Billionaire Daddies of New York, 1
Orchid Morton dreams of becoming a big-time lawyer, but she’s stuck in a rut as she juggles studying at university with working two jobs just to make ends meet. As fate would have it, her father calls in a favor with an old friend—one Mr. Victor Mitchell, the CEO of the most elite law firm in Manhattan, Mitchell and Associates.
Orchid is anxious but excited to land an internship at the coveted firm, but unfortunately for her there are no available positions.
The handsome and aloof silver fox Mr. Mitchell is amused by the awkward and curvy young woman and offers her an opportunity she can’t refuse. The chance to work under him … and climb her way to the top.
Orchid is intimidated by Mr. Mitchell but secretly finds him irresistible. Something about his alpha nature calls to herand for the chance at her dream life, she’s willing to do anything.
Be Warned: DDLG, BDSM, anal sex, multiple partners, degradation, sex toys, public exhibition
Excerpt:
I watch my new PA approach the limousine with hunger, her hips swaying from side to side as she attempts to sashay in painfully tall heels. Every single curve of her young body is emphasized by the form-hugging, strapless, slinky red dress adorning her Rubenesque figure. Long splits run up both legs, revealing her smooth, thick thighs. With her tumbling locks curled over her shoulders, she looks like Jessica Rabbit, just minus the red hair. Oh, the club is going to love this…
“Evening, Miss Morton,” I say as my driver opens the door for her.
She does her best to slide in elegantly. “Good evening, sir,” she answers. She adjusts her dress in a vain attempt to maintain her modesty.
A smirk quirks my lips as I drink her in from head to toe. Even her nails are painted cherry red. Perfect.
Orchid toys with the simple black clutch resting on her lap.
I can’t help but be turned on by her natural anxiety. She’s so nervous and tense—practically hovering on the knife edge of a panic attack. “Slide across,” I command, petting the leather seat beside me.
“Sir?”
“I have a gift for you.”
Orchid’s eyes momentarily narrow in a delicious combination of suspicion and surprise, before she obeys. “You didn’t have to get me anything, sir,” she says as she squirms in her own skin beside me.
I reach into the door compartment and offer her a small parcel wrapped in gold paper, tied with a luxurious red silk ribbon. “I insist. It would be rude not to accept a gift from your new employer.”
My personal assistant nods sheepishly and accepts the gift, our fingers brushing briefly as she does. She blushes fiercely. “May I open it?”
“Be my guest.”
With her long-manicured nails, she gently unties the ribbon and begins to unravel the shining paper, revealing an eye-wateringly expensive designer clutch. “Oh, my God.” She turns it over in her hands. “This is genuine Gucci,” she breathes. “And it’s from their new spring collection.”
“It is.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she begins. “This is worth thousands, Mr. Mitchell. I can’t possibly accept.”
Turning slightly in my seat, I pick up the luxurious ribbon—purposely cut to a precise, requested length—and reach around her neck. Orchid freezes and I smile, securing the ribbon in a delicate bow at her throat, placing it just off to the side, rather than allowing it to be perfectly centered. “There,” I say. “Perfect.”
I see the thoughts racing through her mind as she swallows hard, tentatively reaching up to touch the ribbon as if it might burn her. “I—um—thank you, sir,” she stammers with a bright, but false smile. “The clutch is beautiful. I’ve never owned anything by a real designer before,” she admits, purposely dodging the subject of her makeshift collar entirely. She knows she’s in the lion’s den now and is desperately fighting to remain calm and professional.
Let’s see how far we can ramp up the discomfort. Placing a firm, strong hand on her thigh, my thumb rests on her bare skin. “Carl, onto The Atrium,” I say aloud to my driver. The limousine pulls out onto the street smoothly, and I revel in the way Orchid holds her breath. How long will she keep this up? I wonder in amusement. She’s too frightened to move or respond at all. She doesn’t shift my hand, nor does she protest or slap me. She just sits as still as a living statue, caught in the moment like a deer in headlights as I stroke her milky flesh with my thumb.
Gazing out the window, I act completely disinterested, as if my actions might be unconscious. As if I might just be resting my hand absently, and not intentionally testing her limits. “You’re a good girl, Orchid,” I drawl seductively, watching her reflection in my window.
Her eyes are still glued to my hand, and her chest shudders with the effort of holding her breath.
Determined little wench. All right, then. Let’s play. I slide my hand under the flimsy fabric of her dress, allowing it to rest on her thick, warm inner thigh. A little gasp escapes her, and I feel her shiver at my intrusive touch. “I’ve been struggling with pent-up tension these last few weeks. But now you’re here, I’ll be able to blow off some steam, and relieve my stress more regularly,” I say cryptically, though my veiled meaning is plainly obvious.
My PA continues to tremble like a petal in the breeze as I enjoy the damp warmth emanating from her crotch. Try as she might to fight or deny it, she’s turned on as fuck. And no doubt mortally ashamed that she’s getting nice and wet for someone her daddy’s age.
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