A Billionaire Punishes Part 1 (Erotic Romance) Read Free

“You’re a beautiful young woman
and you’ll make this billionaire playboy a very happy man.”
    I grimaced. “Listen to yourself.
‘Billionaire playboy’. In what universe does a billionaire playboy
ever feel attracted to someone like me? Most guys tend to think I’m
a boy, not a girl. And playboys, Tamara, don’t fall for girls like
me. Trust me, I know.”
    She was silent for a bit, which I considered
quite an achievement, for it’s very hard to shut Tamara up. But
then I’d just reminded her of my last dating fiasco with some
player named Bill, who had somehow managed to coerce me into giving
him a blow job in the toilet of the restaurant where we were having
our first date, then decided to skedaddle while I was still
spitting out his cum. Yes, good old Bill saddled me with the
bill—how’s that for a pun—and never called me again. I could still
taste his semen in my mouth when I thought of that humiliating
experience.
    “Forget about that scumbag,” she said
softly, putting her hand on mine. “Focus on new opportunities.”
    “Grmph,” I said.
    “Trust auntie Tamara,” she said.
“Everything’s gonna be all right.”
    “Hrmph.”

Chapter 3
     
     
    The next day saw me feverishly raid my
closet in search for something secretarial—correction: executive
secretarial—to wear. True, I’d been a secretary—Celeste had been
right about that—but unfortunately only on paper. Yep, I’d juiced
up my résumé just a teeny tiny bit so I could score a better job.
Which, at least according to Tamara, I’d finally managed to do.
    I finally found the classic white blouse
that I’d worn to Uncle Lamarr’s funeral years ago, and a boring
black skirt, and that was just about the best I could do on such
short notice and a call center agent’s salary. From my
recollection, all secretaries look like schoolmarms—serious and
sexless—and my clothes reflected just that.
    Perhaps Tamara was right and I really was
cut out for a secretarial job: at least I had the sexless part down
pat. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I let my hands caress my tiny
boobs. They were small, granted, with poky pink nipples that I
usually had a hard time concealing, but at least they’d never given
me back pain, which was something Tamara sometimes complained
about. Be thankful for small favors, I earnestly reminded myself,
before signing off on my new look, and sweeping from my studio
apartment when I realized I’d miss my bus if I didn’t promptly made
a run for it.
    Half an hour of commute later, I arrived at
the headquarters of Hearts & Flowers, Inc, oddly enough located
on the second floor of a small shopping mall downtown. Coffee
shoppes, arts & crafts stores and a couple of children’s
clothing boutiques all centered around a cozy little cobblestone
square with a fountain and a smattering of benches for the happy
shoppers’ weary husbands.
    The place cheered me right up. At least it
was better than Flowers For You, which was located in the gray,
nondescript small business section on the edge of town—all steel
and concrete office buildings and not a patch of green in sight.
Talk about depressing. Obviously this Carswell, whoever he was, had
better taste. Or more money to spend on rent.
    I walked past one of the arts & crafts
stores, and entered through a glass door into a small lobby, where
a single elevator awaited me with but one destination: Hearts &
Flowers. As I waited for the car to ride down, a second visitor
entered and joined me. Dressed in an olive green check shirt and
casual jeans, he gave me a friendly nod. Probably one of the
delivery men, I figured, for he looked a bit disheveled with his
stubbled chin, rumpled shirt and messy hair.
    He must have noticed I was checking him out,
for I suddenly caught a glint of sparkling green eyes and the flash
of a smile, and I quickly looked away. In truth, he was quite
gorgeous. Talk about the Coca Cola man!
    “Hi,” he said by way of greeting. “Also on
your way