My heart does a little jump. He’s never shared anything with me, unless you count the nasty flu he gave me last year. Oh, yeah… and those fries the other night.
“Sure, thanks,” I say hesitantly. I take the bottle from him and wrap my mouth around the throat. Tilting my head back and squeezing my eyes the way he did, I take a lengthy sip. The frothy beverage fills my mouth and then I swallow. The cold, refreshing liquid courses down past the back of my throat. I open my eyes and let out a satisfied sigh before licking my upper lip. His violet gaze is on me.
A saucy smile lights up his face. “I like a girl who can drink beer like a man.”
“Doesn’t K-Katrina drink beer?” Shit. I almost said Kuntrina again. A Freudian slip?
“Nah. She’s strictly a champagne girl.” To my utter shock, he dusts my lips with one of his fingertips. Goosebumps pop along my arms.
“Have some more.”
Eagerly, I take another gulp. But this time, the frothy liquid goes down the wrong pipe and I choke. In the throes of a fit of coughing, I feel my face reddening, my eyes watering.
“Jeez, are you okay?” Brandon pats my back vigorously with his good hand while I continue to wheeze.
I nod my head like one of those stupid bobble-head dolls. Not really. I can’t catch my breath. Harsh, suffocating coughs still clog my throat. After almost vomiting up the beer, I finally calm. My cheeks are heated with embarrassment, and my eyes are tearing.
Brandon’s eyes soak me in playfully. “Stop showing off.”
“I wasn’t showing off,” I croak back.
“You were.” He snatches the bottle from me and sets it down on the granite counter.
“I’ll be right back. Would you whip me up a sandwich?”
“Sure.”
“And promise you won’t drink any more beer, at least while I’m not here. I don’t want you to choke to death. A repeat of last night is the last thing I need. I can’t live without you.”
Of course, he can’t live without me, I think as he disappears. No other assistant could put up with all his shit. So far, I’m the only one who’s made it past three months. All the others quit or were fired by his majesty. The one before me had a nervous breakdown. Brandon doesn’t remember any of them. I guess that’s some kind of blessing in disguise. They were all gorgeous. Blond and willowy—I checked out a few on Facebook. Just his type. He probably fucked them into submission and broke their hearts. Or worked them to the bone.
I swing open the fridge door and survey the shelves for what I can use to make a sandwich. Slim pickings. I make a mental note to call Bristol Farms first thing in the morning to stock up; our high-end neighborhood supermarket delivers. In addition to Brandon’s must-haves, I suppose I should also order a few bottles of expensive champagne to appease Katrina. The last thing I need is a hissy fit from the bitch.
Despite his fame and fortune, Brandon’s taste in food leans toward all-American basics—the hearty, down-to-earth brands I grew up on with Auntie Jo and Uncle Pete. Like Oscar Meyer bacon…Skippy Peanut Butter…Kraft Mac and Cheese…and Campbell’s Soup. He’s somewhat of a junk food junkie and prefers a good steak and potatoes to a frou-frou gourmet entrée. Not having much to work with, I settle on an open can of Bumble Bee tuna. With the can in hand along with a jar of mayo, I pad over to the island and start fixing my demanding boss a sandwich. While I search for some bread, Brandon’s voice bellows in my ears.
“ZO-EEEY!!!!
“WHA-AAAT?”
“I NEED YOU!”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“IN THE BATHROOM. HURRY!”
I drop what I’m doing and head over to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. It must be one of his toilet paper emergencies. I grab a roll and scurry to his bathroom.
I knock on the door. “I’m throwing in a roll of toilet paper.” As my fingers curl around the knob, he yells at me again.
“Get your ripe ass in here NOW.”
Huh? Hesitantly, I turn the knob and open the door. Brandon’s pacing his large, state-of-the-art bathroom. His left hand without the splints is fiddling with his fly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t take a dump.”
“You’re constipated?” Oh, fuck. I hope I don’t have to stick an enema up his ass. I read on Facebook somewhere that one of his former assistants had to do that. Surprisingly, she didn’t get slammed with a lawsuit for violating her non-disclosure agreement.
“Hardly. I’m practically shitting my pants. I can’t unbutton my fly!”
I can’t help it. I burst out in laughter. Loud snorty laughter that makes me double over in hysterics. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Falling out of my hand, the roll of toilet paper tumbles to the floor and unravels.
“Why the hell are you laughing?” he barks.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” I can barely get the words out. So much for gazillion dollar designer jeans.
“This is serious. I’m going to shit any minute.”
I swipe at my tears. “Okay. Stand still.”
He does as bid. A breath away from him, I work the button of his low-slung jeans. My hand grazes his cock. A bulge rises between his legs. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think he’s getting a hard-on. Holy shit! My fingers fumble. This is much harder than I thought. It’s much harder. I can’t concentrate. My fingers keep skimming his hard as rock length. It’s all I can think about.
“Zoey! How are you doing?” His voice sounds panicked.
“Not good. I can’t get this fucking button through the hole. It’s so tight.” To my horror, my words are loaded with sexual innuendo. An electrical current zaps my body and travels straight to my core.
“Figure it out!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!” I reply, fiddling madly with the impossible button, my hand grazing his swelling organ. I need a new approach. So, I sink to my knees. His bulge is in my face. I work feverishly at the button.
“Hurry, Zoey. It’s coming!”
“Hold on!” In my mind, I wish he were saying, “I’m coming.”
With one more push through the buttonhole, I manage to unbutton his tight-ass jeans. “Did it!”
“Phew!” His good hand immediately pulls at the zipper tab. Panic fills his voice.
“Fuck! The zipper’s stuck!”
Oh, God. No!
“Do something, Zoey!”
In a dither, I try shoving down the fly, jiggling and joggling it. It won’t fucking budge. My knuckles brush his rigid length beneath the denim with each successive tug.
He hisses. “Shit!”
At the sound of that word, I grow more heated and frantic. Breaking into a sweat, I work at the zipper harder, faster. His cock grows bigger, harder. I can feel it pulsating!
“Jesus, Zoey! I’m so close!”
Close to what? Pooping? Or coming? Either way, his voice sounds so desperate. Without stopping my movements, I pray to the fly gods. Please! Please! Help me! On my next forceful tug, a miracle! The zipper slides down with ease.
My jaw drops to the floor and my eyes grow as wide as saucers. He’s commando. At full attention. All rock-hard ten-inches are in my face. So close I can smell his manliness, feel his heat on my cheeks, and practically taste him in my mouth. Speechless, I behold his erection like a magnificent piece of abstract art. Seeing it shrouded today at a distance and on a monitor was one thing. But seeing it in its full glory, up close and personal, is another.
I can’t take my eyes off it. His cock is spectacular—a monstrous pink sculpture with a violet vein that matches the color of his hypnotic eyes. Its unexpected beauty takes my breath away as it arouses every one of my senses. It takes all I have to fight my burning desire to touch it…wrap my hand around his girth and feel the hot pulsing velvet in my palm. And then wrap my mouth around the crown, suck it, and then slide my lips and tongue down his length, tasting and inhaling the essence of him. And that’s just for starters.
Brandon doesn’t give me much time to stretch my imagination. Hastily, he shoves his jeans below his knees with his good hand and plunks down on the toilet. His enormous package parks to the right. My eyes don’t stray.