I close my eyes in case what's really happening here is that I fell asleep on the sofa, and this is nothing but a bad dream. When I open them, I will be sitting elegantly, legs crossed at the knee, exuding competence and grace.

A hot, wet tongue laps at my ear; my nose wrinkles.

Um, excuse me?

Not wanting to catch an accidental glimpse out the windows, I steadfastly keep my eyes shut and bat away the offending tongue. I've never been much of an ear person. I prefer my hot, wet licking a bit further down, anatomically speaking.

I know I should probably clobber Mr. Shades for taking liberties with my ear. But what if it turns out that he just thinks I'm dead and is trying to revive me with an aural tongue lashing? I've never met a billionaire in person, so maybe this is typical behavior. Like whenever a young, ordinary-looking college student in her plain zip-up-the-back finals dress comes to your high-rise, falls off your couch on her hands and knees, and is catatonic for too long, you must lick her ear to bring her back.

Poor Mr. Shades! His breath smells foul. Does he even own a toothbrush? Better not mention this. Science shows us that interviewees are 75% less likely to be hired when disparaging the interviewer's breath.

The ear bath resumes, and I decide it's time to leave all this mortification behind. Somehow I will make it up to Clarissa. Take her out for dinner or train her to drink something less revolting than Earl Grey.

Here's the plan: I'll crawl toward the elevator. Since I'm already on my hands and knees, this shouldn't be too hard. I bet I can get there with my eyes closed the whole time. Maybe if I never set eyes on Mr. Shades, later on, when I'm alone in my room and negative thoughts start creeping into my brain, it will be easier to pretend it never happened.

"Bella, no!" Mr. Shades commands from somewhere not next to my ear. The licking ceases.

But what is super weird is that his commanding tone awakens something deep inside me. Something essential I didn't know existed till this moment.

The need to be controlled.

But who the hell is this bitch, Bella?

My eyes fly open. I suck in a breath as my eyes scan Mr. Shades's hot bod—from his long, thick, beautiful feet to his long, thick, auburn hair. My heart thrashes inside my chest. He can't be over thirty. Because it would just be gross if I was attracted to an old dude. His gaze pierces my soul. He has the most beautiful golden eyes I've ever seen. I mean I've never seen golden eyes because are those even real? But if I ever had come across golden eyes before, his would be the most beautiful.

But why am I waxing poetic about his eyes, when holy crap! His chest! He's nude from the waist up and possesses more hard ab muscles than I've seen in any anatomy textbook. I'm a little confused about why he's doing an interview half-naked, but since he can really pull off the look, I'll let it go.

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear while surreptitiously wiping my ear dry with the heel of my palm. Then Mr. Shades holds out his very large hand to help me up. My, his fingers are long. I cannot help thinking about what they would feel like trailing down my neck, between my breasts, and ending up at my nub where they will tease me into an orgasm so powerful, the windows in the apartment will shatter into a million pieces.

Obviously, in my fantasy, we will be nowhere near the windows when this happens.

When I grasp his warm hand, shivers run through me. Even though now I'm upright, he still towers over me. We're so close our chests are nearly touching. My body drifts toward him as if gravity is pulling us together. Or magnetic energy? Honestly, I don't know which force is correct because I'm a biology major, not physics.

We're so close, his musky scent captivates me. He smells like long walks on the beach under a full moon. If I could bottle Eau de Crispin and sell it, maybe through a cute Etsy store, I would be a billionaire and wouldn't have to be here begging for a minimum wage job.

Now I'm licking my lips. I can barely speak, but finally manage to utter a few words, "who the fuck is Bella?" Wait, that didn't come out correctly. Get your act together, Anesthesia!  "Sorry, I meant to say, hello, my name is Anesthesia Jones, I'm not at all strange, and I am here for the interview."

He grins, takes a step back, and shakes my hand. More shivers ensue. His grip is so powerful, and did I mention the long fingers?

Why do I keep mentioning finger length?

"Bella, come say hello."

A magnificent chocolate-brown standard poodle bounds in from another room. Before she can topple me, Mr. Shades holds up his long-fingered hand and commands, "sit!"

I sit.

So does Bella.

Both of us on the floor.

"Oh, you were talking to the dog," I say aloud, a little disappointed. Should've probably kept that to myself. To cover my gaffe, I clear my throat. "What a beautiful dog. Hello, Bella," I croon. Bella stands and comes toward me. I pet her luxurious fur.

Mr. Shades raises an eyebrow. "She likes you. Normally she doesn't take to strangers this quickly."

I had just informed him that I wasn't strange, but I suppose I will have to prove this through deed and not oral argument. "I'm studying to be a vet," I say, simply.

"What happened to Clarissa? The aspiring architect. I thought I was to be interviewing her."

"She's indisposed," I reply. I could've said something simpler and more normal like "she has a cold," but I like showing off my vast vocabulary whenever possible. It makes me seem like I have other things going on in my life besides just chasing after hot billionaires. Also, it counteracts my clumsiness, so people don't think I'm too much of a loser. "I hope that's okay, Mr. Shades."

"It's more than fine. Who better to watch my beloved Bella than someone who is dedicating her life to the care and well-being of dogs?"

"And cats. Parrots. Hamsters. Bunnies. Reptiles. I am multi-genus."

"I see. Shall we sit? Er, on the furniture this time?" He motions to the sofa.

I glance over at the windows and gulp. The floor seems safer. "I'm fine here, sir."

"If you're not comfortable, we can continue our discussion elsewhere," he drawls, helping me up once again.

My head is spinning, and my heart is racing like a stampede of bison. I would faint right now, but the guy would probably begin to wonder about my ability to stay vertical. "Please." Parts of me throb in anticipation. Low down parts.

(Don't make me be too specific. It's too soon for explicit language. We have to take it slow, like a throbbing member easing into the mossy cleft of a virgin.)

He nods, then looks down. "Come."

"Yes, sir, I say with gusto. He arches that brow again. "Oh, you meant the dog again. Sorry."

He laughs, low and throaty. "You do amuse."

The poodle and I follow Mr. Shades at his heel. "Your dog is well trained," I remark.

He pauses and looks at me with those gorgeous golden eyes, a faint smirk pulling at the edges of his luscious, kissable mouth. My mouth waters. "You have no idea. Would you like to see my training room?"

"Oh, yes," I manage to say without drooling. "Please," I beg. Why do I keep begging?' I'm practically panting. No wait, that's the dog. "Does this mean I'm hired?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Jones. "You start tonight." 

***

I had even more fun writing this chapter than the last. So much that I should be ashamed. Writing is not fun! It's opening a vein and bleeding on the page. If you had fun too, make sure to vote and comment. 

Don't worry, eventually, I'll have you all trained to give me all the author treats!

Woof!

If you haven't voted yet, here is a picture of my dog, Rocket as a bribe:

He's a very good boy.

***

Dedicating this chapter to Carolyn_Hill because her comments are such a treat. She doesn't even make me beg!