Warning: Not safe for work.
“Again?” my stepbrother Michael says. I can almost see his disproving frown even just from the tone of his voice over the phone. “Does he make you come to work every Saturday?”
“No,” I reply. “Not every Saturday.” I’m lying, of course. My boss, Patrick Brighton-Smith, does not seem to understand the concept of weekends. In fact, he would make me come to work on Sundays if his mother doesn’t make him have lunch at her home upstate on that day every week. Patrick isn’t the kind of man to take orders from anyone, even his own mother, but it’s hard to refuse a parent who’s battling cancer.
I look up at the sky. It was a beautiful sunny day. Perfect for going out with friends for a chat and coffee. Instead of doing any of those things, I’m carrying coffee down to the office because the espresso machine broke down yesterday and caffeine is the only thing that keeps my boss tolerable.
“Well, don’t forget lunch, all right? I’m taking you to that Greek place you like so much.”
I grin. With my salary, I couldn’t really afford to eat at Dysis as often as I like. One of the perks of having a successful older brother who insists on spoiling you is I get to enjoy the occasional treat. “I can’t wait.”
After we say goodbye, I press the button on my Bluetooth earphone to end the call.
While my ogre of a boss makes me work on Saturdays, at least he gives me a two-hour lunch. Of course since most of my work friends are at home or out enjoying the weekend, most of the time I get to enjoy my long lunch by myself.
Except today. Today, my big brother was taking me out to eat at my favorite restaurant. Anticipation adds a little bounce in my step as I make my way back inside the building.
My phone rings. I recognize the ring tone — Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony —that tells me it’s Patrick calling and my hand flies to my earpiece to answer. “Yes, Mr. Brighton-Smith?” I say in my professional assistant voice. Did I mention I have to address him as Mr. Brighton-Smith? And he never calls me by my first name, Leonie, either. Yeah, he’s that much of a tight ass.
“I’m heading to my mother’s home, so we’re having the meeting now,” Patrick says. He has this deep sexy baritone that goes well with his blond, grey-eyed good looks. Fuck my life, right? Not only do I have an evil boss but he has to be devilishly hot too. “You’ll have to patch us all through by phone.”
“What?” I say, panic seizing me. He always gets me so flustered I don’t have time to drink in the sound of his voice. I walk faster. “But sir I’m still on my way up —”
“Hurry up,” he snaps.
He hangs up even before I finish my sentence. Rude! I don’t know why I’m still surprised by his behavior. The man is a nightmare to work with. The only reason why I haven’t quit yet is because I wanted to prove that I could handle this job.
Patrick is the CEO of the one of the biggest book publishers in New York. If I manage to get through one year working as his assistant, I could get a job anywhere. This is a big deal for me.
Even getting this position required a weird stroke of luck. I’ve been recommended to Patrick by my stepbrother’s girlfriend, and despite my lack of qualifications, he hired me. It doesn’t take me long to realize I am in over my head — I can barely follow the things discussed in meetings, for example. Even instructions from Patrick requires me to pay extra attention and look things up later. I’ve gotten the habit of recording everything he says to me so I can figure it out afterwards.
Every day, I wonder why I haven’t been fired yet.
Using my boss’s express elevator to the top floor, I get the office really quickly. I set the coffee — apparently now unnecessary as Patrick won’t be coming in today — on his desk and punch in his mobile number on the teleconference phone. He replies with a terse, “Here.”
“Just a second, Mr. Brighton-Smith,” I say, then dial the numbers of the other individuals in the call, the most important of whom is Elias Steinhope, the CEO of the biggest bookstore chain in the midwest.
I make sure to record the call, as per Patrick’s instructions and also because I can’t take notes fast enough, especially when it comes to topics I knew little about — i.e. most of them. The teleconference goes well — as far as I could tell. Halfway through, I’m craving coffee but my hand is busy scribbling notes just in case Patrick asks me something later in the call.
A few minutes later, I get a reprieve when Mr. Stanhope asks his assistant to pull up some purchasing numbers from ten years ago. I hurriedly take a cup of coffee and stir in some sugar and cream. It was practically lukewarm by now, having been sitting on the table for an hour. Not bothering to put the lid back on, I sigh as I bring the cup to my lips. I decide I’m going to get a proper cup of coffee at lunch. Maybe iced. I’ll sip it at my leisure, savoring every drop — the way coffee was meant to be drunk.
Patrick’s voice startles me, and I yelp in alarm when the coffee splashes on my chest.
Fuck. He said something earlier and stupid me, I haven’t been paying attention. “Sir?” I say, grabbing some napkins and mopping the coffee from my shirt.
“I said,” Patrick said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice, “do you have the contract from legal?”
“Yes, sir.” I reach for the printout of the contract. Thank goodness I thought to get a hard copy of it, because the next half hour is spent finalizing modifications to the contract and it’s easier for me to write directly on the pages.
My clothes feel sticky with the coffee soaked through them, and I wish I could clean myself up. Thankfully, the coffee wasn’t hot enough to burn but I still feel uncomfortable.
Patrick and Stanhope don’t adjourn until another half hour later. I slump down in my seat in relief after they’d all hang up. My boss gives me some final instructions, and doesn’t even give me his usual grunt of acknowledgement when I say, “Have a great weekend, Mr. Brighton-Smith.”
Rude. As. Fuck.
I stare down at the dark wet stain on my white shirt. If I didn’t have to meet my brother for lunch in an hour, I’d consider just going home. As it is, there’s no way I’m showing up at Dysis looking like this. I have some micellar water in my purse, so I’m sure I can get the stain off before it sets. But it will be easier if I could take my shirt off. Maybe even use some hand soap and dry it under the hand dryer. I couldn’t do that in the ladies’ room because there weren’t any — all the bathrooms in the building were unisex. Rumor has it that the company thought making all the bathrooms unisex would be more convenient for the transgender employees and guests. While I could appreciate the step the company was taking toward inclusivity and whatever, it meant I couldn’t just strip off my clothes unless I was okay with an equally unfortunate co-worker doing overtime today would walk in and see me in my bra.
Of course, there is a bathroom that is completely private.
Like most workaholics, Patrick Brighton-Smith spends a good many nights at the office. But he also likes his comfort, so not only does he have a bedroom in the premises, but the room itself is furnished the height of luxury. That means a large four-poster bed, a walk-in closet, and an enormous marble bath and shower.
Naturally, I don’t spend much time in his office bedroom, but sometimes he needs me to pick up some suits to be dry cleaned. I’d taken a peek at the bathroom once or twice and it’s gorgeous. And huge.
I feel a tingle go up my spine as I make my way toward the back of his office. The thought of doing something forbidden always excites me. Not that I get into trouble a lot, but when I do…
The familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus greets me when I open the door and step inside the bedroom. For a moment, I freeze up, expecting Patrick to growl from behind me. My heart beats faster and I’m momentarily unsure of what to do next.
What am I worried about? It’s a Saturday. My boss is on his way to his mother’s house. I could use his beautiful office bathroom without anyone finding out. Besides, it’s his fault I’m in this mess in the first place. If I put everything back to where I found them, he wouldn’t suspect I’ve even been in here.
As posh as the place is, it does feel awkward taking my shirt off in my a bathroom I’m not supposed to be in. What if someone walks in? I’ll be completely mortified.
After reminding myself that Mr. Brighton-Smith is miles away and I have the place all to myself, I unbutton my blouse. I take it off, watching my reflection in the mirror that takes up the entire width of the wall above the sink. The soft light makes my skin glow. I still have the full figure of a woman forever hovering between sizes 10 and 12, but I smile and throw back my shoulders and remind myself I’m beautiful. Okay, maybe not beautiful. Pretty? Maybe that’s still pushing it. But I like my face, and my body. That counts for something, right?
Resting my hands on my waist, I thrust one hip to the side and flash myself a smile in the mirror. “Hello, gorgeous,” I say in a low, sultry tone. “Oh I’m sorry.” I flutter my eyelashes. “I had no idea you’d be here, Mr. Brighton-Smith. I hope you don’t mind I’m a bit naked today.”
Giggling, I pick up my shirt. With some of the scented hand soap and hot water from the sink, I carefully scrub out the coffee stain. A few minutes with the hair dryer I find under the sink, and my blouse looks good as new.
I hesitate before putting it back on, and my gaze rests longingly on the enormous marble bathtub. What I wouldn’t give for a nice long bubble bath right about now. Especially in Patrick’s bathtub.
Do I dare? After all, it’s not like he’d even know. And I wouldn’t even be too long, maybe twenty minutes or so.
My resistance wavered, then dissolved completely. I glance around me just to check that I am completely alone. I am, of course. I’m just being an idiot.
I strip off my skirt. After folding my blouse and skirt and laying them in a neat pile on a cushioned seat —seriously, who has fancy cushioned stools in their office bathroom? — I take off my pantyhose, my bra and my panties.
The grey marble feels cool under my bare feet as I pad toward the bathtub. I love baths but my tiny apartment doesn’t have a tub. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed soaking in a warm bubble bath, feeling my cares and stress ease away from my body.
I run the bath, making sure to use plenty of hot water and bubbles.
It’s even more heavenly than I hoped. I couldn’t help moaning in pleasure as I sink my tired, aching body in the bubbly hot water. The soap smelled familiar: citrus, with a faint whiff of sandalwood.
At the thought of him, my heart rate kicks up. Which really isn’t surprising as I am always so stressed around him. It was definitely not because of his beautiful, piercing grey eyes. Or the way his full lips curved beautifully during those rare times he actually smiled. Or that magnificent jawline…
I sigh and bury myself deeper in the bubbles. I like my job but maybe I’m in over my head this time, working for Patrick. In school I was a mostly mediocre — mostly Cs with an occasional B-minus. While I’m not a particularly brilliant assistant, I try to work hard. But maybe that isn’t enough? Maybe he’s not a bad boss — I’m just a terrible employee. I think back on the many times I misspelled words in emails, had to look up stuff in the internet because I had no idea what something in the meeting agenda meant, pretended to laugh at a joke that referenced Shakespeare or some other author I’ve never read.
Patrick is usually nice to other people. Maybe the reason my boss is always snappish at me is because he’s actually frustrated. At me. My work.
Maybe he’s going to fire me soon. I wonder if that’s the reason he only ever calls me Ms. Crimshaw, never Leonie. Because he doesn’t intend for me to stick around long enough to be on first-name terms with.
I shut my eyes and imagine his perfect, full lips saying my name.
I close my eyes. Instinctively, my right hand moves to rest between my thighs. My middle finger slides down the folds of my pussy.
It feels good.
Once again, I imagine him saying my name in his deep, masculine voice.
The delicious aroma of his soap washes over me, making my senses tingle with anticipation. He’s been naked in this tub. As much as he fills out a suit beautifully, I’m sure he looks even more amazing without his clothes. I visualize rippling muscles down his back. A sculpted chest. A six-pack, maybe even an eight-pack. A narrow waist. A trail of light blond hair from his navel down to his groin. A thick, hard cock.
I moan, louder this time.
Fingering my pussy, I visualize him hovering over me. His gloriously muscled chest and arms are bare, and I don’t even hide my admiration. His hands clutch the sides of the bathtub.
“Patrick. ” I say his name with a sigh.
“Ms. Crimshaw,” Patrick says. “What the hell are you doing here?”
My eyes fly open and I give a shriek of surprise.
“Dirty Assistant” was a Patron-exclusive short story available for my Patreon supporters. I post a short story every couple of months or so on my Patreon. If you would like to get access to my Patreon content, including this reward, you may sign up here.