Executive Sweetie

Carolyn Foulkes

Description

Women enter business careers to climb the ladder as men have done. And this is where they're challenged - in business and in love. Men succeed because they're likeable and aggressive. But when a woman is beautiful and assertive, her sex works against her: They're called bitchy, and if they're likeable, they're dismissed as sex symbols. Three tales penetrate the lives of women working trying to reconcile their careers with the requests, demands and offers of attractive and dominant men. Should they - will they? - offer their most intimate possessions of heart and body to satisfy their inner desires while lubricating their long term goals? Sex and intimacy are poker chips in the towers of commerce. Often, this is the only currency that offers fulfillment of all desires.

Sujets

• Erotic literature

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 09 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783337538
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
Executive Sweetie
Carolyn Foulkes



Publisher Information
Executive Sweetie
published in 2014 by House of Erotica
an imprint of Andrews UK Limited
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Carolyn Foulkes 2014
The rights of Carolyn Foulkes has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Executive Sweetie
Carolyn Foulkes
Nobody ever, ever enters an executive’s office unless he’s a invited. Yet here was this absolute stranger behind my boss’s desk, standing at the window staring out at the city.
“ Excuse me ,” I said, trying to imitate my boss, Harriet, who could snarl the paint off a fire truck.
“Oh, hello.” He turned and smirked like I was the cleaning lady. First thing I noticed about this stranger is that he was rock star handsome. Black hair fell smoothly below his ears and over his forehead in a forty-dollar haircut. Second thing, he was about two-three inches taller than me, and I’m five-eight. His torso was slim. Mine too, except for a bubble ass and moderately assertive breasts.
“Tell me, please, what the hell you are doing in my boss’s office?”
“It is the view. That is the Statue of Liberty.” He pronounced it Lee-ber-tay , and I realized this hotshot was French. “And there, the World Trade Center, and there....”
A tourist who’s lost? A business visitor, also lost? “Look, pal, you do not belong here.”
“This is not your office? And you are defending...?”
“Listen, if you don’t have business here, you better get your butt back to where you belong or I’ll whistle for security. Our cops are mean mothers.”
Unitrack was one of those volatile financial companies. You know, the stock is rising like a rocket or else it’s sinking because of a rumor. Some days there’s a market initiative that will put us over the top or a scandal to knock us out of the ring. That’s why I love this high risk-high reward business. Of course, I haven’t seen the rewards yet, but they tell me to be patient.
“I am sorry.” There was that enchanting accent again. Sorr-ee, with his r’s gurgling out like a squashed frog. “My name is Alain Chastenet and I work here in IT - the help desk for people who call and demand ‘Why is my computer not working?’ I have never seen such a view and it was a magnet that brought me to the edge of madness.”
“Well, look, Allen...”
“ Alain ,” he corrected.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your sightseeing, but my boss will be pissed and make life sheer hell for your boss, who will then jump on you with both shoes.”
“May I know your name?”
“Erin.” I stumbled. “Erin Mullally.” And I stupidly blurted, “I’m the Communications Manager. I do press releases, the company newsletter, content webmaster for our intranet....”
“Then I will see you again.” Alain’s face lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “When you work on the intranet or call the Help Desk because your computer does not boot up.”
I laughed out loud. “Alain, get your skinny butt out of here.”
***
He gave that classic Gallic shrug when we had a mid-afternoon coffee, shrugging off the office invasion event entirely. “I have no one and nothing,” he said. “My mother was a journalist for Agence France Press. She died in Libya. Sniper. My father?” and he went poof , motioned with his fingertips to show a dandelion in the wind. “Gone one day. So, I go to London to work, but the English do not know technology.”
“How did you get here? To the States?” This creature was enchanting compared with my girlfriend Julie who reached ecstasy at book club meetings and Francine who pored over Craigslist looking for men.
“I was a tourist. Perhaps I am still a tourist exploring the world.”
“But you have a job. And no green card or work permit.” This Alain was a visa jumper, maybe even a spy or terrorist. I don’t know why, but the thought sent a shiver through my stomach. Perhaps it was an assault fantasy some women - no names, Harriet, you spinster bitch - have. Alain might wait when the elevator doors closed and, with Superman speed, he would ravish me as my hormones begged for mercy until the doors opened to the lobby and he stepped out while I lay there smiling idiotically.
“Americans are wonderful,” he gushed, ignoring my kvetch about overstaying his visa. “They ask only if you will work hard and help them make money.”
I grimaced. “Men always get ahead if they’re likable and good looking. If women are good looking they’re kept as decoration. If they’re smart, executives call them pushy bitches.”
“Ah, but you are almost beautiful, Erin.”
I felt a tingle between my legs. “Almost?”
“We have a phrase, jolie laide . Meaning ‘pretty ugly.’”
“ Whaaat ?”
“It is the quality of a woman’s enchanting looks that make her more attractive because of a flaw. Perhaps a space between her teeth or very dark eyebrows.”
That night, I examined my teeth and eyebrows, but still couldn’t figure his meaning. Beautiful, no, but I modeled once at a mall when I was in high school. Fuck all Frenchmen.
***
Our coffee dates soon became like fast food that will kill you. The brain never knows when your tummy’s full until you die. My heart was laden with infatuation. Alain occupied my thoughts so fully that I bumped into pedestrians on the sidewalk. I stayed awake at night in my apartment thinking lewd thoughts. I mentally undressed him, flinging his tight jacket and slacks in the corner of my bedroom. I would rip off his clothes until he was naked and begging me to suck him off, to give him the love I was withholding.
Ha! Is there a withholding tax on love? How much tax did I owe as a 28-year-old single career girl whose parents were a thousand miles away?
Alain made me take up smoking again. Well, just two for the few minutes we were together during morning and afternoon breaks on the street. It was my initiative to buy a French self-taught book on a lunch hour. He taught me to love Edith Piaf and Charles Aznavour ballads. I began wearing a slinky bra from Victoria’s Secret that made my breasts jiggle even if Alain didn’t notice.
If love was not on his menu, neither was sex.
“How come you don’t have a girlfriend, Alain?” We were standing on Lexington Avenue after work when I finally asked the rude question, but I needed an answer. I had to know if he was gay or impotent or practicing for the priesthood.
“Eh, bien , women here are....” The Gallic shrug came back. “The word is Puritan, I believe.”
“Puritanical? Get out of here! Haven’t you heard of women’s liberation?”
He sighed with an exaggeration only the French can pull off, making me feel like a child. “American woman have a certain...um, reputation.”
“What do you mean?” My eyes got all squinty, but it might have been from the smoke from my cigarette.
“I will tell you a story. A French policeman was patrolling a beach - perhaps Cannes - and saw a drowned woman. He ran for assistance, but when he returned he saw a man fucking the woman. He cried, ‘ Monsieur , that woman is dead!’ ‘ Mon dieu ,’ the man said, ‘I thought she was an American.’”
“That’s terrible!” I said, and then burst out laughing. “Shall I prove it?” I couldn’t believe the words as they tumbled out of my mouth. I sounded like such a whore.
He put his hand on my elbow and squeezed tenderly. “I have wanted to show you my affection, Erin, but I was afraid - do not laugh - that you would...oh, I don’t know the word. I would like to buy you some wine and then we will have dinner and then I will show you my very small apartment.