Typist #2 - Spanking the Billionaire Novelist (3 page)

“Did you ever have Cassie or one of her sisters type for you?”

“No. I like to keep people in their assigned roles.”

“How convenient and tidy for you.”

He kept massaging my shoulders, then leaned forward and swept his fingertips down the front of my V-neck shirt, caressing the valley between my breasts.

He growled, “I can't stop thinking about your milky-white tits.”

I pushed his hand away. “Don't say
tits
.”

He stuck his hand back down, reaching into my bra cup to handle my breast.

“Your lovely white lady lumps,” he said, his breath hot at my ear.

I giggled and tilted my head as he nuzzled my neck.

He continued, “Your white chocolate cupcakes. I want to put frosting all over them.”

“Ugh, you're so gross.”

He nibbled on my earlobe. “You love it. You want my creamy frosting. Say you do.”

“Fine. I want you to come all over my tits.”

Someone coughed. Cassie. She said, “Here to collect your dirty dishes. Just, uh, hand me those cups.”

I put my face in my hands and prayed she hadn't heard what I said. Smith handed her the stray tea cups and snack plates from around the desk.

She said, “Did this bed see any action?”

Smith sounded guilty. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if I should change out the sheets. Laundry day, remember?”

“May as well, if you're doing that sort of thing.”

I kept absolutely quiet, staring straight ahead at the screen.

Cassie stripped the bed and left. Smith came straight back to where he'd been, stuffing his grabby hands down my shirt.

I moaned and let him fondle my breasts for a moment, then pushed him away.

“We should get some work done,” I said.

“You're no fun.”

“I'm plenty of fun and you know it. Now do your work.”

He sprawled out on the bare mattress behind me, face down. “You write the story. Get started without me.”

“Sure.”

I typed half of a sentence then stopped. I hit the Backspace key and deleted the words, then tried again. Ten minutes later, I'd almost managed to finish the sentence.

Smith got up from the bed and leaned over my shoulder, chuckling. “Better stop there, or I'll have to give you a co-writer credit.”

I reached for the Backspace key again, but he caught my wrist in his hand. “That sentence is just fine,” he said. “We're not writing for the Pullitzer, so don't sweat it. That's a perfectly serviceable sentence.”

“I was hoping for
spark
.”

“Ah.” He let go of my wrist and began to pace again behind me. “That was your first mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'll tell you later. Let's work now.” He continued, in his dictation voice, finishing the sentence I'd nearly perfected, and moving into the scene.

Soon, I was swept up in the story, no longer limited by the screen in front of me and the document that was zoomed in two-hundred-percent on the large monitor so Smith could read the words. I was transported to the mansions and exclusive social clubs of the elite, where people murdered each other for control of vast empires, and risked everything for illicit encounters, having sex in limousines and fancy hotels and even in dirty alleys.

Detective Smith Dunham saved Sheri from a stalker and she showed her appreciation by pulling up her expensive cocktail dress behind a dive bar. Dunham did little more than grunt and pull her thin g-string aside before he entered her. She smelled the garbage and cigarette smoke drifting through the alley as she climaxed.

After, the detective pulled his cock out and wiped it off on the silk scarf she'd had tied at her throat.

I stopped typing.

“Excuse me?” I said. “On her scarf?”

“Still going for that co-author credit?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Go on. Your words are my commands.”

“You ruined it. I was in the moment and now I'm not.”

I turned around to see him scowling, which made me feel bad. I hung my head. “I'm really sorry, Smith. It's a great scene, though. You'd think the garbage smell would be off-putting, but it adds a dimension. It's gritty.”

Still scowling, he said, “I need a typist, not a …
complimentist
.”

“Can't win, can I?” I stood and walked past him to the stairs.

He ignored me through lunch.

Cassie joined us for some food, at Smith's insistence. The thought crossed my mind that it was odd of him to eat with his housekeeper,
the paid help
, but then I was no different from her, was I?

His chin in his hands, he gazed with adoration at Cassie. “Are you kissing anyone these days with those gorgeous lips?”

She glanced at me, then back at him. “There was someone back at school, but I think she's just college-gay, not full-time gay.”

“I hope she wasn't a redhead,” he said. “Their lack of pigment is accompanied by a lack of humor.”

I glared at him as I stabbed my fork into my lunch, but he pointedly continued to ignore me.

“You should write a short story about a redhead,” he said.

Cassie looked thoughtful. “A lesbian love story? I'd like to write one about young lovers, only I'll switch it up and let both of them live.”

They both laughed.

“I don't get it,” I said.

“It's a trope,” Smith explained. “One of the lesbians has to die, tragically. I wonder if it's because it's the only ending a male author can stomach.”

“Let's not be sexist,” Cassie said. “Plenty of dramatic dyke deaths are penned by women.”

“Hmm,” he said, and they both stared thoughtfully at each other.

Again, my feelings of jealousy raged within, like a tornado in a ketchup bottle. I liked Cassie, but why did she have to be there all day? And did he actually like her that much, or was he trying to annoy me?

As we were clearing up the lunch dishes, I said to Cassie, “Would you tell your handsome brother I said hello?”

Smith winced as he heard this, but didn't comment.

“He's so cute,” I continued. “Does he have a girlfriend? He's probably way out of my league, but … put in a good word for me.”

She gave me a twisted grin, glanced over at Smith, and said, “Sure will. Hey, you should come into town tonight. The Chamber of Commerce is putting on our annual all-night Picnic in the Park.” She turned back to me, her pretty blue eyes sparkling. “Tori, it's so much fun. We have movies projected onto a big screen, and there are fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” I looked over at Smith. “Sounds like fun.”

“We'll be there,” Smith said to Cassie. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

We worked for a few more hours on the novel, about average productivity, then had dinner. Smith fired up the outdoor grill and baked a foil-wrapped piece of salmon that Cassie had brought over. I complimented his cooking, not that he'd done much beyond adding the sauce that was provided.

I took a second helping, saying, “I don't usually like fish.”

“This is real fish, Tori. Not those frozen deep-fried fish sticks your mother made you as a kid.”

“You couldn't be more wrong,” I said. “I grew up on chicken strips, not fish sticks.”

“Noted,” he said with a smug grin.

The only other thing we talked about for the next twenty minutes was the novel, and by
talked about
, I mean Smith rambled on about possible twists and future events that made no sense to me, since I hadn't gotten there.

I pushed away the plate of crumbs from the slice of cheesecake I'd had for dessert and said, “I don't get it. Are you wanting feedback from me, or are you just thinking out loud?”

He blinked at me, as though he'd just realized another person was in the cabin with him. Cassie had left about an hour earlier, and it was just the two of us, though I was starting to realize that Smith's imagination was like a parallel universe for him.

“Relax and eat your cheesecake,” I said. “Mine will have zero calories if you eat the same size slice.”

He grunted and kept staring through me, blinking, his gold-brown eyes unfocused.

I snapped my fingers. “Stop thinking.”

He said, “What am I thinking about now?”

I stared into his warm eyes. “You're thinking about what amazing young writer Cassie is, and how she has such a great
spark
. Not to mention those legs that go on for miles.”

“
You,
my dear Tori, could not be more wrong.”

I grabbed my salad plate to distract me from the other slices of cheesecake that were calling me from the fridge. I picked up the fork and stabbed at the spiny lettuce I usually left behind, then stuffed it in my mouth. Why did they put that stuff in mixed greens, anyway? Was it to make the other lettuce more delicious in contrast to its bitter awfulness?

Smith said, “I was thinking about root beer floats. Still am, actually. We should share one tonight, in town.”

“I'm not going.”

He seemed surprised by this. I was too, since I'd been planning to go, but it did please me to tell him no, to disrupt his plans.

“I know you want to go,” he said. “You've been in a
mood
all day, and you're being argumentative. You're such an only child. I should have hired someone who was raised with older siblings. They're much more malleable.”

“How do you know I'm an only child? You don't know anything about me.”

“I know plenty. I know you never wear your hair short.”

I crossed my arms and waited for him to explain, but he didn't. He just smiled.

He was right; I'd never had my hair short, but it was such an odd thing for him to say. Of course I wanted to know why he'd said it, but he
wanted
me to ask, so I was not going to bite.
Try again, Smith.

“You can stay behind and keep an eye on the cabin,” he said. “I may spend the night in town, and I'd feel better knowing someone was here, in case something happens.”

I bit my lip. He was going to leave me there by myself, all night? Alone in the woods?

“Fine, I'll come to town with you,” I said.

He feigned innocence. “But I said I don't want you to come. Are you trying to be difficult? It's your only-child stubbornness, isn't it? Can't do anything unless you think it's your idea. Your first response is always a resounding no, before you've even considered the question.”

“I'm not the difficult one. You are. What makes you say I've never had my hair short? Did you hack into my computer?”

“I'm right, aren't I?”

“Yes, Smith Wittingham. You are right. You're always right, because you're sooooo smart.”

He closed his eyes and smiled. “Ah, I never tire of hearing that.”

I unbuttoned my blouse and leaned forward on the table, hunching my arms in to create a deep crevice between my breasts.

“Hey, Smith. How'd you like to put your cock … right here?” I licked my finger and plunged it down between my breasts.

His mouth opened and closed. He cleared his throat and adjusted his position on the chair across from me.

I nodded my head forward and looked up at him sideways. “I could put my mouth right here, for the tip. We could put some lotion or oil between my tits. I know you love my milk-white breasts. Wouldn't you love to fuck them?”

He cleared his throat again, his left eye twitching.

His voice low and gravelly, he said, “You're a wicked girl.”

“Wouldn't you like to find out just how wicked I am?”

He reached across the table, grabbing for my chest, but I quickly pulled back.

“Not so fast. What's up with the haircut comment?”

“Come sit on my lap and I'll tell you.”

I got up slowly and walked around the long dining room table, then approached him and straddled his lap, pulling my blouse down in the front for a view.

He buried his face in my chest and sighed. I combed my fingers through his thick, blond hair and massaged his scalp.

Still with his face between my breasts, he said, “I'll give you a thousand dollars if you act like a filthy stripper and give me a lap dance right now.”

“What is wrong with you?”

His face was still hidden, against my skin. “Two thousand dollars.”

I pushed his face away and climbed off his lap. “You're disgusting.” I shook my head, my hands waving around wildly, then fanning my face. “Are you into that stuff? Paying for sex?”