His Unexpected Baby by Jamie Knight
Chapter Nine - Skye
My ears hurt. I couldn’t stand the idea of taking the earrings out and had left them in overnight. This turned out to be a mistake. I checked but there was no blood, which was a mark in the good column.
Easing them out of ears, I left them in the box as I went to shower. Decked out in my carefully selected outfit, already evolving a plan for which type of pastry to bring into the office next, I slipped the beautiful little rocks back into place.
I hoped whoever had given them to me would notice and see how thrilled I was with their generosity. The muffins I planned on bringing seemed to fall somewhat short to show my gratitude.
The bus rumbled under me and I tried to figure out who my benefactor had been. I knew Christmas was supposed to be the season of giving. My folks had taken that expression to a new sort of extreme, giving thousands of dollars to charity every holiday season.
It was a nice though, to be sure, except it usually left us without money for a tree, let alone presents or a big dinner. I was only vaguely aware that people were supposed to get presents for Christmas, never having actually experienced it myself.
But there were a lot of holiday traditions I’d missed out on. I nearly fainted the first time I had a taste of eggnog.
It was a similar situation with Secret Santa. The first time I’d come across the notion was in the book Perks of Being A Wallflower. But I had never participated in any such thing in real life.
What I had decided to get as my first gift for my Secret Santee, if that was the proper term for them, wasn’t much. Especially if I was doing Secret Santa for the same person who was doing mine. A handmade picture frame hardly compared to sapphires from Tiffany’s, but I couldn’t let the thought psych me out.
If whoever was Santaing for me wanted to be generous, who was I to object or judge?
Especially because I really hoped it was Simon.
Whatever it lacked in expense, because I had yet to get my first paycheck, the gift made up for in presentation. I’d long been a master gift wrapper. It was mostly a matter of reverse-engineering the process of opening that I’d been taught on my birthday presents, which I got when I wasn’t competing with Jesus, since I was a little girl.
“You shouldn’t have,” Sam joked, as I came up to the security desk, with my gift tucked under my arm so I could be ready to sign the book.
“I didn’t. You can have a muffin though,” I said, offering him the box of them while I signed.
“Thank you kindly.”
Sam looked delighted as he took a big bite out of the double chocolate chuck with sprinkles. It felt good to be able to brighten his day.
“You shouldn’t have,” Inga said, not looking up from her novel.
“Muffin?” I asked, subtly dipping the wrapped present away from her.
“Thank you, sugar,” she winked, taking a carrot muffin with cream cheese icing.
The office was as deserted as ever. There wasn’t any evidence of Simon’s presence. He was probably there, though, closed up in his office, doing the important work of editing. Technically, I worked in editorial as well, but in some ways, what I did wasn’t nearly as important in the big picture.
True, the office couldn’t function if someone didn’t do what I did, but there were always others besides me. As an individual, I didn’t matter much. Simon could be replaced as well, but not without an epic headache. Not least because whoever replaced him could be terrible.
I hadn’t been there a week yet but had already gotten the impression that Simon’s reputation, not only at the company but also in the publishing industry in general, was nothing short of legendary, despite his relatively young age.
I had to read the name tags to find the right cubicle. Leaving the Secret Santa gift on a desk that could only be described as chaotic, I returned to my own little workspace.
And what to my wandering eye should appear but a considerably larger box, wrapped up in the same paper as the earrings. It also included a similar origami-style note, composed in thick paper and fancy ink affixed to the top.
It was just a tag this time, though, with no note written on it. It only added to the mystery of what might be inside, making the whole thing even more exciting. Now I could really see the appeal of Secret Santas.
Fingers shaking slightly with anticipation and excitement, I did my best to carefully unwrap the new gift, which I could already tell was in a box, though not one as instantly recognizable as a Tiffany’s jewelry box.
Plain white, the box betrayed little hint of what was inside. Though, really, with a box that size, there were only so many things it could possibly be. It turned out that my third guess was correct, although the exact details had been beyond my ability to guess.
It was perfume. Not just any perfume, however. It was from a notoriously rare and discontinued line, fetching a king’s ransom online from the few people who had had the foresight and luck to have stockpiled at the time it was being sold. It was so rare that it might as well have been a diamond.
I’d never worn perfume before, only able to appreciate it from afar or by way of the samples left in the fashion magazines I would secretly read at the library. It wasn’t that it was too expensive, particularly, for what it was. At least, that wasn’t the entire reason.
My folks were of the opinion that anything that was made by humankind to explicitly try and improve on divine creation was blasphemy. This included fancy clothes, perfume and make up, all of which dad thought were the exclusive domain of whores.
He often said he would be drawn and quartered by stampeding horses before he saw his beautiful daughter go down that sinful road. It was quite a production. The level of his traumatic performance reached Shakespearean levels. I could see him as King Lear, raging impotently against the storm, carrying much the same effect since I’d moved to the other side of the country.
The sensation came on suddenly. I felt an irresistible burst of raw, gleeful naughtiness as I sprayed a bit of the fragrance onto me right then and there. It wasn’t much.
I’d always heard not to put on too much perfume. It could make you very unpopular if you did. So, I just dabbed a bit on the tip of my finger and caressed it along the sides of my neck. Still, it was thrilling.
It felt interesting. Light and wet. I really didn’t have anything in my experience to compare it to, so it was an altogether new sensation.
Getting to work before most of the other employees had arrived, I got far into the manuscript. The process was assisted to no end by the fact that the story actually became genuinely engrossing in the last few chapters. I was actually edging on desperation to find out how it ended.
For all his indelicacies regarding sex and his liberal use of graphic violence, the author really did know how to craft a satisfying ending. A fact which went a long way in explaining why every one of his books spent nearly a year in the Top 10 of the New York Times bestseller list.
I was driven, shaken and moved all at the same time. As well as glad I’d gotten through the entire thing as fast as I did, with copious notes and everything.
Taking a moment to reset my mental gears, I set aside the manuscript and booted up my computer and prepared to write up my analysis, recommending that the company accept the book.
Despite the fact that Pigeon had been the author’s North American publisher for the last decade, it was far from a foregone conclusion that they would purchase this manuscript. There was no overarching contract. Every submission the department received got a separate deal, or not.
It was one of the ways that Simon managed to keep profits so high. Other publishers and even departments within the Pigeon building gave authors multi-book contracts. The problem with such an approach was there was no way to guarantee consistency, either in the quality of the work or with the tastes of the reading public.
Doing it Simon’s way made as sure as it was possible to be that a book was likely viable before the publishing process began. There were a few close shaves but the department, under his command, had never had a major flop.
This was something that not even the most successful producers in Hollywood could honestly claim. ‘Books are dead,’ my royal Scottish arse (or at least according to my father’s lore.)
Working with a laser focus worthy of a champion programmer, I had the report finished just before 3:00. The rhythm of the printer was music to my ears as it dished out the pages.
I might have gone a bit overboard with what I had written, but I was so excited about the book that I just couldn’t stop. Nor did I see anything that didn’t seem absolutely vital during my multiple attempts at cutting back my report. Though that could have said more about me than the seemingly stellar quality of my prose.
Gathering the pages all up together, I put one of those paper clamps on the upper left-hand corner. Sam had informed me that staples had been banned from the building sometime before I was born, following a very costly worker’s comp settlement.
With a breath of courage to settle my rioting nerves, I headed for Simon’s office to deliver my handiwork. My heart was pounding, and, despite the inopportune timing, my panties were drenched.
“Come in,” he called, in response to my rapping upon his chamber door.
It could well have been my imagination, but it seemed as though he was checking out my breasts. It was no great surprise, since most guys I encountered did that, out of shock at their sheer size, if nothing else.
Simon’s look was something new, though. Not puzzled or even ogling but admiring. It was as if he was looking at me purely for the aesthetic value, like I was a beautiful statue carved out of marble.
The idea made me smile. My long slumbering pride began to stir within me, its head peeking up from the depths.
I’d expected him to put my report down to be read later, but Simon surprised me by gesturing to the chair across from him. My legs feeling like lead, I want over and sat down. It felt strange just to be in his presence.
It was difficult not to fidget as I sat in the chair waiting for him to finish. I could tell he was speed reading. It was in his eyes. How they moved across the page. Gliding quick and smooth like a skater across a frozen pond.
I looked for some indication of his thoughts in his expression. Something to let me know what he might say. But his face remained as placid as ever. Unchanged but amiable. Not what one would call ‘stone-faced.’
I was caught between fear and arousal, both of them fighting for domination of the space in my heart. Thrill of his potential approval clashed against the possibility of being fired for accidentally doing my first assignment wrong, making a rushing cacophony of imaginary sword steel and plated armor.
“This is wonderful,” he finally said, looking at me with those burning eyes, making the walls of my pussy clench with surprise as he gazed down into my soul.
If I’d thought he was up to it, I might well have offered myself to him right then and there, despite the nerves and embarrassment no doubt involved in such a move. I’d just pull up my skirt, lower my panties and let him go to town on me, pleasuring himself using my body and really showing me the delights of being a woman.
“I’m glad you think so, sir,” I managed.
“What did you call me?” he asked gently, looked more surprised than offended.
“Sir,” I repeated, hoping I wasn’t in trouble.
“Let’s just wait on that one, okay? Simon will do for now. We’ll see how things go.”
If he had winked in that moment, I was fairly sure I would have cried. My nerves were really at their very ends. I knew he was implying something naughty, but I was too sheltered and innocent to the ways of the world to really know what it was, or at least to understand the full implications.
I wouldn’t mind calling him sir if he wanted me to. It didn’t stop there. Had it been Simon asking me to, I would have called him ‘master’ without a hint or irony. He was already to rule the domain of my mind and by all indications, my body wasn’t far behind.
“A bit long-winded in places, though I do appreciate you going into specifics,” he explained. “I hate it when reports just say ‘it sucks’ or ‘I was bored.’ Just maybe keep in mind the phrase ‘more is less’ when writing these reports up, yeah?”
“Yes, of course. I just wanted to make my thinking clear. I didn’t want anything to get lost in the reading or be left up to doubt.”
“There is no risk of that. You have made yourself quite clear and I will be getting a new publishing contract to the book for Mr. Marin by the end of the week, thanks to your recommendations.”
“Gosh,” I gasped, covering my mouth even if was a little too late.
“I’ll be sure to tell him about you doing your due diligence.”
“Thank you, sir, I mean, Simon,” I stammered, correcting myself.
“Of course,” he said, with a wink.
I didn’t want to get up. Thanks to feeling weak all over, it was doubtful that I would be able to walk. It was near the end of the day and I would likely be expected to somehow get my fatigued ass to the bus stop and then home. Then again, I couldn’t be spending the rest of the day and all night long holed up in his office.
Simon’s eyes drifted back down to my chest, much the way they had before, as though double-checking they were still there and as big as he’d first thought. Had I been gutsier, I might just have shown him. Nothing too vulgar. Just a quick glance at my bra, leaving no doubt about the facts of the case.
“It is more customary to email the reports over, as opposed to hand delivery in hard copy. Not that I mind the personal touch, of course,” Simon said. “In some ways I think technology has progressed too fast and we’ve stopped feeling the way we used to. Or at least we react differently. To the point that it might as well be the case.”
I couldn’t disagree with him there. I was no Luddite and commuters made my job a lot easier than it would have otherwise been. Still, I liked to keep up human interaction when I could. I craved it almost, especially from him.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, when I had nodded, but still not yet left his office.
I could hardly believe my ears. Had he actually just called me ‘sweetheart?”
The way I understood it, back in the day, that was what you used to call your partner in a tone of affection. The phrase about being ‘sweet’ on someone was likely drawn from this notion.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound demeaning. You just looked like you were in trouble. I was worried. Force of habit,” he explained.
I could understand his concern. I hadn’t taken it in a bad way, but I could see how someone else might have. Then HR would have gotten involved. An army worse than that of the Dark Lord.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m good,” I told him. “It was just a bit brain-crushing, getting through the book so fast. I’ll be better soon, once I rest up.”
It was a pathetic lie, but he seemed to buy it. Even so, I had to wonder how he would have reacted if he knew what I’d really been thinking.
Would he have laughed?
Been embarrassed?
Felt relieved because he felt the same way?
I really didn’t know which one would be scarier.
I knew I’d better get out of his office before I did or said something very embarrassing.
Nodding one more time, I said, “Thanks again,” and turned to leave.
“No problem,” he said. “See you soon.”
How soon? I wanted to ask.
But I told myself to be patient.
I could tell that something was beginning between us and I just had to be patient and wait for it to completely appear… much like a child waiting for Santa to come near Christmas time.
