Bad Bitch

By: Christina Saunders

Chapter One


“You’re fired.”

I savored the words as they rolled off my tongue. The simple phrase always brought a slight buzz of power. This time was no different.

The offending associate rose and glanced around the room. No help there. My other dozen or so associates studied their legal pads as if they contained a detailed listing of everyone’s competitive raises and bonuses for the past two years.

“You can’t do this.” He was definitely trying on his “I’m an adult!” tone.

I laughed. This was becoming the highlight of my day, and it was only eight thirty in the morning.

I slid my fingers along the smooth glass tabletop in front of me. “And why can’t I?”

His face was reddening, the perfect WASP façade fading into a muddle of anger. “Because I will go to the EEOC!”

He grabbed his papers and stuffed them into his leather briefcase, still stiff off the Nordstrom rack.

“You give that a try. See how it works out. I’m certain an attorney of your experience wouldn’t be blackballed throughout this city if he were to complain about one of its most well-connected firms. I mean”—I laughed without warmth—“it’s not as if I can easily have Vinnie or Drew here make a few calls for me. Let the other firms know you’re a ticking time bomb for a labor complaint or worse.”

I saw realization finally dawning on his perfect little frat boy face. He was just another associate in the swarm of associates that buzzed around this city like flies on shit. He had nowhere to go, no one to complain to, and only one option. Leave.

“You bitch!” He quaked with anger while failing at originality.

I enjoyed every little tremor.

Honestly, it’s not that he was a terrible associate. I tried to maintain a steady roster of Ivy League pricks to keep the firm’s résumé top notch. This particular prick was mediocre, especially given his blue-blood pedigree and his Harvard law degree. His work was not brilliant, only passable. But that wasn’t his downfall. No, his downfall had occurred the week prior.

He had a brief due in federal court on a high-dollar securities case. Ponzi schemes were still in fashion, and I had a stable of clients who specialized in bilking investors out of their retirements. These clients paid me handsomely with funds originating from the Caymans and other lovely island nations. They did so because I was the best.

I’d gotten them out of jail time, helped them keep their ill-gotten gains, and assisted them in destroying their enemies. And I did it all with pleasure. That’s why the name on the door was Pallida & Associates. There were no other partners, no other stars in the sky of my firm. Only me and several nameless, faceless minions who did my bidding, no questions asked.

So when this prick associate put his shitty brief on my desk the week before, I was unhappy. But not unhappy enough to fire him. A Harvard degree—even if bestowed on a simpleton—is still a Harvard degree, after all. I simply pawned the brief off on one of my better associates, Drew, so she could make it intelligible.

No, what got him fired was his lackluster fucking. After Drew left to repair the offending stream-of-consciousness drivel, Ivy League Prick closed my door and approached my desk. I had my fuck-me heels kicked up, the silver stilettos more of a warning than an invitation. This poor little lost puppy couldn’t tell the difference. He licked his lips as he contemplated the shoes, then the legs, then slid his eyes even farther up until they stopped at the shadow that fell between my thighs.

“I’ve seen you looking at me,” he said, an attempt at coolness in his tone. But he was excited; the color creeping up from under his shirt collar said as much. He slid around the desk and perched against it, resting a hand on my ankles.

“Aren’t you observant?” His game was already tiresome. “If that’s all you have to say, I suggest you head home. Or at least go get Drew some dinner. She’ll be fixing your clusterfuck of a brief for hours to get it filed by midnight.”

He slid his hand down to my knees, and I could see his erection straining against his slacks. Amateur.

“I thought maybe I could put in a few extra hours tonight. Help you with your workload?”

Hours? This guy wouldn’t last minutes. But I was game. I was always game.

I kicked my feet down from the desk and stood. Even in my heels, I was still shorter. His fucking perfect blue-blood breeding made him the benchmark for evolution, while I was still in the cavewoman stage of height.

I took his hands and placed one on my breast and the other under my skirt. The surprise on his face was an even bigger turnoff. I was about to call it quits when he livened up and squeezed my tit. Finally. He turned around and scooted me up on the desk and wedged in between my thighs.

▶ Also By Christina Saunders

▶ Hot Read

▶ Last Updated

▶ Recommend

Top Books