The Boss Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Monica Belle

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Copyright

  About the Book

  A wildly entertaining story of a feisty office girl and her sauve older boss.

  ‘Stephen chuckled, a sound at once so dirty but so authoritative it left me blushing hotter than ever and thoroughly confused. What he was suggesting was utterly outrageous, and yet with his cool authority it came across as the most natural thing in the world.’

  Felicity is a girl with two different sides to her character, and each leads its own life. There’s Fizz – wild child, drummer in a retro punk band, and car thief. And there’s Felicity – a quiet, polite, and ultra efficient office worker. But as her attractive, controlling boss takes an interest in her, Felicity finds it hard to keep the two parts of her life separate.

  A dilemma which poses the question: will being with Stephen mean choosing between personas and sacrificing so much of her life? But then, it also appears that Stephen has some very peculiar and addictive ideas about intimacy himself.

  About the Author

  Monica Belle is an Oxbridge graduate and the author of several successful Black Lace novels, including Black Lipstick Kisses, Bound In Blue, Noble Vices, Office Perks, Pagan Heat, The Boss, The Choice, To Seek a Master, Valentina's Rules, Wild By Nature and Wild In The Country.

  By the same author:

  Noble Vices

  Valentina’s Rules

  Wild in the Country

  Wild by Nature

  Office Perks

  Pagan Heat

  Bound in Blue

  The Boss

  Monica Belle

  1

  I’D NEVER FELT so high as I went into my solo, striking the sticks in faster and harder to a crescendo that had the entire pub on their feet and screaming. I leapt up, kicking out at the bass, smashing one stick on the rim of my snare, letting go of the other and, as Josie’s guitar cut back in, ripping the tear in my top wide open.

  The yells of encouragement that greeted the sight of my bare breasts drove me higher still. I wrenched the tattered remains of my top off as the music rose to a metallic scream louder even than the human ones, then it faded, dying with a feeble whine to something approaching silence as the lights came up. A male voice called out from the back of the room, brash and authoritative.

  ‘This venue is in breach of council regulations. You will leave quietly by the nearest exit . . .’

  He went on quite a bit more, but I was already leaving by the nearest exit. Or I was trying to. My top was a write-off and I needed my coat anyway, from behind the bar. By the time I got it Josie and Dave Shaw where already in full flow with the Voice of Authority, only for him to turn on me as I tried to sneak past.

  ‘You will remain here.’

  The cheeky bastard had actually reached for my coat sleeve but I moved back out of reach. If he wanted witnesses or whatever there were plenty of other people who didn’t seem to want to leave. Not me.

  ‘I’m already gone.’

  ‘You will remain here. I require your name and address as the one responsible for the breach of regulations.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  He stiffened, his face slightly red and his eyes protruding for all the world like a pair of boiled eggs before he replied in a voice even stuffier than before.

  ‘The Dog and Duck does not have a striptease licence.’

  It took a moment for what he was saying to sink in, and another one before I could decide whether to be outraged or amused.

  ‘That wasn’t a striptease!’

  ‘According to council regulations –’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about council regulations. All I did was take my top off!’

  ‘An act of indecent exposure that may clearly be classified as an element of striptease, and therefore –’

  ‘Bollocks! Striptease has to be slow, otherwise it wouldn’t be a tease, would it?’

  ‘The speed at which you undressed is not germane to the issue.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘No it . . . Look, I am not going to discuss the matter. You performed an indecent act while hired to perform here at the Dog and Duck, and therefore I –’

  ‘Christ, you talk a load of bollocks! I was paid to play the drums, not as a stripper, and it was just for a kick, not a striptease. If I was doing a striptease I wouldn’t have been standing behind a drum kit, would I? And I’d have taken my clothes off nice and slowly, pretending I was going to show a bit more and then not doing it, all that stuff. I’d have worn some sexy gear too, not a ripped-up top, maybe a nice lacy bra and matching knickers, maybe stockings too. Do you like stockings? I bet you love stockings. Red or black? No, I know your sort, you’re so repressed you’re bound to be a pervert, so it’s got to be white, maybe under a school uniform? Yeah, I bet that’s your bag, tight white knickers under a pleated skirt, so tight you can see my . . .’

  I couldn’t help myself, because the dirtier I got the redder his face was going, and it was only because Josie was making urgent gestures at me over his shoulder that I stopped. He was making gulping motions with his mouth, a bit like a goldfish, but managed to pull out a little notebook and a biro.

  ‘Your name and address, please.’

  ‘OK, if you insist. Lisa Simpson, 742 Evergreen Terrace, Springfield.’

  He’d written half of it down before he stopped, but this time I really was already gone. Maybe he called after me, maybe he didn’t, but I was through the stores and out the back in just seconds. The night felt cool after the heat of the club, making the prickle of sweat on my skin feel chilly and rather nice.

  Not many people had bothered to come out, just a scattering hanging around the front doors or their cars to see if there would be any fun. Hoping to cadge a lift, I made for the cars. You could tell which car belonged to the Voice of Authority. A blue Astra parked diagonally to the pavement. These people always like to think they’re in the anti-terrorist squad or something.

  He hadn’t even bothered to close the window, and the keys were in the ignition . . . and the keys were in the ignition.

  Well, what else could I do? I had to get home and the guy was a complete arsehole. Normally I wouldn’t have done it, but I’m allergic to complete arseholes. Besides, he had acne.

  I was in the car. I had the ignition on. I’d have run down Pete Manton if I hadn’t looked over my shoulder. He stuck his head in the window.

  ‘Hey, Fizz, new car?’

  ‘It’s not mine. It belongs to the council bloke inside, so get in or piss off.’

  ‘I’m in.’

  I was moving before he’d closed the door, with cheers and laughter following us as people realised I’d stolen the car. There was just a stab of apprehension before I was laughing too in wild exhilaration for what I’d done, and what I might be doing later. Pete was cute and I knew he’d had his eye on me, but that was to come. For now it was time to drive.

  We were going to get reported, no question, so I hit out on the fen roads, touching eighty on the long straights, with Pete clinging to his seat and my head singing with adrenalin. I love to drive fast in a stolen car, a double thrill that lifts me high above all the dross of living on bugger-all in a small, boring town. It’s as good as drumming, better than sex, mostly; the three things
that have kept me sane over my teenage years.

  I know I might get caught and I know I might get killed. But I don’t care. Life must be for living. It’s what people like the Voice of Authority can never see. They think we get pissed and joyride and fuck because we don’t know any better. We know all right, and we know the life they want us to live, like a bunch of polite little state slaves. I’d rather crash and burn.

  We nearly did, doing the ton on the long straight down to Brandon Bank when some prat on a push-bike appeared out of nowhere, no lights, nothing. He must have heard us coming, but he hadn’t even had the sense to get out of the way. I hit the brakes and we hit gravel, then the bike, just one second after he’d thrown himself off into the ditch.

  You do not know, cannot know, what one hundred miles per hour feels like until you lose control at that speed. I thought I was dead. I filled up with terror and self-pity and above all a ghastly sense of regret and helplessness, and then it was over. Mercifully, our wheels had taken hold again, because I’d been there before and had taken my foot off the brake. For maybe two seconds I was completely, calmly in control, allowing our speed to reduce slowly and shifting down a gear as soon as I safely could. Then the reaction hit me, like pins and needles in all four limbs at once while I was in desperate need of air.

  I slowed and stopped, pulling off into a muddy gateway where tractors had been turning. My whole body was shaking and I lay back into the seat, my eyes closed, wanting to scream but not knowing if it was in fear or elation. I wanted sex too, to be held tight and fucked and fucked and fucked, in affirmation of my life and my existence. Finally Pete managed to find his voice.

  ‘Jesus, Fizz!’

  ‘Don’t say another word. Just fuck me.’

  I’d reached out to find his crotch, squeezing the full, soft mass through the denim of his jeans. He turned to me with a look of amazement but he didn’t stop me as I pulled him out and started to tug him erect. I wanted him on top of me, and inside me, quickly. He didn’t need to turn me on, because I was there already, my feelings built up since the moment I’d taken my drumsticks in hand.

  He needed a little help, his cock limp and bloodless, stirring only slowly in my hand as I played with him. Not that he was exactly resisting, just numb, but I knew how to deal with that. Leaning over, I took him into my mouth. His response was a whimper of pleasure, a little grunt of surprise as my fingers found the seat control and a long sigh as I began to suck him properly.

  Now he was responding, his cock growing quickly as his fingers tangled in my hair, his other hand groping for the zip to my jacket. I let him, eager to be bare once more as his fingers fumbled open my zip and pushed within. A shrug and my jacket was off, sending a thrill of pleasure through me to be naked in the cool darkness of the car. I turned the light on to let him see, and to let me see him, his cock rising from his open jeans, wet and virile and exactly what I needed. He’d taken hold of himself as I rose, his eyes fixed to my chest as he pulled on his shaft. I love to watch a man grow excited for my body, to see all that desire just because I’m naked. I took my breasts in my hands, holding them out and stroking my nipples, to evoke a soft, urgent groan from somewhere deep in his throat.

  He made a grab for me, pulling me down on top of him and pressing his mouth to mine. His hands were groping for my bum, so eager he didn’t know whether to feel or try and get my knickers down. I gave him a helping hand, reaching back to guide him between my thighs as I straddled his body, using his cock to push my knickers out of the way and sliding him deep inside. He was thrusting into me immediately, far too urgent, but I needed it too much to slow him down; instead I wriggled on his cock in my need to get friction to my sex.

  I heard him grunt and I knew he’d come, but I wasn’t finished, not me. As he lay back with a sigh I was scrambling up his body, my legs cocked wide across his torso, and then his face. I could just see his eyes in the dim light, full of shock and surprise as he spoke.

  ‘Hey, Fizz, no . . .’

  ‘Don’t be a pig, Pete. You’ve come. Make me.’

  His answer was a muffled grunt as I pressed my pussy to his mouth. I was holding my knickers aside, making it skin on skin as I wriggled myself into his face, swearing at him and demanding he lick. He gave in, his tongue pushing out to lap at my sex, a heavenly feeling already close to orgasm. I began to grind my pussy into his face, my thighs locked tight around his head, one hand clawing his hair, the other the crotch of my knickers.

  Lights burst in my head and I was coming, a hot, tight climax taken against his lips to fill me first with blinding ecstasy, then with a deep sense of satisfaction and a savage joy for my own behaviour. Only when I’d quite finished did I climb off, pushing the back door open so that I could step out into the cool of the night, both because I needed the air and to make it easier to adjust myself. Pete finally managed to find his voice.

  ‘You play rough, Fizz!’

  ‘That’s what you get for coming so fast.’

  I was laughing. I couldn’t help it, mainly from the expression on his face, but I stopped as I caught the purr of a motor in the distance. Pete had heard it too, and quickly we scrambled over the gate and into the field, running down along the hedge until we felt safe. The reckless thrill of joyriding was gone with my climax, and he seemed to feel the same as we crouched low and watched the lights approach.

  It wasn’t the police, just an ordinary car, and it didn’t even slow down as it passed. I was wondering about the cyclist and how we’d get back, but neither of us even bothered to suggest taking the stolen car as we loped back towards it. Pete’s door was still open, the light on, showing the crumpled pages of a magazine beneath the seat. I pulled it out, laughing as I saw that rather than Which Parking Meter? it was a porno mag, and a pretty smutty one at that. Pete chuckled as he took it.

  ‘Dirty old bastard! Handy though.’

  He’d begun to tear pages off, balling them up and throwing them into the footwell. I stood back, letting him get on with it and keeping my eyes and ears open for anyone approaching. There was nothing, the sky bright with stars but otherwise quite still, the only sounds faint and distant. A sudden flare of light and Pete was running towards me, ducked low as if he expected the car to go up like a bomb.

  It didn’t, the fire spreading only slowly, confined in the space beneath the seat we’d wound back for sex. Pete took my hand as we watched the car burn, an oddly sentimental gesture I thought, but I didn’t mind. It was rather sweet, really, and I snuggled up against his arm as the flames licked higher, climbing the back of the driver’s seat until within moments the entire interior was a flickering yellow glow. When the petrol tank went up there was a bang they must have heard in Ely. We felt the wave of heat but we were well clear of danger.

  We watched for just a moment more, enjoying the fiercest of the blaze, then turned away. The fire was visible for miles and it couldn’t be long before somebody came to investigate. Sure enough, we hadn’t got halfway across the huge open field before we heard the distant sound of sirens and caught the flash of blue light among the trees towards Lakenheath. We ran, ducked low as we fled across the thick, clinging soil, both laughing, as much in nervous fear as in glee.

  They couldn’t see us, I knew that. They couldn’t know which way we’d gone and they’d search the roads first, the way they always do. Unless we were really unlucky or did something incredibly stupid we were home free. Maybe, just maybe, my crime would catch up with me later. I won’t say I didn’t care, but it was worth it, the cost of all my heady thrills over a life of utter tedium.

  We walked for hours, across Feltwell Fens and Hockwold Fens, jumping ditches and pushing through hedges, and talking all the while, about everything from music to mud – the fact that no matter how careful you are, the soggy bit always seems to manage to work its way up the insides of your legs as you walk. It was quite romantic, I suppose, and I’d seldom felt so at ease with a man.

  Eventually we made it; exhausted, filthy, but t
riumphant. Pete dropped me off at my front door with a kiss and a squeeze of my bum, asking if I’d like to go out again. I hadn’t really thought of what we’d done as a date, but I suppose it was, in a sense. He’d been fun, so I told him I would and kissed him back.

  It was pitch black indoors, and I managed to sneak in without waking anyone. I was fit to drop and wouldn’t have bothered stripping off if I hadn’t been quite so muddy. There was a letter on my bed too, an official-looking one. My eyes were closing of their own accord as I pulled it open to see who was trying to screw me over and for what, but it was just an offer of an interview from some company called Black Knight Securities.

  I’d only filled the form in to keep Mum happy. I’d certainly never expected to get to the interview stage, not with my qualifications. I was absolutely certain I wouldn’t actually get the job, not in a million years. That sort of thing happens to nice, clean-cut girls with lots of A* GCSEs, not some retro-punk rock bitch with a bad habit of taking and driving.

  What they wanted was a ‘Management Support Operative’, presumably some sort of glorified receptionist and general dogsbody, able to greet clients and show the less important ones around, probably also to make coffee, run errands for every Tom, Dick and Harry in the place and provide corporate bjs on demand. That meant blonde and neat and sweet, which is just not me. The company also specialised in CCTV systems, and while I like to think I have a fair bit of knowledge in that department it probably wasn’t the sort of knowledge they were expecting.

  I still had to make the effort: white face, black shirt, white socks, black shoes, black hair, Sweet Gene Vincent style, or almost. By the time Mum had finished with me I actually looked respectable, just not me any more, not Fizz, but Miss Felicity Cotton. I’d even let her destroy my hair, replacing the spikes and purple highlights with a predictable honey-blonde, so that on the way I was consoling myself with the thought of spikes with green and blue tips once I’d been turned down.