Wicked Billionaire - Sawyer Bennett Page 0,17

my office, my new assistant, Bailey Robbins, waits at my door with her iPad in one arm and a cup of coffee for me in the other.

If I had thought that being around her would get a bit easier with time, I was wrong. I was also wrong in my belief that she would stop affecting me so strongly the more I was around her.

She’s been my assistant for a week. Yet, every day that passes only causes me to become more fascinated with her.

As an employee, she’s turned out to be one of the best hiring decisions I’ve ever made. As I’d suspected, not only does her intellect serve me well, but she also has a knack for figuring out tricky situations. More than that, she has enough confidence to be proactive in matters without needing my input. Until she started handling those details, I had no clue how much shit I was doing that should have been delegated. In that respect, she’s shone a spotlight on my shortcomings as a manager.

Every morning, we’ve established a routine of meeting at my office. She brings me coffee, along with a summary report covering overnight issues. Sometimes, she’ll even have suggestions on how to deal with a concern. Occasionally, she’ll handle problems without even involving me.

I’ve never had an assistant be so bloody fucking fantastic at assisting me.

So yes, I appreciate her more than I can say. I’m not about to lose her.

However, now that I’ve realized how capable she is and how effortlessly she operates within my world—the Blackwood world—it makes her infinitely more attractive for some reason.

Being a go-getter sets her apart from other women. She’s never going to be the type who waits for someone to take care of or rescue her. Instead, she enjoys being independent and figuring out how to do stuff herself.

She’s a rarity, which makes her even more intriguing.

It certainly doesn’t help she’s wearing the clothes I bought her. Especially when I know damn well if I were to hike her skirt up, she’d be wearing the silky unmentionables I’d bought, too. Fuck how I’d love to see that.

Just once. Well, at least once, but preferably more.

Yeah… I want her badly. But I keep telling myself I can’t go there. I don’t mix business with pleasure.

Too bad she’s not a member of The Wicked Horse. If she were the no-strings type sex clubs are made for, she might be a safe bet to dally with. She would understand sex is just sex, and once out of the club, there is nothing else to bind.

It’s also ironic I’m fantasizing about getting her in a sex club when I’m in the process of creating my own. She hasn’t been clued in, but I’m meeting with potential investors because I’m building an exclusive vacation resort that blends the luxury of the Blackwood name with a little kink by adding a sex club to the available amenities.

What would Bailey think if she knew those boring investment meetings she had to attend were to facilitate the construction of kinky hotels?

“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she says. And, goddamn, even the way she so formally says my name turns me on. Not for the first time, I imagine her in a collar attached to a chain, crawling across the floor toward me.

Once again, I can’t help but wonder if she’d approve or be disgusted by my plans to create a sex club resort.

“Good morning,” I reply when I reach her, taking the offered cup of coffee. She follows me into my office, seating herself in a guest chair while I move around my desk. I set the cup down, bend slightly to log in to my computer, then lower myself into my sumptuous leather executive chair. It’s big enough to accommodate Bailey, too, should she ever get the urge to crawl onto my lap.

Fuck. Get her out of your goddamn mind, Blackwood.

“I had to push your lunch appointment to one thirty,” Bailey says as she reads notes from her iPad. “Mr. Iverson’s flight is delayed.”

I study her, looking crisp and professional in a cream-colored dress with geometric block patterns done in navy blue, brown, and black. Her heels are black peep toes, and I’m even fucking turned on by her apricot-colored toenail polish.

Christ.

Not sure what compels me—the lap fantasy?—but I make a snap decision to figure out precisely what she thinks about my plans.

“Mr. Iverson is the last investor I’ll be interviewing,” I inform her. “I’d like you to block off