Forbidden Fantasies

KIRA DAVIDSON

He bends me over his desk, his large, warm hand disappearing up my skirt. Shivers run down my spine as he trails his fingers up the inside of my thigh.

“You are late,” he grumbles, but the movement of his fingers tells me he is far from pissed about my tardiness, and all too pleased to punish me. I clench my thighs, a vain attempt to quell the throbbing between my legs as I anticipate whatever he has in store for me.

I shut my diary and take a peek around, making sure no one saw me scribble that insane entry into my diary, even though my cubicle is right outside the CEO’s office, and I’m early. No one would come here unannounced.

Still, the fact that I’m not writing and instead goofing off while scribbling fantasies about my new boss—hot new boss—is unnerving. If I get caught, my job is gone. Between losing everything I worked hard for and all the trouble it took to become Rhys Redmond’s assistant, I have about fifty dollars to my name.

Cyrus won’t let me work night shifts at his diner anymore, insisting I need to rest from weeks of crazy working hours. Rest won’t pay the bills, but telling him that will only make him try to offer financial help. I hate handouts more than I despise my current state.

As I tuck my diary away, the cause of my perpetually wet panties walks past me, leaving a waft of my new favorite scent in his wake. As if it's not enough that Rhys Redmond looks like a magazine cover model and has the body of an adonis, he smells phenomenal too. What I wouldn't give to wear his jacket.

“I hope you’re preparing my itinerary and not goofing off,” he says.

“Already on your desk, Mr. Redmond,” I report. “You have a missed call from Miss Clive. She left a message—”

The slam of his door cuts me off.

Asshole.

I may have neglected to mention that while my new boss is hotter than hell, he is a jerk with an ego bigger than the entire state of New York. Not to mention, as soon as I was assigned to him as an assistant, he decided he hated my guts and has spent the last few weeks showing me just how much.

Lucky for him, I don't give up either. I fought tooth and nail to get this job, and I will keep it no matter how many times the tiger in that office growls at me.

I slump back in my chair. Time to get to work.

______

The end of my workday should be my favorite part of every day, but sadly, it isn’t. I no longer have a warm house to go back to, or a loving fiancé to cook for. Instead, I live in a little shoebox where I can’t have a guest stay over because we will be in each other’s way.

It’s all one small room with a tiny kitchenette and a shower curtain sealing off the bathroom, barely enough space for a bed, a one-seater couch, and a minuscule closet. I could take my bra off at the end of a tiresome day and accidentally drop it in the kitchen sink basin.

After changing out of my work clothes and into a more comfortable get-up—perhaps the oldest pair of sweatpants on earth and a sweater—I hold my breath as I turn the tap on. I only sigh in relief when the water runs. Good. I haven't lost half the ingredients of my instant noodle dinner. My water bill is long overdue, as is rent and everything else.

A few moments later, I sit on the ancient couch and eat my dinner, grateful that I’m safe, at least for now. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? I could wake up with a gun pointed to my forehead.

I wake up in the middle of the night, freezing to the bone. It’s as though ice cubes have taken permanent residence in my veins, leaving no room for so much as a puff of warmth.

The heating system must have shit the bed again.

I cling tighter to my blanket, and when that does no good, I reach into my destitute closet with a trembling hand, thankful for the first time that it’s so close to me. Taking out all the sweaters I own—four—I bundle up and return to bed, hoping I will be at least warm enough to fall asleep.

It will get better, I keep telling myself. It’s all I can do to keep myself from giving up.

I’m early to work in the morning; not that I had much choice. I was out of instant coffee and needed some warmth. Thankfully, the rest area of my workplace is well stocked with all types of beverages. I make a cup and cradle it between my hands, wishing I could bask in the glow forever.

As usual, I take out my diary and scribble. Between dealing with an asshole all day and holding my breath when I go home, hoping my landlord doesn’t come over to demand the rent balance, this is the only time I feel any semblance of peace.

The fact that my boss is the subject of my imagination is troublesome, but if I don’t scribble inappropriate fantasies, I will end up drawing cartoon pictures of him dying all sorts of horrible deaths. I hate to wish ill on anyone, even my worst enemies.

I’m in the middle of writing what would happen if I accidentally dropped a pen in his office and bent down to pick it when I hear footsteps. Rhys stops in front of my desk just as I use a folder to conceal my notebook. “We need to talk.”