Fifty Degrees of Shade - The Billionaire's Badass Mate - On hold for a bit!

6. Blondes are for Work; Brunettes are for Sex

Crispin heads for the door before I can bring up the pros and cons of various ropes. This will not do!

What kind of billionaire leaves his onboarding to an assistant? Does Crispin have more important things on his agenda? Shouldn't he tell Raquel to cancel all his appointments for the afternoon and take me out on his fifty-foot sailboat for kinky fuckery? With ropes! I was a Girl Scout and mastered several maritime knots I'd like to demonstrate on him.

I mean to him.

Well, you know what I mean.

Honestly, sometimes I feel like I'm living someone else's life.

I clear my throat and push my hand against the door, blocking his exit. "Mr. Shades," I say in my most professional tone.

"Miss Jones?"

Do I even need to tell you he's knitting his brow again? At this rate, the guy will need Botox by the time he's thirty.

"Are you sure we're finished? Because I don't feel at all finished." I stamp my foot. "Sir. We. Did. Not. Finish."

He leans in close, and I inhale his musky scent. "We'll finish later," he whispers in my ear, all husky-like, his breath hot. It's a promise. My blood sizzles and my inner goddess does some kind of backflip followed by a couple of cartwheels and ending in a straddle sit. Then she goes limping off. I don't mention she overdid it, but she knows.

I bite my lip. On purpose. "But, um, Mr. Shades, don't we need to discuss compensation? Hours? Benefits package?"

Crispin stares at my bitten lips and shakes his head. I can tell it's affected him. "We can work all that out later. I'm sure you'll be pleased." He winks.

I clear my throat. "Yes, sir," I reply, also huskily.

With this, he scratches Bella's ears, digs around in the pocket of his tight jeans, and locates a treat. "Sit."

She sits.

I stay.

My heart sinks. I know this treat isn't for me.

Crispin tosses the treat to Bella, who catches it and gulps it down without chewing.

Then Crispin digs around in his other pocket. Is this a treat for me? I can barely breathe. But he lobs it toward Raquel. He sends it in a high, awkward arc, yet she catches it easily in her hand. The whole thing happens so fast, I struggle to follow the motion. She holds up the treat, which turns out to be another skeleton key. "In case," he says, mysteriously.

"Yes, Mr. Shades," Raquel says.

Something odd is happening here. Something I will figure out.

"Um, Miss Jones?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you let me pass?"

This is when I notice I'm still blocking the door. "Uh, sure," I say, frozen in place.

"Thank you. And good luck, Anesthesia," he says. I love hearing my name on his lips. But he's giving Raquel a strange look, almost as if he's wishing her luck and not me. What, am I a problem or something? He's the one who's leading me on, escorting me to his pink room of shame, and abandoning me here in my inferior dress, which, I may add, he did not unzip despite my clear desire that he should do so.

"Good luck with what?" I ask calmly. When you're dealing with a guy who can tell what you're thinking based on stomach gurgles and pulse rates, you must maintain control over your bodily functions.

"Your training, of course." With that, he nudges me aside, struggles with the doorknob, and exits the room, leaving me alone with Raquel.

"Congratulations, Miss Jones," Raquel says.