In Love with the Boss' Son

DORIS

I was excited to get off work early. I planned to make a special dinner for Bob's birthday, and because my meeting cancelled, I had even more time to make something delicious.

It was a gray day. The New York City smog and noise were worse than usual.

But I whistled a happy tune. I walked down 5th Avenue on a cloud.

Bob, my boyfriend of a year, and the most senior real estate agent in the firm where I was an entry-level marketer, said he didn't want to wait to plan a big wedding. He wanted us to elope at the end of the month.

Promising me we'd be together in an expensive house with a pool was a little much. It was a lot, considering how hard I worked just to scrape by. Bob said I should pay the whole rent so he could save for a dream house for us.

It's hard paying the expensive rent by myself, but Bob is so adamant about buying us a fancy villa, I have to believe him.

Bob and his tales of our fantastic future quickly became my whole life. The least I could do was make him his favorite dinner.

Our boss, Andrea, has had me traveling a lot during the last six months. Bob has pushed for my long travel assignments too.

Now I know it's because he was thinking of our financial future.

Surely his encouraging Andrea to give me such challenges was a sign he wanted me to do well.

As I turned the corner, I saw the jewelry store window. "Oh, my God." My hands flew to the side of my face.

There they were, the most beautiful wedding rings I had ever seen. They were perfect, just like Bob and I.

I stared at the rings for a long time. I knew I had to have them. They were so beautiful; if I didn't get them now, someone else would.

"Don't, Doris," I said to myself. "It's the guy's job to buy the rings, and you need every penny you've got to pay for Noah's hospital expenses."

I put my hand on the glass. Sadness overwhelmed me for a second, just like it did every time I thought about my foster father's valiant heroism and resulting coma.

Noah couldn't come to our wedding, but he would be there in spirit.

I put my hand on the window. "No, Doris," I told myself firmly. I walked away, but the call of the rings sucked me right back.

The rings were so beautiful. They'd wipe out my entire savings, but it would be worth it.

I stepped into the fancy mirrored elevator in our building. The woman looking back at me is not the cute 26-year-old I expected. Instead, the tense woman I see is thin and serious.

"That can't be me," I whisper to myself. But it is.

My long brown hair was carefully coiled up. My pale face starkly contrasted the dark circles under my eyes. My usually sparkling hazel pupils looked dim.

I leaned forward and applied the dark Chanel lipstick Bob liked so much.

It just makes me look older, not more sophisticated. Not like a woman with rings in her pocket bursting with happiness.

Not at all.

Bob used to be so sweet and attentive, but lately, he's been distant. Something just doesn't feel right.

Maybe it's just my imagination, but I can't shake this feeling of unease.

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the elevator, determined to put my worries aside and surprise Bob with the beautiful rings I had just bought.

I walked toward our apartment, excited. I couldn't wait to see Bob's face when I showed him the rings.

As I opened the door to our apartment, the sounds of sexy moans assaulted my ears.

Was Bob watching porn?

No. As I stepped closer, my heart dropped. All the air left my lungs.

That sounds like Bob's grunts.

An icy chill gripped me.

Bob was having sex with Andrea, our boss.

No. It can't be.

But it is.

Andrea was twenty years older than Bob and thirty years older than me! My stomach turned as I saw lipstick smudged on Bob's neck. The same color. That bastard gifted Andrea the exact same lipstick!

I tear my eyes away from their naked bodies.

My legs felt like jelly. My hands shook so hard that I dropped the wedding ring boxes, and they popped open.

I bent to pick them up, but my skirt ripped.

Bob laughed, whether at my mortification, naiveté, or shabbiness, I don't know.

The words, "But you love me," get stuck in my throat.

Bob doesn't look guilty or remorseful. He looks proud of being next to a rich woman.

"This is a one-time thing, right?" I whispered, sounding broken and pathetic. "Because of your birthday?"

Andrea laughs. "This has been going on for six months. I'm pregnant."

I stood frozen, breaking.

"No, no, no," I cry.

Then I ran out of our apartment.

"Stupid, stupid," I scolded myself as I jammed the elevator button repeatedly.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face.

The darkening sky reflected how I felt – betrayed and numb. Bob ripped my heart out.

Fuck him.

I ran down the streets, barely looking where I was going. Finally, I stopped in front of one of the most trendy dance clubs in New York City.

It's a large, two-story building with a neon sign that flashes "The Strip" in bright red letters.

I wanted to let loose and have fun. I deserved to have fun for once. I'd been such a good girl, and where had it gotten me?

The inside of the club was dark and smoky, with a dance floor in the center, a stage on the left, and a bar along one wall. There were tables and chairs scattered around the room.

I leaned against one wall, having one drink after another.

It doesn't make me feel any better.

The lights flash over the stage. A bunch of male strippers sauntered on stage for a Magic-Mike-like performance.

The first group of strippers are all dressed like cowboys. They're good dancers. The songs are short.

In the next group, the guys are all dressed like firemen.

There's a male singer on the band stage by the bar, and he's not bad.

The next group of strippers are dressed like policemen. Their routine is funnier and raunchier. The audience loves it.

I take another drink. This was a good idea.

I ditch my jacket and open my shirt to reveal my black lace bra, which looks like a fancy bandeau.

The next group of guys dressed like naughty doctors.

A female singer replaces the male singer, and she's not as good.

When I drink, I lose my inhibitions, and I've drunk a lot. Those sexy doctors deserve better accompaniment.

I grabbed the microphone away from the singer, hopped up on the bar, and started to sing, rap, and shake my hips. I'm on fire.

The audience loved it. The stripper doctors looked thankful.

When their number was over, they sat down with several strippers from the previous songs.

"We'll be right back with our sexy businessman and angel/devil revue," an overhead speaker announced.

I jumped off the stage and walked up to the table of strippers dressed like businessmen.

The biggest, sexiest one, with the sad, dark gray-blue pupils, short golden-brown hair, and masculine chiseled jaw, has been staring at me since I started singing.

I open my shirt even more as I approach him and boldly put my hand on his chest.

He smells fantastic.

The beast inside me roars, roaring, craving something primal, something carnal.

"Bail on your stripper routine. Come back and have a one-night stand with me right now."

One of the other businessmen strippers gasped, but my guy gave him a stony look.

I fisted the handsome stripper's expensive-looking tie. "I need to forget. I'll give you five hundred dollars to come with me and make me forget everything."

He raised one eyebrow. It was a challenge and a promise.

He nodded.

"I'm Arthur," he said. His voice was husky, smokey, sensual.

"I'm Doris."

He took my hand and led me to a nearby hotel.

I knew I was in for a wild night. I didn't care. I was ready to let go and indulge in my desires.