Page 3 of Baby Daddy
“Are you his mother?” I yelled out above the wails of the child. Get him out of here.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed the attractive, twenty-something woman, taking notice of the disastrous situation.
The kid’s sobs grew louder and he cried out again for his mommy. Obviously and unfortunately, this woman bore no relationship to him.
“Who are you?” I asked as she hurried toward us.
Keeping my eyes on her curvy body, I watched as she took the hysterical kid into her arms. “You poor baby.”
You poor baby?Hello! What about me? I was the one who’d taken a barf bath.
Stroking the boy’s copper curls, she made eye contact with me. “I’m your new assistant. The temp.”
Her words sunk in. I’d totally forgotten that my regular, soon-to-retire assistant, Mona, had taken her overdue vacation time to visit her daughter, who’d given birth two weeks early. She would be away for at least three weeks, and always efficient, no matter what the circumstances, she’d managed to arrange for someone to fill in for her until she returned.
I met my new assistant’s chocolate orbs. “Okay, then start by getting this kid the hell out of my office and find me something I can use to clean myself up.” I was unable to look down at the damage and the stench was really getting to me.
“Sure,” she replied with a small dimpled smile. Even in my distressed state, I had to admit this girl was cute. One hot little number. My eyes stayed on her as she escorted the kid, whose crying had subsided, out of my office, one arm wrapped around him in a motherly way. My gaze traveled down her taut body, spending way too much time on her spectacular heart-shaped ass and shapely calves.
I stayed in one spot awaiting her return, decorated with revolting chunky bits. Growing more and more nauseated and disgusted, I grew impatient. Where the fuck did she go? Five long, wretched minutes later, she reappeared, holding a thick stack of paper towels and a glass of sudsy water.
“I found his mother,” she beamed as she approached me. “Everything’s good. She’s taking him home.”
“Good,” I mumbled, watching her soak a wad of the paper towels with the soapy liquid. “What are you doing?”
“Stand still. I’m going to try to clean up this mess.”
“Hurry! I’ve got a presentation in an hour.”
I stood as still as I could as she began to vigorously wipe the chunky bits off my T-shirt. Bit my bit, they disappeared, but the horrific smell lingered. “Work on my jeans now.”
The disgusting red chunky bits (what the fuck did that kid eat for breakfast? Dog food?) were clustered around my fly with a few scattered down the legs of my jeans. After tossing the wet towels she used for my T-shirt onto the floor, she moistened another bunch and began to scrub my crotch with small, vigorous strokes.
“Jesus,” I moaned.
Still working, she gazed up at me. “Am I hurting you?”
My muscles clenched as I felt my cock swelling beneath the denim. Holy shit. She was giving me a fucking hard-on.
“Rub harder,” I gritted through my teeth.
At my command, her strokes grew faster and more forceful. I hissed. Christ. Didn’t she know what she was doing to me?
“Don’t stop,” I breathed out, feeling the makings of a volcanic eruption between my thighs. I was so close to coming…about to cream my pants and scream out in relief. And then on her next stroke, I did, cursing under my breath, just as she stopped her ministrations.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t working,” she said, frustration in her voice. Oh, it worked just fine. If she knew I’d just had a full-on orgasm, she didn’t show it. In fact, she probably thought I was yelling at her.
She examined her handiwork, no pun intended. “I’ve gotten most of the puke off, but I can’t get rid of the smell.”
I looked down at myself. Nope. This wasn’t good. My Danger Rangers T-shirt was soaked and stained, and it looked like I’d taken a leak in my pants. And she was right. The horrible odor was palpable.
I dug my hand into a pocket and retrieved my cardholder, pulling out my Visa. Still feeling a hot, tingly sensation between my legs, I handed it to her.
“Listen, I need you to run to the Galleria and pick up a new pair of jeans and a T-Shirt. There’s a Bloomingdale’s there…they should have what I need.”
“What size are you?” Her eyes roamed down my body, staying a little too long where they shouldn’t have.
For a minute, my mind jumped to my cock. Big, very big! I bit down on my tongue and answered, “I wear a Size Large T-shirt and a 32 in jeans.” And silently I added, “While you’re there, pick up some Calvin Klein briefs. The ones with extra support.”
Without wasting a second, she flew out of my office.