Just a Bit Bossy by Alessandra Hazard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

 

Nate was kind of embarrassed to admit it, but he enjoyed watching Satan work. Ferrara might be an asshole, but he was a very intelligent asshole, with a very sharp mind and equally sharp tongue. He could make grown men piss themselves with one look. It made the most mind-numbing business meetings somewhat entertaining. Nate got a guilty, perverse enjoyment out of watching Ferrara make other people squirm. Maybe because for once he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of his boss’s ire.

“Is that all?” Ferrara said quietly, his black eyes fixed on the financial manager of Rutledge Enterprises.

The poor man swallowed, so pale he looked gray, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He glanced at his co-workers helplessly, but they all had their gazes dropped, not wanting to attract the attention of the boss.

“Y-yes,” the man stammered. “But if you look at these metrics, you’ll see that the project should be—”

“Not good enough,” Ferrara said impassively. “Next.”

The next unlucky person—a middle-aged, elegant woman—cleared her throat and started talking, her tone betraying her nervousness.

Nate stopped listening, instead choosing to watch the infinitesimal changes in Ferrara’s expression. It was his favorite game during these boring meetings: to guess what his horrible boss was feeling. Impatience, displeasure, and irritation were easy enough to see if one paid attention to the corners of Ferrara’s mouth. But there was also something else that day… Tension. Ferrara seemed unusually tense and agitated, his fingers tapping on the armrest and then fiddling with his dark blue tie, his eyes scanning the room aimlessly. Sometimes they stopped on Nate—like now—and Nate quickly looked down until the danger passed.

But this time Ferrara didn’t look away. Nate could feel his gaze on him, heavy and intent, demanding his attention.

Nate stared back. What?

Ferrara simply gazed at him for a long moment before looking back at the woman.

Nate twitched, his anxiety spiking. He knew he had developed some kind of unhealthy hyperawareness of everything his asshole of a boss did or thought. That awareness had been born out of necessity—in order to keep his job and not lose the bet, he had learned to be aware of the smallest signs of Ferrara’s displeasure so he could anticipate his orders. Not understanding what Satan wanted always put him on edge.

Maybe… Maybe he was horny. It was a possibility. Nate had noticed that Ferrara tended to become snappish—more snappish—if he hadn’t gotten laid in a few days. Ferrara had an enormous appetite for sex, if the amount of condoms he had Nate buy was any indication.

Frowning, Nate tried to remember the last time Ferrara had gotten laid. Zoe-something had managed to wheedle a “date” out of him last Monday. They had been ridiculously busy since Caldwell had told Ferrara about his plans, with Ferrara wanting to wrap up most of the projects at Rutledge Enterprises before they left. Because of Ferrara’s busy schedule, Nate didn’t allow any of the women who had called his boss to talk to him. So it had been nine days, unless Ferrara had a woman Nate didn’t know about. It was possible, but Nate didn’t think it was likely: the dickhead seemed to have an allergy to giving women his personal phone number.

So, nine days. By Ferrara’s standards, it was practically an eternity. Normally he got laid every few days at the least.

Relieved that he’d found a probable reason for his boss’s tension, Nate relaxed a little. It was a non-issue. Easy to handle.

When the meeting finally ended, Nate silently followed Ferrara out of the conference room, trying to think of how to bring it up. After all, it was a little awkward to ask his employer if he had a case of blue balls.

As soon as the door of Ferrara’s office clicked shut behind them, the other man said, “You weren’t paying attention during the meeting.”

Nate’s heart skipped a beat. He wondered frantically if the meeting was supposed to be about something important. “Was I supposed to?” he said. “All of those meetings are basically the same: you make scathing comments, people shake in their boots, rinse and repeat.”

Ferrara cast him an irritated look, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “I should fire you for your insolence.”

Nate studied him, but it was hard to tell how serious Ferrara was being. “I’m just making an observation,” he said. “Sir.”

His hands loosening his tie, Ferrara shot him a look. “You’ve been working for me for months now. Do I still need to remind you to watch your tone?”

“Apparently,” Nate grumbled, opening the closet and looking at the row of pristine, perfectly ironed shirts. White shirt, he decided after a moment.

By the time he turned around, Ferrara had already unbuttoned his pale blue shirt. Shrugging out of it, he dropped it onto the floor.

Nate scowled at it. “I know you’re filthy rich, but maybe handle your things with care? Sir,” he added hastily at Ferrara’s hard look.

He still didn’t understand why Ferrara needed to change his shirts at work. Brenda had mentioned that their boss was very sensitive to smells and didn’t like even a hint of sweat on his clothes—which was why Nate also kept a change of clothes at work—but it still seemed ridiculous to him.

Nate picked up the discarded shirt and sniffed it. It smelled perfectly nice: of skin and Ferrara’s subtle cologne or aftershave—Nate still wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled really good. Way to be picky.

“It smells fine,” he said.

Ferrara ignored him.

A ringtone broke the silence.

Nate twitched before realizing it was Ferrara’s personal phone.

The other man answered it and said something in Italian.

Nate handed him the fresh shirt, trying not to eye his boss’s muscular torso enviously. Man, it just wasn’t fair. He wished he had a body that good. Not that Nate didn’t have some decent muscles, but Ferrara’s muscle definition was just… yeah. Nate glanced enviously at those broad shoulders, thick biceps, well-defined chest and perfect six-pack. Maybe he should hit the gym more often. And go to the beach from time to time, though he could only dream of a warm skin tone like that.

Ferrara shrugged into the offered shirt, but he seemed distracted by the conversation, speaking fast in Italian.

After a moment’s hesitation, Nate stepped closer and started buttoning up the shirt, knowing how much Ferrara hated inefficiency. The man stood still, allowing him to do it, a deep furrow appearing between his brows as he continued his conversation in Italian.

Christ, his privileged upbringing was so obvious at times like this. Ferrara accepted help dressing him without even noticing it, as if it was normal. Now Nate understood what Olivia had meant when she said that Ferrara had a different mentality and was raised differently. Power, superiority, and privilege oozed from his every pore. It felt like this man had been born to beserved, and everyone around him seemed to sense it, submitting to his iron will as if it was only right. It was utterly disgusting and Nate hated himself a little, but he was no different from others in that regard. These days, Ferrara often didn’t even need to give him orders verbally—Nate was doing things for him before being ordered to. It was bizarre and more than a little creepy, to be honest. He creeped himself out sometimes.

When he was done with the shirt, he paused, watching Ferrara’s fingers tuck the shirt into his trousers and tighten his belt. Stepping closer again, Nate fixed his boss’s tie and then stroked it, marveling at its pleasant texture. He used to think that overpaying for brand-name products was stupid, but sometimes expensive stuff was actually really nice.

Then he reached for Ferrara’s discarded suit jacket and helped him shrug back into it.

And just in time. Ferrara hung up, his expression vaguely irritated, his broad shoulders tense under the jacket. Yep, definitely a case of blue balls.

“Do you want me to call one of your… girlfriends?” Nate offered.

Black eyes shifted to him. “My girlfriends?”

Nate tried not to fidget. “You know, the women that call you all the time? I don’t know what you call them.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Nate forced himself to hold his heavy gaze. “I’m just trying to help. You seem tense. Sir. You always act like a dick when you haven’t gotten laid in a while.”

“I act like a dick,” Ferrara repeated slowly, sitting down in his throne-like black chair behind his desk.

Nate looked at him warily. “Notice that I didn’t say you were a dick. I said you act like a dick. There’s a difference. I didn’t call you a dick. So you can’t fire me over that.”

Ferrara simply regarded him for a moment. “I should fire you right now. I should have fired you months ago. You’re the most useless, insolent, disrespectful assistant I’ve ever had.”

Rolling his eyes, Nate smiled. “You say it all the time, but I have it on good authority that I’ve lasted longer than any of your previous assistants.”

“Only because you would accuse me of purposely setting you up to lose your ridiculous bet if I were to fire you.”

Nate laughed a little. “Please. As if you haven’t been setting me up to fail.”

Ferrara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re delusional if you think I have nothing better to do with my time—or that you would still be here if I really put my mind to it. I wouldn’t even need to fire you. You’d quit yourself.”

Clenching his jaw, Nate scoffed and lifted his chin. “Right. There’s nothing you can do to make me quit.”

A dangerous gleam appeared in Ferrara’s dark eyes, something almost amused but with a hard, cruel edge to it.

Nate swallowed, feeling like he might have pushed him too far.

“Shall we test that?” Ferrara said.

Before Nate could begin to process what that was supposed to mean, Ferrara said, “Fine. Send Helen or Bridget a message, tell her I’ll be free at seven.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “Helen or Bridget? You seriously have no preference? That’s harsh, even for you.”

Ferrara fixed him with an irritated look. “Why would I have? It’s just sex. A mutually beneficial arrangement. No one is getting used if all parties have an understanding that it’s just sex.”

Although Nate didn’t agree, he decided to keep his mouth shut. He could see that Ferrara was dangerously close to losing his very limited patience. “Fine,” he said slowly, still not really understanding what that had to do with Ferrara testing his resolve to keep the job. “I’ll call one of your booty calls and tell her to come to your—which of your apartments?”

“Obviously not the one I live in,” Ferrara said, his gaze already on his computer. “And not the other one—the renovations still aren’t finished there. She should come to the office.”

Right.

A little bewildered, but figuring that Ferrara just intended to leave work as soon as the woman arrived, Nate muttered, “All right.”

He left the room, his boss’s discarded shirt still clutched in his hand. He scowled at it before dumping it into the laundry hamper and pulling Ferrara’s phone out of his pocket.

His scowl deepened as he glared at the contacts before he found a message from someone called “Helen” who described in gross, obscene detail what she would like to do to Ferrara’s cock.

God, how was this his life?

Nate sent her a message. 7pm, Rutledge Enterprises.

 

When seven o’clock came around, there was the sound of high heels before a stunning blonde appeared by Nate’s desk. “Raffaele is waiting for me,” she said. “I’m Helen.”

Right. The woman who wanted to get her throat wrecked on Ferrara’s cock before taking it between her—admittedly fantastic—breasts.

Unable to meet her eyes, Nate nodded and led her into Ferrara’s office. “Your—Your seven o’clock is here, sir.”

Ferrara didn’t even lift his gaze from his computer.

Helen smiled and walked over. “Hey there, handsome.” She plopped down on Ferrara’s lap and kissed him, her manicured fingers burying in his hair, then running down his chest, and scraping against the bulge under—

Flushing, Nate took a step back, but before he could close the door, a commanding voice stopped him.

“I didn’t say you could leave yet.”

Confused, Nate stopped and reluctantly looked back.

Dark eyes were fixed on him with a strange expression Nate couldn’t quite read. “Shut the door and come over here.”

Nate could only stare at him in bewilderment but his legs were already moving. Fuck, Ferrara really had him trained well.

“What do you need the boy for, Rafe?” Helen purred teasingly, kissing Ferrara’s stubbled jawline and neck.

A flash of annoyance flickered through Ferrara’s face at the anglicized nickname, but he didn’t stop the woman from kissing and groping him, even though his eyes remained on Nate.

“Come here,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Nate approached the desk, a knot of discomfort forming in his stomach. His instincts were screaming that Ferrara was up to something, that he wasn’t going to like what his boss would request.

“Undress.”

He froze, his eyes going wide. But then he exhaled, realizing that Ferrara was addressing the blonde. Not that it was much of a relief.

He watched numbly as Ferrara lifted Helen and put her on his desk. The woman giggled and started undressing. Just like that. As if Nate weren’t even there.

“Eh,” Nate said. “I’ll go—I’m going home—”

“You aren’t going anywhere yet,” Ferrara said, looking at him with those black, creepy eyes.

What?

Nate watched, frozen, as Ferrara started unbuckling his belt before unzipping his suit pants. Oh, fuck. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be fucking happening.

It was happening. Ferrara was pulling his cock out. His half-hard cock.

Staring at it, Nate had a sudden, hysterical thought that the asshole wasn’t lying about the condom size.

“Get me a condom,” Ferrara said in a low voice.

Right. A condom. Of course that was why Ferrara wanted him to stay. To get him a condom.

His relief nearly making him dizzy, Nate reached into the desk drawer he’d put the condoms in and retrieved one, hating himself a little for how well Ferrara had him trained by now. “Here,” he said, handing it to his boss.

Ferrara didn’t take it.

“Put it on,” he said.

Nate stared.

He opened his mouth and then closed it.

“What?” he said faintly.

That cruel, amused gleam appeared in Ferrara’s eyes again. “You heard me. You’re my assistant. Or are you saying you can’t assist me?”

And Nate finally got what this was about. If I really put my mind to it, I wouldn’t even need to fire you. You’d quit yourself.

Rage clogged his throat. Nate could only stare at that dickhead in helpless anger.

A small, infuriatingly arrogant smirk touched Ferrara’s lips. “It’s all right if you can’t do it,” he said in a soft voice.

Nate glared at him.

Screw him. He was going to fucking wipe that smirk off that face.

Nate tore the wrapper with shaking hands and then looked down from Ferrara’s hard eyes to his hard cock.

Jesus.

That thing was… it was big and thick, the cockhead very red and fat, with a drop of pre-come glistening at the tip. It was the most obscene thing he’d ever seen, especially considering the fact that Ferrara was immaculately dressed otherwise.

Swallowing, Nate reached down with trembling hands and rolled the condom on.

Or tried to.

His fingers were too clumsy, and it felt like it was his first time trying to put a condom on. To be fair to him, it was the first time he was attempting to put a condom on someone else’s cock. Jesus, the thing pulsed in his hand. It was so very warm.

His face aflame, Nate finally managed to roll the condom on.

“Done,” he said with a relieved smile, lifting his gaze and meeting Ferrara’s eyes. “Anything else, sir?”

A muscle jumped in Ferrara’s cheek as his jaw tightened.

Nate smiled wider.

“You may go,” Satan said tersely, irritation rolling off him in waves.

Nate had never left a room so fast. He had no desire to watch his boss fuck that blonde.

Once outside the room, he breathed out, grinning in triumph. Ha! He’d fucking won.

But his grin faded as something suddenly occurred to him. If there was one thing Nate absolutely knew about his boss, it was that he had the memory of an elephant and an utter inability to admit defeat. He was the definition of a sore loser. Ferrara hated being wrong. Utterly hated it.

Fuck.