close, although he’s as drool-worthy as they come. So, why would he call me out of the blue without his secretary’s intervention?
“Miss Reed? You there?” The sexy male voice rumbles smooth as cream.
Oh my. I swallow a load of drool. Is that really Mr. Cole on the phone or is someone playing a prank on me?
I wouldn’t put it past Sean and Dex, the two computer clowns who set up everyone’s new-fangled internet-enabled phones, to send me a spliced recording.
“Yes, sir. Right now?”
I can barely squeak out my excitement, or is it fear? I should be afraid, right? I could be in trouble. Not that I can think of anything I did wrong. Besides, wouldn’t my immediate supervisor, Marty, have said something?
“Yes, if you please,” Mr. Cole says in a cool manner that tells me I’m wasting his time, which I am since he’s the new Vice President of Marketing—single, panty-melting, and loaded with arm candy of the female variety.
“On my way.” I hang up and swipe my hand through my wavy, misbehaving hair, check my suitably business-like white silk blouse, brush off any crumbs from lunch, and lick my teeth, glancing into the mirror perched on my monitor. That mirror is a lifesaver since it’s the one which warns if anybody lurks behind me from the cubicle entrance.
What could Mr. Cole want from me? Everyone said I’d done an excellent job at the Vegas trade show. I presented our newest line of video game concepts, wore all the costumes, most of them modified bikinis to appear like warrior princesses, vampire brides, and sexy space aliens. So what if a couple of convention geeks got carried away and carted me off to the bar to lick shots off my belly? It was all good publicity and getting eyeballs on the Shopahol logo I sported on my ample bosom.
I stride past Gale, Mr. Cole’s secretary, a prudish older woman who glares from under her steel-rimmed glasses.
“Go right in,” she orders me as I hesitate outside his door.
“Do you know what this is about?” I lower my voice. “Is something wrong?”
Gale gives me the once over, her lips slightly sneering as if she were the headmistress at a convent. “It’s not my place to say.”
Sure, her attitude said as much. I wonder how many women traipse in and out of Mr. Cole’s office on a regular basis. Word has it he’s quite a player, although totally unruffled, always polished to a spit shine, never a hair out of place. Word also says he never plays at work.
Steeling myself, I twist the brushed chrome door handle, and the image of twisting something more velvety has my insides quivering.
Yeah right. With my luck, I’m about to get canned. It wasn’t just the Jell-O shots off my belly, but the Sharpie marker signatures and tattoo art I collected on my body from rival gaming companies that could have me fired.
I step in as quietly as I can, but Mr. Cole’s ready for me. His mysterious greenish-gray eyes rove my body as he sweeps out a single hand. “Have a seat, Miss Reed.”
Every movement of his is economical, no wasted energy, no nervous ticks, absolute control. He’s not flicking his smartphone or tapping on his keyboard, or scurrying his shapely long fingers through his cropped copper-tinted brown hair. He’s just focused, watching my every jittery movement as I carefully step my way from his door to the wingback chair placed beside his desk.
I can’t help the butterflies taking flight in my stomach or the fluttering of my heart. Mr. Brandon Cole is a heartthrob. Totally. His lean suit is well cut, almost form fitting, tailored to his perfect physique—fit, tanned, compact and oozing with understated power. Would it be clichéd to talk about his chiseled jaw and heartbreaker’s face? His woodsy cologne isn’t helping one bit, not to add his lady-killer lips—ones that never smile. But what really gets me are the eyes. Grayish-green, catlike and mysterious, like slate on jade, or marble on emerald.
Up close, he appears younger than I’d thought. Under thirty and a VP already? Smoothing my skirt, I slide into the chair facing him, realizing I’m completely exposed. Mr. Cole has one elbow propped on his solid oak desk. A desk so solid and hefty, and smooth on the surface, and just the right height for …
No, don’t go there. Gale the guard dog secretary is right outside. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a surveillance camera. One never knows with these high tech companies.
“Uhm, hi.” I greet him with a nervous smile. “You wanted to see me?”
“I’ve already seen a lot of you,” he answers without blinking an eye.
“Huh? Oh.” I clear my sodden throat. “Is this about the convention?”
“Maybe more.” His voice remains impassive without a hint of emotion.
I flick on a megawatt smile, ignoring the flight-or-fight signals invading my bloodstream. I’m not a marketing intern for nothing. I can appear more confident than I feel. Besides, I can always sit here and picture Mr. Brandon Cole in his boxers with a growing … my imagination is just too fertile for the moment.
In any case, I wait. This is a power play, pure and simple. He’s trying to unnerve me. Not that he hasn’t succeeded. I mean, if he asked, I’d roll over and let him rub my belly, not that I have a tail to wag or anything. But definitely panting, what with that rod of steel peaking from his boxers.
I’m so into my fantasies and visualizations I don’t notice Mr. Cole hovering over me until it’s too late. His hot breath warms the back of my neck as he bends toward me, and his hand touches my shoulder, sending jingles of electricity spiraling down my spine.
I can barely hold still, anticipating the soft kiss he’d feather over my cheek, just at the right angle for me to turn my lips into, when he drops a cell phone in my lap.
“Explain this,” he says, and props himself on the corner of his desk.
Holy moly! My eyes pop from their sockets and my jaw crashes to my knees. I’m on his screen, all boobs and tush. Completely naked.
“That’s me?” my stupid tongue blabbers to the rescue. “How’d you get that?”
“Perhaps you sent it to me.” Mr. Cole crosses his arms and quirks his eyebrow. “Why?”
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