Strawberry Kisses Phavy Prieto (bookstand for reading TXT) 📖

Great! That's not much use to me.

"Well, I had to try," I whispered. "Thank you very much for the information, Ingrid."

"Do you want me to find out more about her?" she asked as she was about to turn her back.

"How?" I couldn’t avoid asking her.

"If you ask me about Mrs. Devoir, it must be because you want some kind of information. I can try. What she likes, what places she usually goes to, what her favourite dishes are, if she participates in some charity and the kind of things that women of her status generally do."

I had to admit that the idea of knowing about the world in which that woman moved in order to be able to enter into her graces was not entirely senseless.

"To be honest, I'd really be grateful to you, Ingrid," I admitted nonchalantly.

"I guess this is strictly personal and confidential, right?"

I wondered if, considering the short time I had known Ingrid – four days to be precise – I could put my trust in her so that no one in the company would find out about my interest in the private life of Damian's mother. I concluded that I had nothing to lose: in the end the whole company would learn about the mess Damian himself had got me into.

"Yes, this is personal," I admitted. "Let's say that Mr. Devoir and I have a... a..."

"You don't need to give me any further details, Miss Acosta. I noticed the interest that Mr. Devoir shows in you. Don't you worry, no one will ever know about your request."

I didn't know if such professionalism was a good sign. Gaining my trust in order to get recommendations in future by someone holding this position was probably her intention.

"OK, you can go now. I don't want to detain you any longer otherwise you will be late for your appointment with the doctor", I replied with a faint smile, and my young secretary left my office with a nod.

Yes, I definitely liked my new secretary, although I also missed my previous intern.

Exactly an hour later Damian was leaning against the door jamb of my office in one of his seductive poses while carefully observing every corner of the room, as if his interest was more focused on those details than on me behind the desk.

"Aren't you going to change anything about the decor?" he asked stepping forward.

"Why? I don't even know how long I'm going to stay in this office," I replied with a shrug. The truth was that I didn't usually pay attention to such things, probably due to my pragmatism.

"I don't know a single woman who doesn't change her office as soon as she arrives. They usually put flowers everywhere, photos of their children, if they have any, or of their cat, and some paintings. You didn't even put a photo of me instead."

"Are you a cat?" I asked biting my tongue so as not to laugh and not to meet his gaze otherwise my eyes would surely betray me.

"You are the cat here. I still have the marks of your fingernails on my back," he whimpered as he approached the desk.

"Oh, no! Not here!" I moaned, squeezing my legs together as if that could avoid my panties from getting wet.

Why lie? My panties were already wet since Damian has been leaning on the door jamb.

"It must have happened because you didn't behave, Mr. Devoir," I said accusingly to defend myself.

"I should misbehave more often so that you can mark my skin with your fingernails again, Miss Acosta."

His body was so close, his smell so good that I felt intoxicated. When I sighed excitedly, longing for that mouth that was brushing my lips crying out for a kiss, Damian moved away with a cough as if he wanted to regain composure.

"I think we'd be better get out of this building quickly," he said standing up straight. That suit fit him terribly well.

"At your place?" I asked with a clear intention, even though he had already proposed it in the cafeteria.

"At my place," he confirmed with that dark look.

I followed him by car to his house. I didn't have the faintest idea of where he lived, but I envisioned a huge house just outside Madrid, in an area similar to La Moraleja, one of those typical houses of the rich that appeared on design magazines and with luxury furniture imported from Turkistan. We didn't leave the city but headed downtown towards the most expensive area of the capital. I wondered how I couldn't think of it earlier. Indeed, the posh boy had to live in an exclusive neighborhood for the rich.

Not even in my wildest and most perverted dreams had I ever thought that I would have gone to sleep with someone who could afford the luxury of living in the heart of Calle Serrano in Madrid. It would probably be the first and last time I would enter a building like that. Not only had the boy two parking spaces, almost impossible to find in an area where each square meter cost something like my annual salary, but also an amazing penthouse overlooking the whole city, with a view more impressive than the one I remembered I enjoyed as a child from a Ferris wheel.

If he wanted to impress me by taking me to his house, he succeeded perfectly.

"Do you like it?" he asked after a prolonged silence during which I was mesmerized by the view that I could admire from his living room. The entire apartment was furnished with impeccable taste in earth tones color palette.

The kitchen occupied an open space with a massive central island and a metal extractor hood that was hanging from the ceiling. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a large metal bookcase