Duncan - The Deal (The Cocky Smiling O Series #1)

C
opyright © 2016

2016 Edition

Cover art: Jade Sinner

Editing: Printed Matter Editing

Formatting:
Indie Formatting Services

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2016 Edition License

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D
uncan Willis should be
on GQ, not the co-owner of the company where I work. He's my boss, and he's also arrogant and cocky, knowing how to melt panties with just a smirk. That's why I've avoided him.

I might fantasize about him, but I don't need that in my life.

Until...

Until I catch him—OK, hear him—in a compromising position.

Yes, it was hot, but that's not the point.

I need a date for one weekend. He needs me to keep quiet about what I witnessed.

It's the perfect blackmail...the perfect deal.

Until...

Until one weekend of fantasy leaves me wanting more.

* * *

R
ead this sexy
, predictable, short, hot, dirty, and steamy book and learn how fantasy can become reality! Duncan: The Deal, is a standalone with a guaranteed HEA. Don't miss your next bookgasm.

"
W
hat time do
you get in?"

I press my blue-tooth closer to my ear, drowning out conversations and traffic, as I emerge from the subway tunnel onto the Manhattan street. The morning sunlight causes me to squint or maybe it's my way to concentrate on what my mother just asked. Damn, if she'd only called a few seconds earlier I'd have been underground and missed her call.

Ugh.

"Get in?" I ask, trying not to let on that I have no fucking idea what she's talking about.

"Thursday, dear. Your dad has an appointment and we want to be sure we can pick you up."

I want to ask again, but if I do, surely she'll figure out that I'm still lost in this conversation. Instead I take it another way. "Dad has an appointment?"

"With his urologist, dear, you know he has that—"

OK. That didn't work. "Mom, sorry to interrupt, but I need to get to work. You were saying?"

"Yes, what time does your flight arrive? You know it's race weekend. I told you not to book a hotel, and if you listened, there's not one available for miles. Besides, we have plenty of room and we want you here with us. I've talked with your father. It's fine for Timothy to stay here, too. I even think...well, if it'll get that man to propose, he can stay in your room."

Like sleeping with someone in my
parents' house
is erotic?

I shake my head. "Timothy? Mom, we're not going to the race."

We're also not dating anymore, but that's a whole other story.

"Of course not," she replies. "Kurt wants Timothy at the bachelor party. You know I'm not a big fan of parties the night before the wedding. Remember that incident with cousin Bob..."

Fuck! The wedding!

My cousin Scarlet's wedding. My perfect damn cousin.

How did I forget?

I know. I blocked it out.

I don't want to go. I don't want to go back to Indiana and field all the questions about why I'm still not married, why I'm living all the way in New York, why I have a fucking life instead of being pregnant with baby number five at twenty-six years old.

"Mom," I try to interrupt as I push my way through a crowd of obviously lost tourists. "Mom, um, Timothy..."

"Kimberly, you're breaking up. What did you say?"

"We're not..."

"Kimberly Ann, I RSVPe'd for you
plus-one
. That was six months ago. Oh my lord! Tell me you're not single again! Why didn't you tell me? You know your aunt and uncle paid for a sit-down dinner. The reception is at the Hyatt. It's very formal, place setting and everything. Oh dear lord in heaven, don't tell me that I have to tell them you don't have a plus one."

I take a deep breath and tap the microphone of my blue-tooth. "I-I'm...said...see...going...Thursday...rental car..." I say as I disconnect the call.

Yes, it's a cheap trick. No, we don't have a bad connection. I just don't want to talk anymore. My thoughts are full of dresses and babies, and disapproving looks from my grandmother and mother as I sit at my assigned seat at the reception next to an empty chair.

Maybe if I call my aunt now, she can move me to the kid table. That will be fun.

I grimace at the thought as I make my way along the street to the building where I work at a real job. When I enter the building that houses the offices of Buchanan and Willis, a pharmaceutical distributor, my mind is hundreds of miles away. Out of habit, I squeeze my way into the coffee shop.

"Caffe vanilla light frappuccino. Venti," I say while making mental notes: it's Tuesday. I need to be in Indiana on Thursday. I haven't asked for time off. I don't have an airline ticket or a dress or a date. My mind's a blur as the barista hands me my coffee and I turn, bumping right into
him
.

"Shit!" I say louder than I intend.

"Miss Jones."

I look from the steaming coffee that managed to mostly stay within the confines of the cup—thank God for lids—and stare as some trickles down my hand and a small drop lands on my white blouse. My gaze goes to the floor. In front of me are his dark leather shoes. My eyes move upward: his grey slacks that narrow at his waist. I suck in a breath at the way his suit coat hangs from his broad shoulders. Finally, our eyes meet.

Gritting my teeth, I force a smile. "Mr. Willis." I search his suit for evidence of our collision. "Did I..." I motion with a tip of my head.

Mr. Willis grins as his deep voice drowns out the crowd. "Near miss, I believe. No harm, no foul." And then he steps around me.

Shit
. Can this day get any worse?

Mr. Willis is half of Buchanan and Willis Pharmaceuticals. He and Michael Buchanan started what has become a multibillion dollar company. It's not that he's smart and rich—even if he is. It's that he's sex on a stick. The man should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of our office. The way he wears his tailored suits on his over six-foot frame should be illegal. With jet-black hair and stunning green eyes, he can melt panties with just a smirk. No doubt, mine are currently nothing but hot wax.

Not that any of that matters. He hardly knows I'm alive, other than when he wants me to do some menial task: book a hotel or check on an invoice. His requests never involve anything in my actual job description. That doesn't mean I tell him no. From what I've heard, no one ever tells him no.

I admit that there have been more than a few times I've imagined him asking me to do other things. Things that go against company policy. Things that include his large hands and cock.

I don't actually know how big his cock is, but in my imagination it's huge.

Shaking my head, I make my way to the elevator. Minutes later I go from the elevator to my cubicle. Leaving my cup of coffee on my desk, I decide to attempt to save my blouse. Maybe if I can wash the coffee stain away, my day will start to improve.

Not wanting to strip to my lacy bra in front of half my female coworkers, I go on to one of the smaller employee bathrooms, one hidden down a hallway with only two stalls.

Any other day I'd be irate about the coffee. After all, this is one of my favorite outfits, a white silk blouse, navy pencil skirt, big red chunky necklace and red high-heeled fuck-me pumps. It would seem like the shoes would be uncomfortable, but surprisingly they aren't. Besides, I love the way they accent the red.

My white lace bra barely contains my DD breasts as I carefully lower my blouse under a cool stream of water.

"Yes, in here..." A woman's voice coos near the bathroom door.

Shit. "Of course," I mumble, clenching my blouse to my bare stomach and moving into a stall. As I shut the door, the outside door crashes open.

"O-oh," the female voice pants. "Y-yes. Let me show you."

I shake my head. Really? It isn't bad enough that I have the whole mother-wedding thing, now I get to listen to two people fucking in a bathroom.

"A-ah, God..."

I sit on the toilet with my wet blouse on my lap. I might as well get comfortable and try to ignore what's happening beyond the stall.

"Oh. Oh!"

Holy fuck! Whoever they are, they're going at it. OMG. It's like eight in the morning. I'm not against morning sex, just not in the company bathroom!

The breathing gets heavier.

I should stop this. I work in HR and this is definitely against company policy, but damn, it's hot. Besides, I don't have a blouse on. I can't exactly run out in my bra and yell stop! And it's a great diversion from my sucky life. It'll give me something to fantasize about during my upcoming shitty weekend.

I haven't heard the man's voice yet, just his breathing.

Oh fuck!

I see female legs, blue pumps and a skirt as she falls to her knees.

A zipper. I hear a fucking zipper. "Don't do it," I plead mentally. "Don't do it."

My mind may be disapproving, but the hotter it gets, the more my body agrees. Moisture builds between my legs as I let my imagination take over. Without thinking, my fingers move under my skirt and push the crotch of my panties aside. Damn, they're wet.

A growl echoes through the bathroom. A
growl
...

The growl is deep and primitive. Oh sweet Jesus. That's erotic.

I stifle a moan as I brush my clit, lightly at first and then find my folds. Damn, my skirt is too tight to reach...I move it up my thighs, as my red pumps scrape against the tile floor.

"Shit," the man's voice resonates through the small bathroom and my eyes open wide.

"I-is someone in here?" No longer seductive, the woman's voice holds an edge of panic.

Commotion—zippers moving and fabric straightening as well as the woman's heels and man's shoes against the floor. Without another word, they're gone.

It was only one word, but I know that voice.

Another moan escapes my lips as I finish what I started. One finger and then two. A pinch of my clit and the image of the man who was just on the other side of the stall. Behind my closed eyes, I see his wide shoulders, his trim waist, the way his pleated trousers hang over his big cock and surround his round ass.

Cum covers my fingers as I imagine Duncan Willis.