My Protector by Flora Ferrari
Chapter One
Becky
It’s not every day I get called in early to see the boss, in fact. I never have come to think of it.
I only met him once in person. The day I was hired not so long ago. I was so happy that day. Thought all my problems were over.
Like I’d never have to worry about money again let alone work hard another day in my life.
Ha!
I gulp hard and heavy, at the base of the spiral staircase to the boss’s office, the smell of last night’s cigar and cigarette smoke mixed with the reek of stale high end booze lingering in the Special Member’s only lounge.
Stairway to heaven. That’s what the boss likes to call it according to most of the other girls.
Ugh!
The man’s a pig, but he pays cash and I need every cent I can get if I’m gonna make my already overdue rent this month.
A college education, three years with a diploma in ‘The Arts’. Hardly what the world is crying out for right now.
Let alone a five foot, thick set girl that hides her real emotions behind a bubbly smile.
Inside I’m dying.
If I don’t flash a smile, keep every glass full and every patron of the bosses club happy, I’m better off dead.
Royally screwed.
In fact, I have a hunch if my landlord and my boss ever met, they’d get on like a large house fire. Like one of those high rise infernos.
Filled with plastic and electric vehicle batteries with Kevlar tires filling the underground garage.
The kind they can never put out.
Maybe they’re related and I just don’t know it?
Fortunately for me, my boss doesn’t have an eye for thick set, top heavy girls with wide hips and enough ass for a bench seat.
He told me as much on day one.
Nope. My job is to tend the front bar, flash my pearly whites and keep topping those drinks up until I get the cue.
The word comes via a phone call from behind the bar or a simple nod from security at the door.
Get ‘em loosened up enough and then direct them to any one of the plastic faced Barbie’s who waitress here who woo them to the gaming tables in the back.
That’s how the boss makes the real money. And I know for a fact it doesn’t flow down the food chain to the bar staff either.
Apart from knowing which door they go through, and the shape of the stick figures who lures them here, I just do my job.
Maybe it’s a promotion? Finally, a pay rise.
I’m not sure what chokes me first as I climb the last few steps, hesitating at the huge steel door before I knock. The bullshit thought or the rising staleness from the thickly carpeted lounge down below.
I don’t know how they can stand it.
Booze and smoke. I mean, choose your poison buddy. But both at once?
Yuck.
The stale smell aside, it’s a plush looking place from what I’ve seen of the Special Member’s only lounge. Thick, thick red carpeting, big everything. Like the brass banister and handrail of the solid oak steps I climb.
With chunky, gleaming tabletops. Smooth with heavy lacquer and inlaid timber patterns.
The same inlaid woodwork discreetly advertising the men’s rooms and a couple more doors so discreet they aren’t even marked private. They even look like a part of the walls.
It’s that kind of club. Not full underground, Mafioso stuff, but an illegal gambling house using a gentleman’s club as a front.
We all know it, but the need for cash keeps us quiet and smiling.
If I need to pee during a shift, I have to make do since I’m not allowed to use the guest’s bathroom. Mostly sneaking into the only other bathroom in the basement that certainly looks like it could use a woman’s touch.
But the only thing to touch it is my ass when I have to choose between pissing in private, or in the small sink behind the bar as my only other option.
No thanks. That’s just the kind of floor show the regulars would appreciate, I suspect.
The bar and ‘club’ out front are the same as the private lounge, but less intimate and with no shag pile carpet.
The room with the gaming tables? Never seen it only heard whispers from the others. Once my shift’s over and I’ve been paid I’m outta here.
I rarely get to step out from behind the heavy wooden bar anyway, but I do see my own reflection so often as I turn to fix drinks that it almost feels like there are two of me.
I wished there was.
One could sleep and the other I’d send to work.
I watch my hand shaking, hesitating before I knock.
There are two male voices, thickly muted by the door but one I recognize, the other I don’t.
It’s a deeper voice, a low gravelly one.
Deep and fierce. A wildness to it that I feel under my feet.
Is the A/C on too high in here? I just got a chill right up my spine.
In fact, a very odd feeling to have at work rushes over me, making me regret wearing my white work shirt and short black skirt with matching stockings.
Standard uniform for me, minus the barmaid’s apron.
But it’ll do nothing to cover my chest, suddenly stiff at the sound of—
Before I even knock, the heavy steel door swings open and I gasp out loud.
So loud it’s almost a scream.
My hands go up in reflex, meeting the thick wall of muscle behind the voice of the man I just heard.
Before I look up, for the man must be well over six-five. Pushing seven feet easily. I feel the base of his pecs and abs tighten and flex through his shirt.
A well-made, tight fitting button-up shirt made of a material that looks like velvet but is so light it almost shimmers.
And pants.
Tight suit pants. Everything about this man is tight, toned.
Perfect.
The same low growling voice lets loose again.
Another low rumble I feel that makes me moan quietly as it vibrates right through my hands all the way down to my freshly sodden mound.
Flinching, I feel my stiff little clit pop out from under its hood, rasping against my panties.
I even feel my forbidden hole clench then quiver too. My sodden pussy is suddenly on fire as my fingernails dig into this slab of a man while I just stand there, eyeballing his perfect physique through his equally perfect outfit.
Inhaling his heady, musky scent. A mix of man, hard work, and fall leaves after the rain.
Knowing that when I look up I’ll probably be in love.
That’s what it feels like anyway. In love with this feeling already.
About as close to either a real man or love as I’m gonna get in this life too. Accidentally running into it before he tells me to beat it.
But he doesn’t.
His growl is low but not angry. It’s…
Pleased for a change.
A satisfied, fulfilled animal sound.
Like an alpha wolf who’s spotted his first meal in a week or more.
I try telling myself it’s just my hormones, but there’s no way this is my hormones. This is the kind of thing I’ve only read about in dollar romance novels or seen in a certain type of movie.
Just when it feels like every hole is quivering, yearning for something to fill it, my boss’s voice grates through the most magical moment of my life.
“Well don’t just stand there, Becky. Let the man through will ya!”
I look up, and yeah. I’m gonna hazard a guess at six-seven, six-eight.
The guy’s a freaking monster. Not a bad, ugly monster. No way.
A godly, ruggedly handsome monster of a man. A real man in every sense of the word.
The kind of monster man you want to break into your room at night or climb out from under your bed to scratch that itch, fulfill every dark fantasy you’ve ever had about a man and what you want them to do to you.
The kind of monster that has deep, dark eyes and a chiseled jaw permanently set to bad boy mode.
Cropped dark hair with enough silver to show he’s a man of the world. Mature as well as experienced.
His lip curls some as he focuses on my features, instead of moving back I instinctively move closer, letting my hands run down the rock hard front of him.
“Becky. Are you fucking hard of hearing? Let the man through.” My boss groans, making a clicking sound with his teeth, sucking in air or trying to dislodge some food.
This man, whoever he is, turns his torso to look over to my boss.
“Oh. Uh, Dillon. Becky. Becky, Dillon. Yada Yada…” he huffs, waving his hand impatiently, trying to dismiss one of us out of his office so he can deal with the other, but Dillon’s not budging.
Not just yet.
One of his huge hands reaches out for mine, I feel like a child in his shadow as he fills the doorway.
“Dillon,” he informs me in that low, smoky voice.
I feel the charge from his hand run straight through me as I stifle another little moan. His name is like a hammering blow to that feeling between my legs.
Sparks flying in every direction, the white heat of charged steel struck by something stronger, harder, and instantly leaving me craving more.
Something inside me feeling like it’s about to come loose for good.
“Becky,” I squeak.
My boss’s voice cuts in over us again. “Seven thirty, Dillon. Don’t be late,” He snaps.
Dillon’s dark eyes narrow, boring into mine after moving up from my throbbing chest.
“I’ll be here,” he rasps without looking back, keeping a tight grip on my hand right up until he passes me by, the beginnings of something long and hard in his pants brushing my arm as he does.
