Page 62 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
The tension in his shoulders visibly loosens. “Oh. Okay. I just…this morning. You didn’t make breakfast. You said you would, and when you didn’t, I thought maybe you wanted to put some distance between us.”
“I’m sorry for that,” I say, gently pushing him up against the wall, grinding our hips together. “It’s only because I’m making you wait until after today’s meeting. If I’d made you breakfast, I would have had you ass up over a barstool before you could say cappuccino. I fucked up by making you wait, and it’s torture not being able to have my way with you right now. Fucking. Torture.” I time that last bit with a couple of hip thrusts to emphasize the largeness of my mistake.
He grins, grinding back at me. “Now you know how it feels.”
Someone knocks on the door, and I pull away from him. “True. Also, I tend to go with the flow. Find out whatever little kinks make you hum and sparkle in the moment, and then lean into them. If you need something a bit more structured, we can do that too.”
He shakes his head and sneaks a kiss. “I liked it. Like you said, I can put off the responsibilities of being CEO and just let you take over for a second.”
I palm his neck, then pull open the door for Sherry, who holds up her phone. Time for the next phase of taking on Wolfe Athletics.
* * *
We’ve beenin this boardroom for hours, and Rand is sitting at the head of the table, squirming.
It’s a very minor squirm, barely noticeable, but I see it and my mouth waters a little at the thought of rimming his freshly shaved ass. Every time he adjusts, he shoots a glare my way, and I merely smile. He’s definitely cursing me out in that brilliant mind of his.
Unfortunately, the only thing going well in this room is my delicate torture of Rand. This conversation I’m supposed to be having with this team of executives isn’t really a conversation at all, and nothing has changed since the last time we met. Whenever I bring up something reasonable, something that demonstrates value in the employee, I get shouted down.
Actually, no. Not shouted down. They are wealthy, entirely convinced of their rightness by virtue of the size of their bank accounts. I need a fucking master’s degree in subtext to understand these people and their genteel snobbery. God, it’s exhausting.
So, yeah, I’ve been told without a single declarative sentence that I’ma communist, a socialist, and one person seems to think I’m an anarchist.
That’s fun.
I stubbornly push forward. “I know this has been a challenging morning, but I’d like to jump into healthcare since that is something everybody, including everyone in this room, needs.”
“We offer excellent benefits,” Wolfe Sr. intones, entirely dismissive of the subject.
I shuffle some papers around. “You offer high deductible insurance that, in many cases, ends up being just as expensive as paying out-of-pocket.”
“Yes, but with catastrophic illness, there is significant coverage.”
“Coverage, yes. But only after a deductible that most families can’t even begin to afford.”
The man who looks like he’s held together by a team of medical experts sniffs. “If people cannot handle their finances, that is not our concern.”
I tap the papers in front of me. “Which brings me back to the point of salary. The average apartment in Manhattan goes for two-thirds the average monthly salary of a Wolfe Athletics employee.”
“More than half of our staff live in the boroughs and New Jersey.”
“Excellent point,” I say, shifting another piece of paper to the front. “The average commute time for a Wolfe employee, roundtrip, is two hours, which means it takes a minimum of fifty hours a week to be a Wolfe employee.”
“How people get to their jobs is none of my concern.”
“It should be your concern. There’s a lot of lost opportunity there. And based on Mr. Wolfe’s speech,” I say, flicking a look over at Rand. He flushes, shooting me a warning glare, “this company has the audacity to further require more than even that. You want more time, and you don’t want to pay for it.”
“We are paying for it,” says Wolfe Sr., clearly bored. “That’s what the salary is for. Salary includes overtime.”
I shake my head. “That’s the line companies use to run their staff on less than a skeleton crew. Salary covers a standard workweek: forty hours. That’s it. Overtime should be comped one way or another.”
“For as long as I’ve been doing business, that’s what salary means.”
I lean forward on the table, nailing Wolfe Sr. with an ugly grin. “Imagine my surprise that you are not up on current trends.” Rand chokes on his water and carefully flicks the beads of moisture off his expensive sweater. I stifle a smile and continue. “Which explains why Wolfe Athletics is no longer competitive.”
Wolfe Sr. draws himself up, entirely self-important. “The hell you say. Our sales rival those of the big-name sports brands. In what way are we not competitive in the market?”
I scratch my eyebrow and shake my head. “The job market, Mr. Wolfe. We are woefully behind in the job market. You can’t sell the product if there aren’t people here to support its manufacture and distribution.”
