Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Eight

Grant

Istop the treadmill as soon as the elevator ping floats down the corridor. For once, I’m dressed to run in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt, but I sniff myself carefully before striding out of my office.

She’s on time. She always is. I know Sasha’s movements now better than I know my own.

8am: step out of the elevator.

8:30: knock on my office door, with a coffee in one hand and her planner in the other, ready to go over the meetings for the day.

Normally, by 8:30, I’m sitting at my desk, studiously not watching the door and clicking through emails. But today, I can’t wait the thirty minutes for her to come find me. I set off down the corridor, pulse tapping in my throat.

“Sweatpants, huh?” She smiles at me, sly. Her hair is half-down today, and my fingers itch to run through it. “Must be a special occasion. I thought you wore suits for everything.”

“I do.” I don’t stop at her desk, prowling around the side of it. “To sleep. To shower. You name it.”

She looks smaller than usual down there, when I’m standing over her. That pert little nose is level with my waistband, and a primal part of me wants to cup the back of her head and grind her face against where I’m already stiffening.

“There it is,” she breathes as I take the arms of her desk chair and spin her to face me. Her plump lips tug up at the corner. “A suit addiction. The real Grant Keller scandal.”

“Take it to your grave.”

She draws a solemn cross over her chest, the swell of her breasts so plump and inviting through her thin blouse. And fuck, why was I such an ass to her last night? When she called me, I practically bit her head off. It’s been bothering me ever since, a snide voice whispering in my head that I’ve screwed it up, and she’ll never want to call me on a whim again.

“I’m sorry for being a dick.”

She chokes out a laugh. “Can you narrow that down?”

“I’m sorry for being short when you called last night.”

Her forehead creases. She did notice, then. “What was wrong?”

Here goes nothing. Better to get it out there; clear the air. Let her know where I stand.

“I saw you. On your date.”

She jerks back, startled, and I straighten up, raising my palms.

“I wasn’t following you. Nothing creepy, I promise. But you’ve got me hooked on these stupid coffees, and I walked over there after work, and saw you sitting there with him. The, uh. The old guy. You two looked pretty cozy.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Simon’s not old.”

Fuck. That’s the part she’s denying? Jealousy flares in my chest, hot and hungry, and I tamp it down with effort. But when I speak, my words are sharper. I’m only human.

“He’s too old for you, that’s for fucking sure.”

“He’s forty. You’re thirty five.”

“What do I have to do with it?”

She gives me a look. “Grant. Give me a break.”

And this has gone off the rails. It’s not like we’re in a relationship—we hooked up once, for god’s sake, and everything about this situation is complicated. Just because I’d rather stab a letter opener in my eye than look at another woman now, that doesn’t mean Sasha’s unhinged too.

I sit back against her desk, crossing my arms over my chest, and search for the right words.

“I don’t want you to see other people.”

An eyebrow twitch. “Is that an order, Mr Keller?”

Fuck.

“No.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s a request.”

She must sense the knot in my chest somehow, because Sasha takes pity. A small palm settles on my thigh—tentative at first, then smoothing over the muscle. Back and forth, back and forth, until I melt an inch into the desk.

Every time she touches me, my nerves spark in reply. My heart thumps louder, calling out to her.

“I’m not. Seeing anyone else, I mean. It wasn’t a date.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So Simon is…?”

She frowns at her lap. “A friend. I hope.”

“Damn.” I tug her to her feet. She hasn’t changed out of the sneakers I bought her yet this morning, and without her heels, the top of her head is level with my chin. “I can’t begrudge you that.”

“Nope. I guess not.” Her breath catches as I take her waist, lifting her easily to sit on the desk. Reaching around her, I push her keyboard and planner to the sides, clearing the space, then nudge her shoulder.

“Lay back, sweetheart.”

Her eyes are wide as she lowers down to her elbows. I step between her knees, spreading them wider stretching her skirt taut between her thighs. “What are you doing?”

“Typing up an email. What do you think? I’m going to show this pussy why you never need to look at another man again.”

I swat her ass, grinding closer to her heat, and she gasps and squirms in response. Her chest heaves, her nipples pointed through her thin blouse, and her fingers hook in my waistband. Holding me in place.

But there’s an edge of fear to her expression that I don’t like. I pause, the hem of her flippy black skirt pinched between my fingers.

“Shall I stop?”

Her head jerks side to side, her golden hair splayed over the polished wood. “No. God. Definitely not. But, um. The elevator…”

“Mm.” I smirk, my knuckles brushing her thighs. “Better keep an eye on it.”

Come on,I will her privately. Trust me. Let me taste you. It’s not like I’d ever let anything bad happen to her. And my heart is pounding out a drumbeat as I settle in her chair, rolling close and waiting for her green light.

Sasha purses her lips. She rolls her eyes and tilts her head; fixes her gaze on the metal doors. Then reaches out with one hand, grabs a fistful of my t-shirt and tugs me down to her lap.

Yes.

That’s the only word that echoes in my head when I’m touching Sasha. When I’m pushing her skirt over her hips, burying my face against her underwear and breathing deep. When I’m slinging her legs over my shoulders, hooking her panties to the side, and finally tasting her heat.

Yes.

Fuck yes.

She’s slick and ready. More turned on than she let slip. And I wonder how often that happens, how many times we’ve talked or brushed past each other and she’s been secretly wet and wanting. I growl against her pussy, the thought driving me higher.

If I get my way, she’ll never be left aching again.

“You like that, sweetheart?” My words vibrate against her clit. “You like me spreading you out on the desk, eating your pussy where anyone might walk in and see?”

“Oh—oh god.”

I’ll take that as a yes.

Her thighs are soft and warm, brushing against my cheeks, and her fingertips scratch against my scalp as she writhes. I lean back a few inches, sliding a finger deep inside her— her moan guts me down to my core.

“Grant. Oh. Grant.” Her hips lift as I work her, rolling against the empty air. Sasha’s eyes are screwed shut, the elevator long forgotten, and a deep flush darkens her cheeks. “You feel…”

“Good?” I’m ragged. Wrecked.

“So good.”

Thank fuck for that.

I’m so lost in her, focused on her every twitch and moan, that I don’t notice her fingers roving through my hair until it’s too late. She finds the scar—raised and jagged, wrapping around my head—and freezes. I still too, breathing hard between her thighs.

“What… what happened?”

“Car accident,” I grit out. “A few years ago.” Don’t ask me, I will her. Not now.

Not when she’s so close, finally spread out before me on this desk, and I’m living out my fantasies of the last few weeks. Not when her taste is on my tongue and her scent is in my lungs.

Not now.

She parts her lips, like she’s going to ask me more questions, so I duck my head and suck on her clit. Slide a second finger inside her and pulse.

Sasha bucks and moans, thighs locking around my neck, and when she comes, she trembles enough to bring down the building.

Her breaths fill the room. She lays sprawled on the desk, a beautiful wreck, and I rest my fevered forehead against her knee. I’m so hard, my ears are ringing.

When the elevator light flicks on, we both jump. Then scramble upright, breathless and laughing, tugging her clothes back into place and settling her in the chair.

“Thank you.” I hesitate, then drop a kiss on her head. “I’d better, uh—”

“Change your clothes?” She smiles, flicking my t-shirt. “I’ve got this. Go conceal your weapon, Mr Keller.”

I glance down, mouth twisting. Ah.

Her soft laughter follows me down the corridor.

* * *

It’s too good to be true. I know that, even with the fact that I’m her boss. Even with the age difference.

I’ve never been this happy.

Too good to be true.

The feeling builds through the week with every stolen kiss in my office; every time our fingers brush in the elevator. A sense of dread, snaking through my gut and strangling my insides. And I push it away, because Sasha Jones is the best thing I’ve ever seen.

A golden-haired miracle.

When she meets me in the lobby before the gala, the sight of her is a punch to the chest. It shouldn’t be—I saw that dress last week—and yet it’s like the first glimpse all over again.

“Ready to charm a bunch of businessmen?” She nudges my elbow as we cross the marble floor.

“Oh, it’s not just boring businessmen tonight.” I pull the door open, frosty air wafting over our faces. “It’s all the power players. Brace yourself.”

She’s quiet as she settles into the car. I place the usual stack of folders between us on the seat, and we page through them, squinting to read my messy writing. Each one has a photograph clipped to the front page, and I watch her from the corner of my eye. The glow from the passing streetlamps washes over her face and away.

She still doesn’t ask me.

“It was a head injury.” The words blurt out of me before I even realize I’m saying them. Offering up my biggest weakness on a platter. “From that car accident. I’m mostly fine, but I get a lot of headaches. And I have trouble remembering some things. Like names.”

Sasha lowers the folder she’s reading into her lap. And her voice is thick when she speaks, addressing her knees.

“I would never have asked you, Grant.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone.” I’m joking, but it sounds too serious in the dark car. I nudge her, aiming for lightness. “If the press got hold of it, my business could sink. No one wants to invest in an entrepreneur with a brain injury.”

“But it doesn’t affect you. Not in your work.”

I shrug. “No, it doesn’t.”

I wait for what feels like ten years. And when Sasha finally breathes again, it shudders in and out of her lungs like she’s fighting tears.

“Hey.” I reach for her, tangling our fingers together on her knee. “I’m fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” she says, but then she’s sliding off the seat and crawling between my knees. Running her palms up my thighs. “You matter.”

She’s tentative as she pulls my belt through the buckle. Lowers my zip, the scratchy sound so loud in the hushed car.

“Sasha,” I groan, burying my hands in her hair. “Fuck—your braid thingy—”

“Wreck it.” She wraps her fingers around my cock. “I want you to pull my hair.”

Holy shit.

Despite her bold words, she’s cautious as she brings her red lips to my cock, pressing a shy kiss to the head. Her big brown eyes flick up to me, her grip light, and a new suspicion snakes through my brain.

“Sasha.” Her name grates out of my chest. “Have you done this before?”

A tiny shake of her head. Barely visible in the darkened car.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, skull pounding. “And the other things we’ve done?”

She whispers, “No.”

And hell, if I’d known that, I’d have done it all so differently. She deserves silk sheets and champagne, not urgent hands and nipping teeth in the back of my car. She deserves bubble baths and massages and being draped over my bed, not—not being spread out on the desk in front of the damn elevator.

“Sasha.” I’m hollow. Hollow, and so fucking turned on.

Her first.

Am I really going to do this?

She answers that for me. By squeezing my cock gently, then bring the head to her lips. She drags it around like she’s drawing on lipstick, her pink tongue flicking over the slit, and now I can’t look away. Can’t move; can’t breathe.

“Do you want to stop, Grant?” It’s a teasing murmur. Her eyes sparkle in the streetlights.

“No.” I’ve got a one-way ticket to hell, but there it is. “Sasha. Suck me, sweetheart. Show me who owns this cock.”

She likes that. It’s clear from the way her grip tightens, the way she moans low in her throat as she sucks me down. Sasha’s head bobs, the stray locks of her hair tickling my thighs, and every point of my focus is narrowed on her.

Her tongue.

Her heat.

Her.

She’s unsure but eager, and that’s so much hotter. Watching her learn me, watching her explore, figuring out what she likes—I’m spellbound.

I grind my hips back against the seat, resisting to urge to fuck into her pretty throat like it’s the biggest test of my life.

“Grant.” Her whisper tickles my bare skin.

“Yeah?”

“You’re holding back.”

True. But—but she doesn’t know what she’s asking.

“It’s better like this, sweetheart. You’ll enjoy it more.”

“Who says?” She flicks my thigh. “I’ll be the judge of that, Grant Keller.”

Well, damn. I shift forward on the seat, heat slamming in my chest, and I force myself to find the words—a final note of warning.

“It can be uncomfortable. Some people don’t like it. If you want me to stop—”

“I’ll tell you. I will.”

My breath scrapes in and out of my lungs. “Promise me.”

“Grant.”

My hips thrust forward, plunging my cock deeper into her mouth. Red lips stretch around me—those fucking red lips. They’ll haunt my dreams.

Sasha inhales sharply, her eyes wide at the intrusion, but her cheeks hollow as she sucks, and she bobs her head, urging me on. Deeper. Faster. I cradle her head, her braid a wild mess. Cars drift past on the street outside, and rain patters on the car roof, and I fuck her pretty red mouth.

A few times, she coughs. Splutters when I go too deep. But that seems to wind her tighter, too, until her eyes are hazy and she’s swaying in my grip, warm and pliant, and I’m thrusting out a rhythm.

“You like this cock?”

A hum of agreement. The vibration tickles at the base of my spine.

“It’s yours. All yours. And when we go into the gala, I’ll be stained red with your lipstick.”

Another hungry moan.

“Are you wet, sweetheart?”

I know she is. But the reminder gets me what I want: her hand snaking between her kneeling legs. And then we’re climbing higher together, our movements getting sloppier, wilder, and when I feel her tensing, coming between my legs, I can’t hold off anymore.

“Sasha.” Her name tears out of my throat. “I’m going to come. Unless you want to—”

She takes me deeper. Fuck, I love this girl. And I come so hard my brain whites out, her name on my lips like an oath.

Afterward, I fix her up as best I can. Rub her smeared lipstick off her chin; finger comb her hair into loose waves down her back.

“It looks good like this.”

She huffs a laugh, shaking it out. I wasn’t joking, but as long as she’s happy, I don’t care.

And Sasha’s not just happy, she’s glowing, so beautiful I can’t take my eyes off her, and when we pull up at the gala, half of me wants to order the car turned around. To take her to my apartment instead, and beg her to quit. To offer her other, better jobs where I’m not her boss anymore, then finish what we started here.

But she’s climbing out of the car, the night sky inky black, and I missed my chance.

I step out onto the sidewalk.