The Brute Read online

  The Brute

  Tarrah Anders

  COPYRIGHT © 2018– TARRAH ANDERS

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Tarrah Anders | Tarrah Anders, LLC

  [email protected] |www.tarrahanders.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Formatting: Tarrah Anders, LLC

  Cover: BexHarper Designs

  Editing, Badassery and Shit: Laura Hull, Red Pen Princess & Indies Ink

  Ordering Information:

  THE BRUTE | Tarrah Anders.

  EBOOK ISBN 978-0-9994426-7-8

  PAPERBACK ISBN-13:978-0999442685

  ISBN-10:0999442686

  Contents

  1. Benjamin

  2. Benjamin

  3. Benjamin

  4. Benjamin

  5. Bella

  6. Benjamin

  7. Benjamin

  8. Bella

  9. Benjamin

  10. Benjamin

  11. Benjamin

  12. Bella

  13. Benjamin

  14. Benjamin

  15. Bella

  16. Benjamin

  17. Benjamin

  18. Benjamin

  19. Bella

  20. Benjamin

  21. Bella

  22. Benjamin

  23. Bella

  24. Benjamin

  Epilogue

  A Note to You

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tarrah Anders

  About the Author

  “Fairy tales are never happy, sweet stories. They're moral stories about overcoming the dark side and the bad.”

  -- Joe Wright

  (Source)

  For Maren & Jess.

  I love you ladies!

  Chapter One

  Benjamin

  This is the first time that my assistant is being hired without my approval in who will take the position. I chose not to take part in the interview process for my new assistant. It wasn't like the next person would stay longer than the previous one did. So, rather than doing the interview, I assigned someone else who actually gave a fuck, even though the position directly reports to me and supports me. That's not to say I don't care about who works for me; I just don’t feel the need to be a part of that process.

  I don’t have time to meet with candidates who will be not worth my time. It’s Human Resources’ place to judge character, experience, and skill. After all, it’s their job to find the humans I need for my resources.

  I run this place. That’s my job.

  I pay someone to do the other shit for me.

  I'm halfway through my breakfast and scrolling through some reports that I left on my desk to look over this morning, when the door of my office opens abruptly. The middle-aged woman, head of Human Resources and deposits herself directly in front of my desk with her hands on her hips. Her annoyance is evident in her eyes as I look up at her from the report and my breakfast in front of me. She squares her shoulders, her features looking like she is ready to lecture me and her stance is wide.

  Maggie, a woman that I've known since I was a young boy storms in stares me down and clears her throat.

  “Ben,” she says sternly.

  I finger the utensil in my hand and take another forkful of my omelet.

  “I would like to introduce to you, your new assistant, Isabella Dubois.” Maggie steps aside and reveals the woman I was unaware that was behind her.

  I catch a glance at the heavenly sight of her. Rather than allow the strange, ancient feelings simmering in my body to be reflected in my countenance, I feign annoyance.

  She has long, chestnut hair, with the ends curled. Almond-shaped eyes over high cheekbones. Shapely lips covered in crimson, the bottom lip a bit plumper than the top. A small, pert nose with a rounded end. Her waist is thin, and her bust is... well, her bust is more than a handful. She’s dressed professionally in a white dress shirt and a black pencil skirt. The only bit of color is her turquoise heels, which I'm sure would look great perched on my shoulders as I pound into her while she’s laid back on my desk.

  I shake my head and rid myself of those thoughts, then return to my breakfast.

  I don't need to appraise her on getting the job. Hell, who knows if she will last? I've already gone through five assistants this quarter alone.

  What says she'll even survive the week?

  “Hello, Mr. Adams.” The woman clears her throat and speaks confidently as she strides into my office. She stands in front of my desk, leans over, and holds her hand out boldly.

  I look at her hand, but don’t take it. She holds it out a moment longer. When she realizes I’m not going to shake her hand, she slowly pulls it back and resumes her ramrod straight posture, then looks at Maggie with uncertainty.

  “Ben.” Maggie's warning voice comes out.

  I look up.

  “Welcome to the company,” I say with annoyance then go right back to my breakfast and morning reading.

  “Isabella has excellent references and experience in handling a... well, a busy environment. I have a feeling that she will succeed and have a lasting term here at Adams Enterprises. I am confident she will excel here.”

  She wanted to say that this new girl has experience dealing with assholes, because that's what I am.

  An asshole.

  Everyone knows it; no one pretends otherwise. I don’t give a flying fuck about how everyone feels about me. Their feelings don’t keep Adams Enterprises at the top of its industry. I own this company now and I can fire any of the fools who work here whenever I want.

  Except Maggie, she can put me in my place with just a look. When I was younger, and my father was CEO, she worked here in the same position. When I was a kid, she would let me sit in her office and was often a better adult figure than my actual parents were. She's known me almost my entire life. She knew me... before.

  This company began as a small family business and my father built it into a titan among its peers. When my parents passed, I was the only heir to the family fortune, including Adams Enterprises. At that point in time, the company had just emerged as a global leader in the tech world. Those who worked under my father remember me as the nice kid who would come and visit his father during school breaks. However, once I took over, they were surprised when I wasn’t that person anymore. Loss changes a person. The amount of loss I've experienced made me a different person all together.

  Maggie clears her throat and I look at her. Her hands are on her hips again and she tilts her head in the direction of the lovely creature in front of me.

  I connect eyes with my new assistant and give her a somewhat genuine smile.

  “Glad to have you aboard, Isabella.”

  Chapter Two

  Benjamin

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  I look at the schedule Isabella placed on my desk and groan. I lean back in my chair and unbutton the top of my collar and loosen my tie.

  I don’t want to do anything today except sit in my office and read the
mystery novel that popped up on my eReader this morning. It’s the latest from a favorite author so I preordered it last month. Yes, I would rather read than meet with any of the simpletons in this goddamn city. Regardless of the amount of pressure that I put myself on with work, I still do my best to find time to read every now and then. It keeps my brain fresh and my tongue sharp.

  I have no desire to sit in a room with anyone and have a pissing contest over what the fuck ever they want to talk about. Unfortunately, keep my Fortune 500 company in the top 100, I have to put on a smile and shake hands with the elite of this business world.

  “Bella!” I bellow into the empty space of my office.

  I can hear the click-clack of her heels as she hurries across the space from her office to mine. She taps on the frame and opens the door, then her lithe body slips inside. She confidently walks across my space and comes to stand in front of my desk.

  She’s beautiful.

  Since she started working for me a few weeks ago, I’ve noticed other things about her, such as the bright blue color of her eyes that closely resembles Caribbean waters, a smattering of light freckles across her nose, and the small tattoo that lines her wrist under her watch or the bracelets that she wears. I’ve also catalogued some of her subtle mannerisms such as she purses her lips when she’s holding back something she wants to say, or she fiddles with her jewelry when she’s concentrating. I can pick up her moods by how her rosy lips situate during her different moods. I am able to differentiate when she’s happy, annoyed or biting her tongue in wanting to chastise me. Today, she is wearing a fitted black skirt and a tailored to perfectly fit her shapely breasts sapphire blue blouse. Her shoes, I notice are the same blue as well, matching. It’s something she does often: match her shoes and her tops.

  “Yes sir?” Her voice is calm, hiding her nerves.

  I rattle off a list of things I need from her before any of the meetings this afternoon takes place. Then I instruct her to attend the meetings with me, take notes throughout, and make sure my driver knows what I need this evening after my workout since I have a dinner with Mrs. Anthony afterwards. She takes meticulous notes on the notepad that the brings with her to all of our meetings. She then turns briskly to begin her tasks once it's clear I am finished.

  My desk phone chirps, interrupting my not so professional thoughts about my assistant when Bella’s soft voice alerts me that the director of purchasing is waiting inside the conference room for my first meeting.

  “I'll be there in a minute. Please make sure to send a message to Mrs. Anthony and remind her of our standing reservations this evening.”

  I laugh to myself. She must think that Mrs. Anthony is my ‘Mrs. Robinson’, but the truth about her couldn't be more different. I've had a standing dinner with Mrs. Anthony, my late fiancée’s mother, once a month for the past ten years. I'm not sure why we still have them anymore since we never talk about her. I shake the thoughts out of my head. Why do I care?

  A few minutes later, Bella enters the conference room across from my office and shows our colleagues to the medium-sized conference table. I stand and button my jacket before walking over from my office and taking my seat at the head of the table. All eyes are on me as I arrange my notepad and the reports that Bella printed off for the meeting. Bella sits opposite of me at the other end of the table, pen in hand and her attention forward as she waits for me to begin.

  I nod my head at her, indicating go-time, and I dig into the company’s spending and office budgets.

  An hour later, everyone leaves the conference room more solemn than they entered, as I cut purchasing spending for the remainder of the year. Bella hangs back and waits until the door clicks closed before she speaks up.

  “If you don't mind me saying, sir…” she starts.

  “I don't mind,” I say to her honestly. In that moment, I realize I don't when she gives it to me straight. This isn't the first time she has voiced her opinion and it certainly isn't the first time I've listened to her with interest. She has a mind for business, which I admire, and I appreciate her thoughts. It’s a bit strange though, since I don't allow anyone else to speak to me the way she does.

  What is it about her?

  “You know, you could move funds around in a lesser department and not cut the purchasing department’s budget. They operate at a fuller capacity than some other departments because they supplement everybody.” She bends over the table to retrieve scattered papers and pens from the conference room table, alerting my eyes to the movement and opening of her blouse. I can definitely see down her shirt, showcasing her breasts wrapped in black lace. I'm not completely dead. I notice these things.

  “I could have, but I didn’t,” I say roughly as I stand, gather my materials, and cross the room to return to my office.

  “Ben, you don’t always have to be a complete asshole to everyone.”

  “I meant what I said. The budget is cut for the remainder of the year. I don’t want my family’s company, my legacy, to fall into the red, ever. We need to spend more wisely. I want a profit increase in each department with a budget and if I have to cut more line items within certain budgets, then I will. I would love it, if you didn’t always have to contradict my decisions.” The annoyance in my tone is clear.

  “You asked me to be always honest with you—,” she starts, but I cut her off with a look that says not to cross me.

  “Isabella, I would like for you to call Forest Deli and order sandwiches for the lunchtime meeting.” I only use her full name to indicate I’m done talking, which she has come to understand in our short time together.

  After my last meeting of the day, I head straight to the gym. I wrap my hands in tape and step up to the punching bag. Raising my hands into a fighting stance, I toss a few single punches to the bag. I throw a left hook and then step back to switch my stance and do a right roundhouse kick. After twenty minutes of repetitive combinations of punches and kicks, adding in a few more here and there, I’m drenched in sweat. I finish off my workout by jumping on the treadmill and jogging three miles before I towel off and head to the locker room to shower and head to dinner.

  Dinner is as it usually is: filled with pleasantries and superficial conversation. Why I continue with these dinners after all these years, I'm not sure. It's not like I was ever really married into the family. It started as a request of Mrs. Anthony after her daughter died. She’d wanted to remain in contact and, at the time, I couldn't tell a grieving mother no. I also couldn’t tell her the truth about her daughter. Or the truth that our relationship, our engagement, was crumbling.

  The concierge greets me as I approach the elevator to head up to my penthouse. I nod my greeting to him, retreat inside the lift, and wave my access keycard in front of the panel. I watch the floor numbers increase the higher I rise until I finally reach the top floor. My floor.

  I walk into my home and breathe deeply for what feels like the first time today. Sure, I’ve been breathing all day. The average number of breaths a person takes in a day is roughly 23,040. However, I know there are many instances throughout the day when I held my breath. Whether it was on purpose or just a random moment, or whether it was simply because I was around Bella, I'm not entirely sure. But now I feel like I can finally relax and breathe freely.

  I approach the bar in the living room and pour myself a glass of Jameson, a taste that I developed for when I was in college and continued into my adulthood. Never wanting to sip on hundred-dollar liquor to show my wealth as I sit in the middle of my couch. The lights are still off, but the moonlight and city lights provide enough glow in the main room to not need a light. I settle into the comfortable sofa, stretch my feet onto the ottoman, and take a light sip. The subtle vanilla flavor hits my tongue, followed by a burst of citrus. Then I swallow, sending a nice burn down my throat. I breathe out and relish in the warmth flowing through my body.

  This.

  This is what I’ve needed all day. Two, maybe three, fingers of Jameson while I kick m
y feet up and not think about a fucking thing. Well, not a fucking thing except Bella.

  I shouldn’t think of her, and I’m pretty fucking sure she doesn’t think of me. Why would she? I’m a bonafide asshole. She probably goes home after work and thinks about anything but me.

  But I definitely think of her. How soft her skin must be, how her hair smells, and especially how delectable she would taste. I wonder what sounds would emanate from her throat as I touch her.

  I swallow some more of the amber liquid and relish the warmth again as I lean my head back against the couch.

  I close my eyes and groan.

  I’m fucking horny.

  It’s been a number of years since I’ve fucked anyone. And the fact that I’m thinking intimately about my new assistant isn’t helping. She works for me, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting her. Since it's been years that I've had this desire, I don't want to completely ignore it even though I know one hundred percent that I should. But she gets me. She gets through to me. She's not afraid of me. And yet, I'm completely afraid of her.

  I imagine that her skin would be silky and smooth, that her breasts would fit perfectly in my hand, and that her heartbeat would quicken as my hand trails from her knee up to her apex. Her mouth would open slightly as my fingers dance across the edge of her panties and then she would moan softly when I breach her entrance and fuck her with my fingers.