Under Her

By: Samantha Towle

“Good morning, Mr. Cross.”

Leah, our new receptionist’s, singsong voice dances across the lobby from her spot at the sleek reception desk. I can see her legs under the desk. Her skirt has run up her thighs, and she’s wearing stockings.

I know this little show is for my benefit. Like it has been every day since she started. A different seduction technique, but it’s not escaped my radar that Leah wants to fuck me.

Of course she does. I’m hot and rich as fuck. And I’m also the boss. And the soon-to-be CEO of my family’s company, Under Her Lingerie, when my parents retire and hand the reins over to me.

That’s right. I sell underwear. Sexy-as-fuck underwear. The very thing that I love to peel off a woman’s body right before I screw her senseless.

I have the best job in the world.

“Good morning, Leah.” I give her a brief, pleasant smile. Not the smile I know can get women into bed or on their knees for me in minutes.

No flirting back with Leah because she works for me.

Rule number one: Never fuck the staff.

I don’t want or need the complications that sleeping with an employee would bring.

Aside from leaving myself wide open for a lawsuit and that my mother would kill me for dipping my pen in the company ink, I can’t deal with the drama and tears when she clues in to the fact that all I wanted from her was sex.

Even though I would have repeatedly told her that it was a one-time thing.

That’s rule number two: Always make it clear that hook-ups are just that.

Rule number three: Never let them know where you live, work, or what your phone number is just in case rule number two doesn’t stick.

I press the call button for the elevator, and the door opens immediately. I get on and hit the button for the fourteenth floor where my office is.

I fucking love this building. It’s home to me. Everyone here is like family. My parents like to run a happy ship, and they treat their employees very well. My folks are well loved. They are the best. I know everyone here is sad to see them retire. There were a lot of tears the day it was announced.

Honestly, it will be weird for me, being here and running this place without them.

But I’m excited, too. This is what I’ve been working toward my whole life.

The elevator arrives on my floor, and I step out when the door opens. I walk through the lobby and toward the executive offices, and then I push open the door to my office area.

My PA, Chrissy, is already at her desk.

She lifts her head from her screen. “Morning, Wilder.” She picks up my takeout coffee from her desk, which she brings in for me every day, and holds it out.

She’s the best PA ever. I’m lucky to have her.

“Thanks.” I take the coffee and have a sip. I love my coffee hot, to the point of almost burning. How the hell people can drink lukewarm coffee is beyond me. The hotter, the better. Just how I like my women.

“Good weekend?” she asks me.

“Of course.” I grin.

Don’t get me wrong. I fucking love my job, but weekends are reserved solely for playtime, and I love playing.

Friday night was spent between the legs of Ida, a Swedish supermodel I’d met at a show a few weeks ago. Saturday night was boys’ night out with my buddies, Cooper and Dominic. The three of us go out every Saturday night, and we end it with each of us in a different chick’s bed.

I am in no way ready to settle down with just one woman. I don’t have anything against relationships per se. I just don’t want one.

Well, not at the moment anyway. I like—no, I fucking love my life.

I love my job. And I love having a different woman in bed with me every weekend. I get to have regular sex without the demands and complications of a relationship, as there are always plenty of women willing to service my needs. But I’m not a selfish bastard. I like to make sure that the woman I’m screwing is having a good time. I can’t get off if she doesn’t.

I’m a total boss at oral sex. I’ve had a lot of practice. I fucking love going down on a woman. There’s nothing better to get me going than that first taste of a woman’s pussy.

I have a perfect setup.

Sex is reserved for weekends because the week is for work.

Work always comes first, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. Especially not now that I’ll be taking over the running of the company from my parents.

Maybe, in the distant future—like ten or fifteen years—I’ll meet some girl I want to have a relationship with, but if I’m being totally honest, I just can’t see it happening.

And, really, it would be grossly unfair to the women of Chicago if I took myself off the market. My dick is just too awesome to keep to one woman.

Sundays are brunch with the boys, so we can talk about the escapades from the night before, and then I usually spend the rest of Sunday working from home, getting ready for Monday morning.

“How was yours?” I know she was going to Milwaukee to spend the weekend with her fiancée’s parents.

Yes, fiancée, as in another woman. Chrissy is gay, and she’s getting married to a woman called Wendy. And, no, she’s not your stereotypical butch or porno-hot lesbian.