She’s wearing the classic SILF (which is secretary I’d like to fuck) combo—a white blouse that is almost sheer enough to see her lace bra, a tight black pencil skirt, towering black heels, and a regal bearing that says she knows she looks killer in it. She’s not tall; she’s probably only around 5’6”, but those heels highlight her sleek yet toned legs, and her ass could make a grown man weep. Her breasts are generous, and they fill out her blouse well, but it’s her face that is truly striking. Somewhere in those eighteen years, she morphed into something most definitely not tomboyish.
Her green eyes, which used to be hidden away behind the world’s thickest, biggest, and ugliest glasses, flash when she pushes the door open and walks into the room. Her teeth, now straight and pearly white, grace everyone with a genuine smile.
In that instant, I realize not only is the room suddenly flooded with her gentle, feminine scent, but the flash in her eyes is also for me.
She knew. She didn’t just figure it out. She knew I was going to show up here. She knew who was head of the company that bought hers out. Okay, so it’s not exactly a secret, but the point is, she came prepared. She doesn’t look the least bit disturbed to find me in the head chair at the boardroom table, ready to talk about the future.
Zoe: 1. Me: Fucking nothing.
The door shuts silently behind her, and Zoe floats to the only empty chair—the chair at the other end of the table, directly across from me.
She sets the notebook and pen she was holding down on the table. It’s an oval-shaped, hideously cheap monstrosity that I plan to get rid of as soon as fucking possible. Burning it came to mind, but I’m sure that would release too many toxic chemicals, and the world has enough toxicity and pollution as it is.
I realize when Zoe lifts her head and stares straight at me, she’s challenging me. Oh yes, she came ready to battle. She came ready for me. She planned to be the last one entering the room so she could watch every single millisecond of my reaction.
And yes, it’s kind of hot.
Fuck.
I’m that guy who thinks his ex-stepsister is hot. What. The. Actual. Fuck?
I swallow hard, trying to push the lump of disgust, amazement, and my freaking balls—which have just jumped into my throat—back down. I rip open my laptop so that I can hide my face behind it. Even though I’m not looking at her, all I can see is Zoe’s gorgeous face. The heart-shaped beauty I never noticed before. Her dainty chin, perfect lips, cheekbones that aren’t very sharp but somehow don’t need to be, and eyes so green, they’d put an emerald of the Caribbean Sea to shame. Her honey-hued hair, which used to be a mousy brown, is pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head with a few wisps left down to dance around her angelic face.
Lord. She might as well have been formed with angel dust and pink magical unicorn shit.
“I appreciate you all for making time to attend this meeting,” I start, my voice rough. As if anyone here even had a choice. They either get with the program, or they ship out. It’s pretty simple, but people generally don’t like to hear that first thing in the morning, so I dumb it down and make it gentle, so it’s easier to swallow. “As you already know, there are going to be some changes, but we’ll take it slow and make it as painless as possible.” I really do hope so because I like productivity. I like smart people making smart technology, which makes lots of money.
I roll along with the speech I’ve given quite a few times already. So many times, in fact, that I can do it on autopilot, which I do. Of course. And not because I’m distracted while thinking about other things.
No, I’m not thinking about Zoe’s finer, surprising assets.
Well, okay, yes, maybe I am.
I know I’m a male pig and an egotistical asshole, blah, blah, blah. But maybe I’m not really. Just sometimes. I’m actually a rather fair employer who has never, not once, and would never dip my dick in the workplace. Those shit do not mix at any time. Instead, I’ve dated models, a few actresses, and some artists. Right, so I’ve dated at least two dozen more women from all walks of life.
The thing about money and having people know you have it is that there is never any shortage of women lining up to date you, mostly because they want things—things and no strings. I’ve been okay with that, for the most part. Most people also just assume that when you have lots of money, you have no soul. But I think I do have a shred of it left somewhere that I haven’t sold to the devil.
I’m called Ruthless Raiden for a reason, and I kind of like it. It has a nice alliterative ring to it. Better than being called Rectal Raiden, Ridiculous Raiden, or worst of all, Rectal Raiding Raiden. And no, I didn’t earn
