Made in America by Jamie Deschain Read Free Book Online

barricade myself in my room. Sitting at my desk, I let a deep, calming breath escape my lungs before popping open my ancient Acer laptop. Firing up Chrome, I hit Google and type in: Grant Huffman.
    Article after article flashes by before I head on over to the Images tab, and before long, I’m loosing myself in those damn, hooded eyes of his.
    In one image in particular from GQ Magazine, he’s standing before the camera with his hands in his pockets, lips slightly parted, and his gelled hair looking somewhat disheveled. His white dress shirt is rolled up his forearms, and he’s dressed in a pair of black slacks, black suspenders, and black tie. He looks absolutely ravishing in that image, so I right-click and save it to my desktop, continuing to stare dreamily at it, imaging those eyes looking back at me while his cock works its way deep inside.
    Before I know it, I’m sitting with my legs spread, skirt hiked up around my hips, and my panties pulled to the side for easy access to my pussy, while my fingers work overtime to bring to me to orgasm. It doesn’t take long, and when I’m done I can’t help but feel a little ashamed for doing what I just did.
    Mostly because I know that when I’m around him, I’m not so sure I’m going to be able to stick to my no fucking rule.
    Not after knowing what he wants to do to my tits.
    “God,” I groan. “What have I gotten myself in to?”
     

- 6 -
     
    Grant
     
    I’ve never jerked off as much in my life as I did this weekend. After hearing what Raven said to me right before she left on Friday, it sent my mind into a tailspin. Forget about work. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday unsuccessfully trying to get it out of my head so that come this morning, I wouldn’t be thinking about fucking her tits so much.
    I’m still thinking about it, of course, but if I want this to be a successful partnership and continue to keep Raven around, I have to reel those thoughts in or else I won’t be able to contain myself.
    7:35 am. I told her to be here a little before eight, so we’ll see how that goes. She doesn’t seem like the type who’d be late to a job, but I’ve been surprised by lesser things than punctuality.
    Standing, I face my window overlooking New York. I love this city. I’ve been to the West Coast countless times on business—even have a house in Malibu—but as far as I’m concerned I could never make that residence permanent. People in Los Angeles, they’re too fake. New Yorkers give it to you straight. Not counting for the people in my company who always tell me what I want to hear. I’m talking about the common man. They’ll tell you exactly what’s on their mind, and never bat an eyelash giving it a second thought.
    People like Raven, even though she’s not American. Hell, her being British probably makes her more honest than most.
    She’s going to be good for my business. I just hope I’m ready for the type of attitude she’s going to bring to the job, because something tells me it’s going to be filled with piss and vinegar.
    A knock on my office door makes me spin, and I know it’s her. I’m anxious to see what she’s wearing to her first day on the job.
    “Come in.”
    The door swings open and in walks Raven, wearing exactly the same thing she was wearing on Friday. Cream colored blouse, black pencil skirt, and pumps.
    “Hey, boss,” she beams.
    “Good morning,” I croak.
    Her smiling face falters for a moment and she stands there, looking at me looking at her. She dips her chin and admires the outfit along with me, then she crinkles her face and asks, “What?”
    “I’ve already seen you in that. Don’t you have anything else to wear?”
    Raven rolls her eyes and brazenly takes a seat at my desk. “Of course not. I told you I’d never worked in an office before.”
    “You couldn’t go shopping?”
    “With what money?” she scoffs. “Until my first paycheck from here, I’m fresh out of funds, dude.”
    “Dude?” I walk