Dirty Arrangement Read online

  Calm down, I instruct myself. You were flirting with him to save your bakery! You don't actually like him. He's not your type! I'd always dated bland, safe men before. There was something about Thomas, something so intriguing and dangerous, that when combined with his handsome features, I was finding myself drawn into his sensual vibe. I've never had someone so commanding, so domineering, in arms reach.

  His hands move down; I inhale sharply, audibly, when he clutches the chair on either side of my shoulders. He's so near I can smell his scent. Unlike the coffee-citrus of the room, he's musky. It reminds me of rosemary and olive soaked bread.

  “You're going to be whatever I want, Alice,” he whispers. “Think about what I am saying, and decide if your other options are better. You can lose your bakery, watch it be torn to shreds and sold for scrap.” He tilts his head, dark hair glinting in the sunlight that streams through the wide window. “Or you can agree to do whatever I ask.”

  I forgot to breathe. I was focusing on his moving lips, the angle of his grin, those pearly teeth. When I find my voice, it's hushed. “If I agree to this, how far will it go? What if I... What if it's too much, what you're asking?”

  “Oh, Alice.” His chuckle is black as poison, but his voice is oh so sweet. “Didn't you advocate trying things before deciding you don't like them?”

  My fingers knot up on my thighs, knuckles white as bone. Is he serious or is this a joke? I'm unsure, but far too tempted by what he's suggesting to back out. I do want my job. That's why I'm here. Was I ready to do anything to get my way?

  Thomas has a charm that's hard to deny.

  What could he ask me to do that I might rebel against?

  “Alright,” I say softly. “I'll... I'll do it.”

  He leans away, graceful as a dancer as he slips behind the desk. Removing some forms from a drawer, he slides them my way along with a fancy pen. “Look over that contract, then sign it if you really agree. Think about this carefully, Alice.” His tone is deeper than the core of the earth. “This is no game.”

  My fingers hover over the papers before I slide them close. I flip through them; it's all legalize, tiny print I can barely make sense of. A few minutes of browsing and I can tell it's a water-tight contract that states I can be terminated by Mr. Volt at any time, and in doing so I'll lose my job, benefits, then something about restitution.

  Bracing myself, I scribble my name. I can't find a reason not to sign.

  What could matter more than keeping my bakery?

  Thomas pulls the forms away, signing them himself before ducking the papers out of sight. “Good, now that that's settled, let's discuss the rules of your position under me.” The way he phrases that makes me shift in my chair. He lifts a hand, counting off on each finger. “One, you will always call me Mr. Volt, or you will call me Sir. Nothing less than those.” His look is pointed.

  Unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I say, “Yes, Mr. Volt.” I can't imagine the humiliation of calling him Sir.

  “Next, you'll remain the baker at Simply Sweet, but your uniform will be up to me.”

  “My uniform?” Thinking about the heavy, shapeless white chef jacket, I blink.

  “Yes. I'll be redesigning what you'll be wearing at work. On top of that, as you represent me now, I'll be picking out your outfits for every day wear as well.”

  “Wait, what?” Shaking my head, I let out a nervous laugh. “Hold on. My work uniform makes sense, but you can't tell me what to wear the rest of the time!”

  “Did you listen to me at all? You represent me. What you do, how you look, that is all in my hands. You are in my hands, Alice.”

  I pull a grimace. “You don't own me.”

  The hard glint in his emerald eyes turns my legs to jelly. He rises in a quick movement, looming over me. He reaches out, cupping my jaw in his fingers. His touch sends sparks from my heart to my pussy, leaving me stunned. I never realized I have such an attraction to powerful men. My body is going wild. “According to that contract, you're my investment. I'm sinking money into that bakery, for you. If you displease me, I can fire you and take every cent out of your hide. You don't have that kind of money to lose, do you?”

  I lick my lips. “No.”

  His thumb caresses my cheek, feeling my sizzling skin. It wanders close to the corner of my mouth. “I'll give you one more chance. If you don't want to play my game, I'll tear that contract up before my lawyers see it. It's your choice, Alice.” He strokes my skin and I whimper. I can see he's breathing faster now; as fast as I am. This situation is fucked but we're both into it. I don't know what to do... I'm not sure I can walk away. I can barely stand.

  My words come from far away, everything in my head rolled up in cotton. “I'll play.”

  He moves his mouth towards mine. I'm sure he's going to kiss me. His smirk is a promise of pleasure and torture... but only his whisper brushes me intimately. “Good.”

  When he pulls away, I have to resist grabbing his shirt to yank him back for the kiss he teased me with. My inner thighs are soaked; I feel achingly empty. What is wrong with me? What have I gotten myself into?

  “As I was saying,” he says, adjusting his navy tie, “I'll decide your outfits. Next, if I want you to meet me somewhere or to simply attend something at my request, you will do so. You must always be available at my word.”

  It's not like I have a social life to worry about, but I still squirm at this rule. I copy his cynical smirk. “Basically, you're saying I'm your slave now.” I expect him to argue.

  “Yes,” he nods. “That about sums it up. Questions?”

  I don't know if it's the anger, the desire to push him, or something more, but I jump to my feet and square off with him. “Just one. How much do you get off on acting like you own me?”

  A growl-like sigh leaves him as he leans closer. His face is all hard lines, but his mouth looks soft... inviting. He's pissed off that I'm standing up to him but I swear he loves it, too. He likes that I'm not weak. The energy between us is hot as hell—I see the outline of his hard-on, and his eyes dart to the front of my dress. I know my nipples are firm bullets that my bra can't hide.

  Before either of us does anything else, his speaker buzzes. “Mr. Volt,” Violet says, “your 3:30 client is here.”

  He glares at the door over my head. I can see him debating of he should lock it and tell his client to go away. I imagine him bending me over the desk, shoving aside the pastries I'd pathetically thought would change my fate, and discovering how wet my pussy is right now.

  Christ, whats wrong with me? Have I just not gotten laid in forever or what?

  Thomas backs away, his palm stroking over his hair. He closes his eyes, breathes deep enough to make his shirt pull over his chest, then sighs. “You can go, Alice. Return to work tomorrow as usual, I'll have everything ready for you.”

  My legs manage not to buckle under me as I reach for the box of pastries. I'm sure he doesn't want them—he told me as much. He places his fingers on the back of my wrist.

  “Leave those,” he says flatly.

  “But I thought—”

  “Leave them.”

  When his hand is gone, the skin he touched keeps buzzing. Unsure what else to do, I retreat towards the door. “Okay. Fine. I guess I'll... just go.”

  He turns sideways, arms folding tight, as if he's doing his best not to grab for me. The idea has my heart throbbing all over again. I have to get out of here, whatever is in the air is making me act insane.

  But when I leave his office, marching head down so I can avoid his receptionist's curious look, my body keeps pulsing. My desire doesn't fade. Distance does nothing for how much I want to run back into that room and melt under his fiery green eyes again.

  I should be relieved he didn't kiss me.

  I'm not.

  Chapter Three

  ALICE

  I GET NO SLEEP.

  My dreams are plagued by a cruel smile and stroking fingers, a dark voice that commands my senses, contr
ols my body. I should feel ashamed about fantasizing over my new boss. In the warmth of my own bed, I'm fucking excited. Thomas brings out such a wicked-hotness in my blood that smothers the rational part of my brain warning me to keep my head clear. To stay away from him.

  He's wormed himself into my subconscious. No one has ever done that to me.

  Why does he have to be such an asshole?

  I'd tried getting rid of my pent up arousal by masturbating. Each time I touched myself, Thomas would enter my fantasy. Not even thinking about Chris Hemsworth could keep my new boss out of my head.

  Now, exhausted, I glare at my beeping alarm. I take a quick shower, my hair still damp as I jog the short distance to the bakery. The sky is a muted, miserable excuse for blue as I approach my building. It isn't really mine anymore, I remember.

  Unlocking the doors, I slide inside and flick on the lights. I'm about to start my normal routine when I spot a package on the counter. The box is medium in size, not much bigger than the boxes I use to pack up my pastries. I eyeball it like it's a rabid raccoon. I know that Thomas left it here. No one else has keys to the bakery.

  Gingerly, I touch the smooth lid, trying to find an excuse to not open it. There's a little note on the top. Peeling it open, I read the simple message in bold, handwritten letters.

  Alice

  You know what to do.

  My teeth clamp on my bottom lip. Snagging a pair of scissors from the counter, I cut a precise slit through the tape. My hands are trembling as I put the scissors aside and pull the box open. “Now way,” I whisper. Lifting out the pink chef's coat, I give it a shake, turning it side to side. Thomas was serious when he said he'd be choosing what I wore. But this... this is ridiculous. I have nothing against girly things, but I take pride in the traditional white chef coat. How dare Thomas expect me to put this on.

  I'm so pissed off I rip at the jacket in an attempt to destroy it. The stitches don't pop. As goofy as it looks, the material is well made. I resist my urge to grab the scissors. Why did Thomas think this would make the bakery more successful?

  Wondering if the jacket will fit, I peek inside at the collar. Why is there no size listed? That's when I notice the interior material is a bright magenta, shiny like melted candy. It feels exquisite under my fingers. Slippery and smooth.

  In the bottom of the box, I discover the rest of my outfit; a tiny baker's hat, pink as the coat with a hint of glitter sealed into the cloth, and some black shoes with a short heel.

  I sigh mentally. What am I going to do? If I don't wear the new outfit, and Thomas shows up, he might throw my contract in my face. Didn't I say I'd do anything to keep my bakery?

  Gritting my teeth, I march into my private restroom. The outfit I threw on after my shower is stripped away in a blur. I have to get this over with—I have so much work to do. As I'm brushing my hair from my eyes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink. My curves aren't just from working around sugar all day every day; I've always had a softness to me that playing soccer as a kid did nothing to put a dent in. But I don't mind, I'm proud of my body. Whatever confidence issues I might have had have been erased with the aid of loud and proud women all over the media, each of them helping to remind me I'm beautiful.

  But when I tug the pink chef coat on over my breasts, squeezing them inside with a grunt, I feel... less certain about my image. The outfit is tight. It clings to my middle, my hips, and flares out around my rear in a way that's not indecent, but noticeable.

  However, the material inside is wonderful. The luxurious silk rubs over my bare skin, waking me up so fast I forget I haven't had my morning coffee. My skin is electric; I give a little gasp.

  Did Thomas know this would happen?

  My face is flushed in the mirror. I don't feel in control anymore. Smoothing my hair, I place the stupid hat on. It's so dumb. I look like a cartoon character—except my breasts are way too enhanced to fit into a kid's show, that's for sure.

  Focus. Who cares how you look, you have to get baking.

  Striding into the kitchen, I begin my usual duties. The new outfit doesn't restrict me. Again, I have to give Thomas some credit. Wherever he had this made, it's well designed. I set out the morning pastries and see myself in the reflection of the front windows. When I saw myself earlier for the first time, I was uneasy. Now, I think the outfit is... cute.

  But I refuse to give my new boss any points.

  MY REGULARS DON'T HIDE their surprise when they see my new ensemble.

  “Alice,” gasps Ms. Snip, a sweet woman who always orders the same blueberry muffin each morning. “You look...”

  “Stupid?” I suggest with a blush.

  She quickly shakes her head. “No! I love it.”

  “You do?”

  “It's so different and cute,” she insists. “It's great to see a splash of color in here.”

  “I guess,” I say, eyeing the rather bland walls. Is it bland? Was I bland? I always focused on the food, not the décor, and certainly not my image. Frowning thoughtfully, I hand her her muffin. I spend the next few hours taking in the comments of my customers. Like Ms. Snip, it's almost all positive, at worse ambivalent.

  I'm starting to see that Thomas knows more about business than me. It's irritating, honestly. But also... reassuring. Working with him might not be so bad.

  I close the bakery that evening without seeing a hint of my new boss. He doesn't even text me, though I know he has my phone number. I expected him to be more hand-holdy. Controlling. Especially after how he behaved when we were alone in his office.

  The memory makes my body tingle.

  Rubbing my cheeks, feeling the scalding heat, I hurry home to my apartment. I want to put on some lazy Netflix-binge-watching clothes. Then I see something blocking my front door. There are multiple packages stacked as high as my chest.

  Stunned, I walk around them, trying to understand. Are these for me? They have my name on the shipping label, but I'm no less confused. Frowning warily, I nudge them aside so I can unlock my door, then one by one, I carry them in. I'm breathing heavily by the end. Who sent me all these boxes? What's inside? I wonder. Unable to wait, I pull one open. Wrapped in crunchy tissue paper is a gorgeous lavender floor length gown. I stare. Then I blink and stare again. “What the hell?”

  One by one I open the packages until I've arranged what seems to be an entirely new wardrobe of expensive outfits around my living room. Cocktail dresses, fitted pants, raw denim jeans, silk blouses... Then it clicks. “He said he'd change my wardrobe,” I laugh humorlessly. “He wasn't kidding.”

  Slumping in shock, I hold my forehead. Does Thomas want to help me, or does he get off on dressing me up the way he likes? I'm too tired to pick it all up so I leave the clothes where they are, slipping into a pair of plain sweatpants and a giant tee-shirt. Reheating some leftover pizza, I start to sit on my couch, but the sight of all the fancy clothing is too distracting.

  Retreating to my bedroom, I eat my food and browse my phone while lying in bed. My mind won't shut up—it's obsessed with Thomas and how he's infecting my world. Before I know it I'm Googling his name like I did before. This time, I purposefully click on the multiple candid photos of him tanning in the sun.

  His body is cut with muscles. I'm sure he has a personal trainer. He can certainly afford one. I scroll and scroll until my vision blurs. When I fall asleep, Thomas enters my dreams. His mouth tastes like sugar and electricity, and his wicked voice haunts me when I wake from my fitful sleep.

  Rolling on my mattress, I groan. My hand is buried between my thighs as I hiss a name I know I shouldn't. “Thomas... fuck me, oh, yes...” Before I can come, my phone rings loudly, startling me.

  I grab my cell from where I left it on my pillows. “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon.”

  Thomas's voice warms me. My body floods with adrenaline, resonating with the sex dream I was having. Wait, did he say afternoon? “Oh god,” I gasp, seeing the time on my phone; it's already past two.
>
  “You aren't at the bakery,” Thomas notes. “Is today a holiday I don't know about?”

  “I'm sorry!” Throwing the covers aside, I stumble to my feet. “I've never been late before, I swear. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Alice. This is unacceptable.” Through the phone, I picture his fierce eyes. It sends a thrill down my spine. His intimidating tone is exhilarating. “I'm sending a car for you. Put on one of the outfits I had sent over. I'll see you soon.”

  I fall back onto the bed in surprise. “You want to see me now? But what about work?”

  “Forget it. You missed your busiest sales window, the day is wasted. You'll have to be reprimanded for the money you've lost. My money. Be ready.” The phone clicks.

  I stare at my phone with growing unease. Reprimanded? What is he going to do to me?

  In a daze, I wander into my living room and pick out a pale blouse and white pants from the outfits covering my couch. I feel like I'm walking to the gallows as I head for my apartment door.

  If I'm honest, I'm a little excited, too.

  The car that arrives is glossy black with tinted windows, the kind that brings celebrities to red carpet events. The driver's window slides down—I'm disappointed that it's not Thomas, but an older man with a flat cap. “Ms. Brighton?” he asks. I nod. “I'm here to pick you up. Please, climb inside.”

  Looking around my street, I debate not getting in. But angering Thomas would be foolish. Plus, I do want to know what he's planning. The hot ball in my belly is throbbing with anticipation.

  Once I'm in, I notice the divider separating me from the driver. It gives the car a sense of solitude, which I might have liked, if I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts. I'm seriously freaking out.

  The car carries me silently down the streets for some time. Suddenly we roll down a dip—through my window I see we entered an underground garage. The divider slides down an inch. “Here we are,” the man says. “There's an elevator straight ahead.”