Page 76 of Hate to Love You
“Nothing,” I say, clearing my throat and shifting my swelling erection in my pants. “I was just talking to myself. About some…shit.”
Jaxon laughs again.
“As I said, my friend,” he says, with an annoyingly elated sigh. “Fucked.”
“Anyways,” I snap, finding his amusement increasingly irritating. “So, when can we expect your associate? What was his name again? Weston?”
“Wesley,” Jaxon says, his voice shifting seamlessly back into business mode. “He’ll be there when the shipment is scheduled to arrive, so next Friday at ten. He’s one of my munitions experts, and he’s intimately familiar with the products.”
“And will that complete the, uh…full order?” I ask, knowing that I don’t have to imply too hard for Jaxon to know that I’m wondering about the larger artillery pieces I ordered from his South African warehouse months ago.
“No, but I’m assured all pieces have been completed and are just waiting on a departure,” Jaxon says. “They’re already packed with a bow, coming directly from manufacturing. Once it passes through customs, it’ll be all yours.”
“And you’re assured it will?”
“Without fail,” Jaxon says confidently. “I make a point to foster a good relationship with customs.”
“That’s good to hear,” I smile, repeating Jaxon’s words back to him. “As always, my friend, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Likewise.”
I end the call, licking my bottom lip as Abigail saunters her fine ass down the hallway toward the bathrooms. It takes everything in my power not to follow her in there, shove her in a stall, and rip her tiny little excuse of a skirt to pieces…just so I can finally feel my dick inside her.
If my cock was pulsing before, it’s throbbing now.
I can’t explain it, but there’s something about her that draws my attention whenever she’s near. And not just because she’s beautiful, and deliciously shaped, but because she’s not as simple as she appears.
At first glance my new assistant might give the appearance of someone as quiet and as meek as a church mouse. She doesn’t talk to the other girls in the office, she isn’t pushy or bossy like the sluts from accounting.
She just keeps to herself.
Unless my men decide to pester her.
And yet, I’ve watched from this desk as her big brown doe eyes have disarmed every one of my men unlucky enough to come up to this floor today. I say “unlucky” because the moment I’d inevitably catch them gawking at her, I’d want to push them off my twentieth story balcony directly into New York City traffic.
However, since trained mafia gangsters are time-consuming to source, and even harder to retain, I’ve changed my mind, and instead found some horrific or tedious task for them to do.
Abigail opens the bathroom door and I make a point to look down at my desk, refusing to make eye contact with her as she makes her way back down the row.
When it comes to me, well, I’ve been a deliberately difficult CEO today, determined to see how the girl responds under pressure. Yet despite being surrounded, and ogled, by 200lb meatheads that break bones and crush skulls for a living, and running every stupid errand I can think to send her barely clothed ass on, the little church mouse hasn’t flinched.
I smile, looking up just as she sits down at her desk.
No, she’s not really a mouse at all.
More like a fox. Beautiful, sleek and quiet…with a bite.
Foxy little Abigail Wayne. What do I make of you?
I’m staring out over the top of my glasses when suddenly I see the one person who can literally suck all of the joy out of any room: Polina. With her ugly little gray poodle in tow, she comes storming onto the executive floor, making a beeline for my office.
But just as I’m bracing for the hurricane that is my sister, my assistant steps into her path.
“Excuse me,” Abigail says firmly. “Who are you?”
I don’t know whose jaw hits the floor faster, mine, or Polina’s.
“Excuse me?” Polina repeats, her offended gasp echoing through the glass panels of my office.