Beneath the Boss: Omnibus (The Complete Collection)

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Lydia Rowan

Book One

Book Two

Book Three

Also By Lydia Rowan

T
he insistent beep of her phone pulled her out of her reverie. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. 1:46 a.m. She knew who it’d be.

“I could have been sleeping,” Layla Grayson said by way of greeting.

“But you weren’t, were you?” her employer Leighton Means responded.

“Good morning, Leighton. Have you been arrested? Do you need me to rush you to the hospital? I can’t imagine why else you’d be calling at this hour.” Layla knew her gentle barbs were of no consequence. Leighton called whenever he pleased and had never, ever, given her subtle, or not so subtle, hints about boundaries and propriety even a passing concern.

Leighton’s voice dropped an octave from its already deep timbre. “Pity your imagination is so limited. We have a ten o’clock with Smythe. I need your report by eight.”

He hung up without saying good-bye.

Layla lay flat on her back staring at the slow-rotating ceiling fan. It was late spring, and she appreciated the cool breeze during the balmy Dallas night. She’d been wired up, too amped to sleep, but still hoping for a few moments’ rest. Now that
he’d
called, she knew those hopes were futile.

Layla sighed and climbed out of bed. Another all-nighter wouldn’t hurt.

After she pulled on a pair of cotton lounge pants, she headed downstairs to her home office. As her computer booted up, she thought about Leighton.

Leighton Means. Billionaire corporate-finance maven. He’d taken over his father’s fledging financial-services company fresh out business school, and in twelve years, using a combination of grit, intelligence, and sheer ruthlessness, had managed to turn it into one of the most profitable firms in the country. Leighton was notorious for his business prowess, and his reputation with ladies wasn’t far behind. When he wasn’t crushing the competition, Leighton cavorted with supermodels and socialites from Dallas’s finest families.

Layla was one of the few who got to see the man behind the headlines, and the reality of Leighton every bit of his reputation and more. His business acumen was unparalleled, but combined with his charm and looks, he was unstoppable. A fact that she, officially senior financial analyst for Means Financial, and unofficially Leighton’s girl Friday, was too keenly aware of. She couldn’t really trace it, but somehow, over the past five or so years, Leighton had pulled her closer and deeper, and before she’d known what was happening, she’d found herself at his beck and call, almost fully subsumed in his universe. What else could explain why she was sitting at her computer at two in the morning?

True, there were perks. Leighton compensated her generously, her salary affording her, for the first time in her life, a degree of financial independence that wouldn’t likely have been attainable otherwise. Sure, she still drove a Civic—she loved that car—but she had a beautiful home in a safe neighborhood, didn’t want for anything, really.

But lately, she’d felt restless, dissatisfied. Lonely. She had a good group of friends that she didn’t see nearly enough, and she didn’t even want to think about the sorry state of her love life. She tried to chalk it up to any number of things. She was a big girl, much larger than acceptable to most, and she had a weakness for sarcasm that, especially coming from an African American woman of her physical stature, some people found off-putting. She was no nagging shrew, but she certainly didn’t hold her tongue. She’d mostly accepted her size and personality, telling herself that if a man couldn’t handle her outside of bed, he’d probably disappoint in, so why waste the time.

These were all excuses.

Her current solitary state was solely attributable to one thing. Leighton. As he’d sucker her deeper and deeper into his world, she’d started to neglect her own, and only recently had she realized that while Leighton went out and did whatever—and whoever—billionaire’s did in their spare time, she was alone. And while she occasionally hoped it was worth it, that he, on some level, valued her, that little voice inside her head always reinforced what she already knew: She was totally dispensable to Leighton, only as useful as the work she did. And yet, she stayed, ever faithful.

Pathetic really. There was no denying that, but in truth, despite the stress and agitation, how insignificant she was to him, Layla knew she owed Leighton everything. And if she had to sacrifice sleep, friends, hell, even love and sex to repay him, well, that was what she’d do.

L
ayla stepped into his office at seven fifty the next morning, there even before Leighton’s secretary Dawn arrived. At some point over the years, they’d dispensed with the formality of knocking. Most formalities, actually.

“You here, Leighton?”

“Damn it, Layla, come help me with this thing!” he yelled through the intercom.

Layla laughed. He was losing the war with his tie again, no doubt. She always found herself helping Leighton with these little details, but there was no need to seem eager, so she took her time walking across his spacious office. A solid wall of floor-to-ceiling windows provided an expansive view of Dallas, the cars on the street below looking tiny from this height, and the opposite wall featured a flat-screen television and video-conferencing setup. The space also featured two matching black-and-chrome love seats set on the garish white carpet that covered the entire office. She hadn’t been shy about expressing her dislike of both the impracticality and hideousness of the floor covering, but as Leighton had helpfully reminded her, she was a financial analyst, not a decorator or custodian. Still, she smiled whenever she saw it. It was so at odds with Leighton’s taste.

The one item in the office that was not was the massive oak desk in front of the windows. It had belonged to Leighton’s father, and his grandfather before that, but to Layla’s mind, it had been made for him, the perfect physical representation of Leighton’s commanding presence. That desk was his throne, and from behind it, he ruled his kingdom, issuing proclamations with full expectation that they be obeyed.

Even though she knew Leighton better than most, she was not immune his power, and in particular, his power as magnified by that desk. She was loath to admit it, but more times that she could count, and with distressingly increasing frequency, she’d imagined her and Leighton on that desk. Her draped across it, naked ass in the air, cheeks red and stinging from Leighton’s smacks and her pussy throbbing with need as she begged him to fuck her, something he would always deny. Her underneath sucking his cock as he stroked her hair and calmly conducted a meeting. Layla shivered, knowing it was best not to give in to that train of thought. So she ignored the tightening of her nipples and the moisture gathering in her folds and headed to Leighton’s private quarters.

He kept a condo in the city and a larger estate about an hour outside of it, but as far as Layla could tell, he spent most of his time in his office’s upstairs living space. It was a full private floor that boasted all of the comforts of home, including a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and gym. It was tasteful, and expensive, but there was an ease, a comfort to the space that suggested a side of Leighton most others didn’t get to see. Layla tried to avoid coming up here. She was indebted to the man, respected him immensely, and on those rare occasions that he wasn’t being a domineering asshole, kind of liked him.

And she wanted to fuck him. That would never—could never—happen, but she wanted it all the same, and seeing him here made him almost real, not attainable exactly, she had a better chance of one day fitting into a single-digit dress size, which was so not happening, but just close enough that she could hope. And hope would inevitably lead to her being crushed. So she tried to keep her distance, not that Leighton seemed to care.

Layla walked through the living area and into his bedroom and to his en suite bathroom, where she found him fiddling with his tie.

“I’ve told you not to curse at me. Move, let me do it. What would the paparazzi say if they knew the great Leighton Means couldn’t tie a tie?” She chuckled.

“Not now, Layla. Do you have the report?”

“I e-mailed it, and a hard copy is on your desk. Why are you involved anyway? Smythe has a small operation, something a junior executive could handle easily.”

He leveled his gray-eyed gaze at her, the ice in his look intense enough to burn. She’d never admit it out loud, but even after all these years, those intense looks of Leighton’s still occasionally made her suppress a shiver. She couldn’t resist the impulse to look away.

“I’m the owner of this company, and the projects I chose to take a personal interest in are my concern.”

Her gaze snapped back to his. “Of course, Mr. Means,” she said in chilly tone. She was no billionaire, but Layla would only take so much.

After a moment, the ice thawed a bit, and she said, “How does this look?”

He studded his reflection. “Excellent as always.”

She took a moment to stare and was again struck by the power that rolled off him. Leighton wasn’t handsome. His features were too raw for so delicate a word. Hawkish nose, slashing, black eyebrows set above those startling gray eyes, firm lips and proud chin. His hair was a shock of rich, thick, shiny black curls. She’d heard Leighton grumble about his unruly curls, shorn short in a last-ditch attempt at management, but to no avail. They still sprang free, a stark contrast with Leighton’s impeccably controlled exterior. She’d imagined running her fingers through those curls, gripping them as he she cradled his head between her thighs while he tongue fucked her to orgasm.

She looked lower still, to the impressive expansive of his broad shoulders, the bulk of his chest, his powerful thighs. She stopped at his large hands, hands that she’d expected to be soft and smooth, but which were the rough and calloused and now starred in her fantasies, her mind trying to conjure the sensation of those hands on her skin, grazing her nipples, moving down her stomach, moving lower still...

Layla looked back into the mirror, where Leighton tried, in vain, to smooth his hair. Tailored suit notwithstanding, Leighton was a powerful physical creature, and Layla, no dainty miss herself, couldn’t help but be in awe.

“L
ayla?”

Leighton repeated the question when she didn’t respond.

“Layla, where are you today?”

She shook her head and said, “Sorry, Leighton. I just drifted off.”

“Well I need you focused, so pull yourself together.”

Her only response was a cold smile and a nod, something only Layla would dare, and one of the many reasons he respected her. As he tried to tame his damn hair, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was tall something that he, at six-six, rarely said about anyone, man or a woman. If he had to guess, he’d say she was six feet, though the low, flat heel of her boot may have added an inch. She was also substantial. He was accustomed to fragile, contained, and frankly, smaller women, but Layla was the exact opposite. He’d admit she had a lovely face, wide brown eyes, high cheekbones that a model would kill for, and full, succulent lips. Her broad shoulders highlighted the narrowness of her waist, which curved down to her full hips and ass, sitting atop long, thick legs, all wrapped in medium brown skin that Leighton refused to believe was as soft as it looked.

Most of the women Leighton had been with had had implants, but from what he could tell, Layla was naturally endowed. He was human, and he’d, on occasion, caught the press of her breasts against her top, or felt the brush of their weight across his arm, and been intrigued. It was unfortunate that Layla downplayed herself so much. As was usual, she was dressed in a black suit, with black boots and a white button-down shirt. The outfit did nothing to enhance her natural charms.

“Don’t I pay you enough to dress decently?” The words slipped out before he’d fully considered them, but much to his surprise, Layla laughed, a full, open sound that made her breasts shake and put a slight tinge of red under her brown cheeks.