Curve Lullaby (A BBW Billionaire Wicked Short) by Christa Wick

Curve Lullaby
     
    If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, 
Let her lie still and dream. 
     
    Cloten, from William Shakespeare's Cymbeline  
     
    With my cellphone caged between my ear and shoulder, I jabbed at the keyboard of my boss Cole Mason as I searched his computer for the preliminary report on the South Bend redevelopment project. Not helping my concentration, Cole nattered in my ear about the Chicago conference he had just attended as a keynote speaker. His words blended with those I typed, his deep rumbling baritone like a warm hand against the back of my neck.
    He'd been out of the office for three days and I missed him like hell. My ears missed him, my eyes missed him, my nose missed him. Only faint traces of his scent remained in the room, just a teasing hint of citrus and vanilla that clung to his leather office chair from the long hours he spent in it.
    I turned into the chair and quietly inhaled like a junkie sniffing a line of coke. I expelled the air in a question. "Are you sure you downloaded the file? What did you name it?"
    "Something South Bendy."
    The engines on the jet muted his laugh, but I felt the same familiar heat spark deep in my gut as if his lips were against my ear. He did that sometimes, his lips against my ear, a conspiratorial whisper dripping from his honeyed tongue. He forgets who he is, who I am, makes me forget. Billionaires aren't supposed to whisper in the ear of their plump Girl Friday, especially when the billionaire in question has the face and body of a very, very dirty angel.
    "South Bendy," I repeated as I typed SB in a last ditch attempt to locate the file. A folder popped up in the search results. "Eureka!"
    I double clicked on the folder’s icon. A password request appeared.
    “It’s locked.” I mumbled the words, surprised that the file was protected.
    “Must have done that by accident,” he laughed then fired off a string of numbers I partially recognized.
    “You’re not supposed to have your birthday as part of a password,” I scolded, my mind trying to make sense of the remaining numbers. They seemed random, the smallest numbers listed first and progressing in order.
    “You can spank me later.” His voice dropped low, its weight settling deep inside my belly.
    Damn him for not knowing the effect he had on me when he spoke in that tone. Bad enough he could melt my panties in an instant when he sounded raspy, but he had to mention spanking, as well.
    My ass wiggled in his expensive leather chair as I thought of a retort. Nothing came to mind other than the image of his hand landing roughly on my extra-wide and very bare bottom. I wiggled again and bit at my bottom lip as my eyes and legs squeezed tightly together. I blew a bit of hot air at the receiver.
    Cole chuckled. “Why do I have the feeling you’re plotting something evil, dear Starla? You won’t have Ben there to carry out the task, will you?”
    “Um, no.” All the heat left my lower body at the idea of Ben Fielding, our should-have-retired-a-decade-ago security guard, spanking anyone’s bottom. Old Ben was round like me, but with wrinkles, white hair and a rather outrageously long beard. “Security Santa would never put you on his naughty list, anyway. He knows you’re goody-goody through and through.”
    Another chuckle rumbled over the phone. “Plane just started to taxi. I’ll have to disillusion you on how good I am another time, sweetling. See you when I get back.”
    With that, he was gone.
    I sat there a few minutes, eyes glazed over in thought. My two-year anniversary as Cole’s assistant had passed a few weeks before. In all the time I had worked for him, he’d never given me the slightest reason to think he wasn’t a great guy. Certainly, he could be stern. That usually happened with vendors who thought they could swap quality materials they’d listed in a bid with cheap ones just because it was a charity project. They didn’t expect Cole to show up on site,