Love,

Whitney G.

SNEAK PEEK OF NAUGHTY BOSS

He definitely wasn’t supposed to get that email ...

Subject: My Boss.

Have I already told you that I hate my boss today?

Sexy as hell or not, this pompous, arrogant, ASSHOLE asked me to pick up his dry cleaning the second I walked through the door. Then he told me that I needed to take his Jaguar to a car wash that was ten miles outside of the city, but only after I needed to stand in a never-ending line to buy some type of limited, hundred-dollar watch.

I honestly can’t wait to see the look on his face two months from now when I tell him that I’m quitting his company and that he can kiss my ass. KISS. MY. ASS.

All those former fantasies about him kissing me with his “mouth of perfection” or bending me over my desk and filling me with his cock are long over. OVER.

Your bestie,

Mya

PS—Please tell me your day is going better than mine ...

Subject: Re: My Boss.

No, you haven’t already told me that you hate your boss today, but seeing as though you’ve sent me this email directly, I know now ...

Yes, I did ask you to pick up my dry cleaning the second you arrived to work to day. (Where is it?) And I did tell you to take my Jaguar to the car wash and pick up my thousand-dollar watch. (Thank you for taking five hours to do something that could be accomplished in two.)

You don’t have to wait two months from now to see the look on my face when you tell me you’re quitting. I’m standing outside your office at this very moment. (Open the door.)

No comment on your “fantasies,” although I highly doubt they’re “long over.”

Your boss,

Michael

PS—Yes. My day is definitely going far better than yours...

THE BOSS

Michael

Manhattan, New York

The last time my face was plastered across the front page of a tabloid, the headline was at least somewhat true. What I was currently staring at in this moment was beyond far-fetched, even for someone with a scandalous and sex-filled reputation like mine.

Playboy CEO of Leighton Publishing Leaves Woman Crying in Hotel Lobby After Hours of Loud Sex on Balcony

I flipped through the pages of The National Enquirer, skimming the details from the so-called “trusted source” while resisting the urge to roll my eyes. According to them, I’d had sex with this woman in the penthouse suite of a hotel and simply put her out so I could have sex with someone else. And according to the woman who’d clearly concocted this bullshit story, she said my exact words to her were, “Thank you for letting me fuck your pussy. It’s time for me to fuck someone else’s now. You can see yourself out.”

There was no mention of the fact that this very same woman was recently convicted for lying to a grand jury in a theft case, but tabloids were never interested in the truth. They only wanted to sell papers.

I managed to get through the entire article without a reaction, but I couldn’t help but laugh at the last line: Rumors are now swirling that the ‘naughty’ CEO engages in sex with two different women for every day of the week. He apparently keeps a private schedule for his sex-life.

I shook my head.

It’s only one different woman for every day of the week...

Tossing the tabloid into the trash, I remembered to send a generic text to the women I planned on seeing this week. There was Lisa on Tuesday, Mariah on Wednesday, Hannah on Thursday, and Tiffany on Friday.

Michael: Looking forward to seeing you this week.

Their responses came in exact succession.

Lisa: Looking forward to seeing you, too :)

Mariah: Can’t wait to fuck you again ...

Hannah: Let me know if you want to change it to an earlier day :)

Tiffany: Anytime :)

With a few minutes to spare until my six o’clock meeting, I set a box of potential front-list novels on my desk. I made two pots of coffee and opened new notepads. Then I impatiently waited for my executive assistant.

I’d long given up on her arriving early to meet me for anything because she was always five minutes late. She literally lived right across the street from the building and she never ceased to amaze me with her endless excuses as to why she couldn’t be on time.

Ten minutes past six, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Fifteen minutes past six, I wondered if my previous thoughts of her being the most incompetent assistant I’d ever had were true, and at twenty minutes past six, I caved in and called her desk.

“Yes, Mr. Leighton?” she answered on the first ring.

“Did you forget that we’re supposed to discuss the winter selections today?” I asked. “You know how I feel about things needing to be on time.”

“Oh, right! I am so sorry! I got caught up on these reports, but I’m on my way.”

She hung up, and within minutes she walked into my office carrying a box of assigned novels. She placed it on my desk and sat across from me.

“Wait.” She held up her hand. “Before we start, can I ask you something personal?”

“No.”

“What if it’s something important?”

“It can’t be important if it’s something ‘personal,’ because you’re not entitled to know anything about my personal life.”

“Are you really as bad as all the tabloids say you are?” She raised her eyebrow. “Like, when do you possibly find the time to sleep with so many women since you’re always here working?”

I could’ve sworn I said no ...

I gave her a blank stare.

“I deserve to know what type of man I’m working for,” she said, crossing her arms. “Especially if this man wants me to keep the truth about how difficult he is to work for under wraps.”

“Are you threatening to blackmail me?”

“No.” She smiled. “I just really want to know if your sex life is as exciting as the press makes it seem. I actually think it’s pretty hot, and off the record, I am totally willing to look past the non-fraternization policy if you ever want to try me out.” She lowered her voice. “I can be naughty in the bedroom, too. I can let you have my pussy, and you can leave me hanging in the hotel lobby afterwards, if that’s what you’re into.”

Jesus...

“Can we please get started with the work?” I rolled my eyes. “I need your thoughts on the titles you were assigned so we can send them down to marketing tomorrow.”