He Claims Me Read Online Free Page B

nostrils.
    I enter the converted house that was added to the main building, and the constantly texting receptionist says good morning to me. She reminds me cheerily that I have a meet and greet this afternoon with Mrs. Williams . . . as though I would ever forget. Securing a meet and greet with a donor is the goal of every Feed Your Hungry employee.
    I wish I could say I legitimately landed this meet and greet. I didn’t. Mrs. Williams agreed to donate money because she thinks I’m Michael Cooke’s girlfriend. When I told her Michael and I were merely friends, the socialite didn’t believe me and insisted on coming into Feed Your Hungry to personally drop off her donation. I couldn’t say no, as this will only be the second donation I’ve secured. I need it to save my job.
    I lie to everyone except Blaine, and if bending the truth allows me to keep my job at Feed Your Hungry, I’ll bend the truth. I don’t want to rely solely on Blaine’s generosity and my evening job at his company. I prefer to pay my own way, maintaining at least the illusion of independence. I have my pride.
    I pick up my donor list for the day from Feed Your Hungry’s receptionist. All of the donors I am to call have given donations within the past year. My spirits lift. I might have a chance at securing a real meet and greet today.
    I swing through the doors separating the new front addition from the original building and the temperature immediately rises. No one can recall the last time the air-­conditioning in the older rooms worked.
    I hurry along the hallways. The walls are painted a dreary gray, the plaster chipped. The carpet is frayed and thin.
    I enter the large back room housing the pit. Rows of metal folding tables dominate the area, many of the seats already filled. My coworkers are dialing, their faces blank and their eyes glazed.
    I slide into my chair in the back row and Goth girl, my green Mohawk wearing friend, curls her black-­lipstick-­covered lips, giving me her version of a smile. She’s wearing her usual black corset, black full skirt, torn mesh stockings, and clunky army boots, and is talking in sweet tones to a past donor.
    I plug my headset into the flesh-­colored telephone and dial and dial and dial. No one answers. Voice mail. Voice mail. Doesn’t speak English. Voice mail. No one answers.
    My fingers fall asleep. My thoughts turn to Blaine and the relentless throbbing between my legs. I’m aroused, needy. I press my thighs together. I won’t last. I can’t last. I wiggle.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you, moth?” Goth girl stage whispers. “Do you have crotch critters or some other vagigi funkiness?” Heads turn and my face heats. “There’s a free clinic close by. Ask Boss man for the morning off.”
    â€œI’m fine.” I add another lie to my collection.
    â€œSure you are.” My friend snorts.
    She’s right. I’m not fine. At noon I leap out of my chair, sling my tote over my shoulder, palm my phone, and hurry down the hallway, looking for a private place to make a call to a very wicked CEO.
    â€œHey kiddo. Are you looking for me?” Michael Cooke steps into the hallway and beams at me, his movie-­star good looks dazzling. He’s wearing a blue shirt that perfectly matches his eyes and clings to his wide shoulders. This designer garment is paired with khaki pants and Birkenstocks, two staples in the blond behemoth’s wardrobe. “You have the meet and greet with Mrs. Williams today, don’t you?”
    â€œYes,” I reply, obliged to make polite conversation. Before I met a certain naughty billionaire, I dreamed of talking to Michael. Now it’s a chore. Blaine is the sole man I want to speak with, to be with.
    â€œDon’t be scared about this meet and greet.” Michael moves closer to me and I force myself to remain still, to not take a step backward. “Mrs.