Love, Your Concierge

  Love, Your Concierge

  By

  Jessica Ingro

  Published by Jessica Ingro

  Copyright©2014 Jessica Ingro

  LOVE, YOUR CONCIERGE

  Copyright©2014 Jessica Ingro

  Friend-Zoned Characters & Dialogue, Copyright©2014 Belle Aurora

  Cover design©Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  Edited by Kathy Krick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Dedication

  To Gina – the original personal concierge & my muse

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One–The Legend of Multiple Orgasms

  Chapter Two–The White Rabbit

  Chapter Three–Monday Morning Blues

  Chapter Four–Flowers Are A Girl’s Best Friend

  Chapter Five–Quite a View

  Chapter Six–Yours

  Chapter Seven–What Does She Have?

  Chapter Eight–Believe in the Magic

  Chapter Nine–Hello Business, Meet Pleasure

  Chapter Ten–Sex-a-thon

  Chapter Eleven–Wakeup Call

  Chapter Twelve–I Don’t Just Deal

  Chapter Thirteen–If You Don’t Want To, Then I Will

  Chapter Fourteen–Bend Over

  Chapter Fifteen–Valentine’s Day

  Chapter Sixteen–Reliable Source

  Chapter Seventeen–Nosy Travis

  Chapter Eighteen–The Vultures Circle

  Chapter Nineteen–Punishment Never Felt So Good

  Chapter Twenty–Say Something

  Chapter Twenty-One–Time

  Chapter Twenty-Two–Regret

  Chapter Twenty-Three–Torment

  Chapter Twenty-Four–The Wrong Man

  Chapter Twenty-Five–Stronger Than You Think

  Chapter Twenty-Six–Our Own Routine

  Chapter Twenty-Seven–Walk in the Park

  Chapter Twenty-Eight–Fuck Buddies

  Chapter Twenty-Nine–Starlight Room

  Epilogue–Bliss

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The Legend of Multiple Orgasms

  Hello. I’m Elizabeth Ward. Your Personal Concierge.

  I found myself giggling at the absurdity of that statement. I sounded like I was at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, when in truth, I was writing my newest client a note to introduce myself. You’re probably wondering why it is that I’m introducing myself to a client through a witty, little note. It does seem strange come to think about it.

  I always leave a calling card, if you will, when I visit my client’s homes. It’s my way of connecting with each one of them without having to be in their faces. Most of them prefer to have me be a presence that hovers in the background and doing my business without them knowing how it gets done.

  These notes are my signature branding. I spend way too much money each year on creamy, heavy stationery with my name in calligraphy at the top. Each piece of elegant paper has a light blue ribbon weaved through the top and tied in a bow. Elegant and classy.

  So here I am, standing in a man’s house with his grocery list in my hands when I’ve never actually met him. See, I was hired last week by his middle-aged executive assistant to assist the Mr. Grant Morgan.

  Mr. Morgan is known around Manhattan as one of the top litigation attorneys. People from all over New York, New Jersey and Connecticut pay big dollars to have this bulldog on their side. I would even bet my next payment from Mr. Morgan that his clientele reaches beyond those three states, which is precisely why I was stoked to gain his business. He is an excellent reference to have, and hopefully he’ll recommend me to some of his friends and colleagues.

  His prowess doesn’t stop in the courtroom though. It very much extends into the bedroom as well. Even though I’ve never met him, his reputation precedes him. There are legendary stories circling the city about his stamina, his endowment, and how well-versed he is at using both to exact pleasure from his partner. You can hear it whispered amongst the socialites or gossiped about by assistants. I once heard a story about him leaving a woman practically catatonic, she was so thoroughly fucked. It took her days to recover. I’m sure that is a bit exaggerated, but hell! He’s even been in the running for New York City’s Most Eligible Bachelor four years in a row.

  I’ve been known to have a decent fucking every now and then, but the very thought of receiving multiple orgasms and having earth shattering sex for hours with this man, makes my toes curl and my body feel flush. And I don’t generally react this way to my clients. I’ve never found myself turned on by any of them. I’ve always kept the lines between my professional and personal life clearly defined.

  I’ve seen pictures of Grant on Page Six and in other various newspapers and magazines. He’s perfect in every way. He is tall, measuring in at over six feet and appears dark and demanding. Even in a picture, it feels like he is looking through you. If he told you to drop your panties in the middle of church, you’d be compelled to do so. With his dark, curly hair and his piercing, blue eyes, this man could have sonnets written about him. Hell, I’ve thought up a few on my own, and I’ve never actually met him.

  But, alas, I never get involved with my clients, so I’ll have to find my orgasms somewhere else. My father always warned me never to mix business with pleasure. I’ve witnessed the scary, life altering results of such bad decisions, and I’ll never succumb to that temptation. Take a look around you the next time you are at work. Americans spend about a third or more of their time at work. When love goes bad, you’re forced to look at the other person day after day after day. Sheer torture if you ask me – to have to be pleasant to an ex after a bitter break up or to be forced to watch them date when you’re still in love with them. Just think of the secretary who thought her boss loved her, but instead refused to leave his wife. How do you think she feels whenever the wife drops in for a quick “lunch”?

  You wouldn’t shit where you eat, so why would you fuck where you work?

  I started my concierge business while still in college. I grew up in upstate New York as an only child. My mother was a school teacher, and my father worked as a field engineer for the local telecommunications provider. Money may have been tight, but I always had the things I wanted, and we always had fun together. I never felt any hard times my parents may have had.

  When I got accepted into NYU, I was beyond excited for my future. I was only a couple of hours away from my parents, living the high life in the city and going to the school I had always dreamed of. Then my father had a stroke during my junior year that left him completely debilitated. Seeing as how dad was the breadwinner, it didn’t take long for medical bills and the cost of living to deplete my parents’ savings. That is when money became so tight, everyone in my family could feel it constricting around our throats.

  I no longer had the luxury of their financial support, so after my scholarship, I was responsible for the rest of my education and li
ving expenses. I know it was hard on them when they couldn’t finish giving me my education, but sometimes in life shit happens.

  I was twenty-one years old at the time, and I knew waiting tables wasn’t going to be the ideal situation with my school schedule and the way of life I was slowly becoming accustomed to living. There is so much to see and do in New York. It really is the city that never sleeps. Restaurants, museums, and clubs abound. I didn’t want to be forced to sit back and watch while my peers were out having fun and getting into trouble.

  That’s when my own fairy godmother came to rescue me.

  When the money troubles hit, my college roommate, Maya, reached out to her aunt Collette, a top fashion designer in the city. Over a holiday vacation, Collette had been complaining to Maya and her family about how desperately she needed an assistant – someone who would make her life easier. Someone who would do the nitty gritty errands and jobs that she found consumed too much of her time that she didn’t have to spare.

  That is where I came into play. I became that person for her. I was the one waiting for deliveries, picking up dry cleaning, folding laundry, and so on. I busted my ass morning, noon and night to make sure her expectations were met. I began craving her assignments. I was young and shopping in high end boutiques while networking with some of the most influential people in Manhattan. Serving her needs and being the best assistant I could be became my obsession.

  Collette was so happy with my work that she started referring her industry friends to me. People who didn’t require a full-time assistant at their beck and call. I’m talking big name clients that any personal assistant in the business world would give their left tit, or nut for the males out there, to have. And they were mine! All mine!

  They weren’t all easy to work with and the tasks weren’t all glamorous, but I was good at it. Damn good. I had found my calling. And over time, money became less and less of an issue.

  Being a personal assistant allowed me to be the control freak that I knew, deep down, I really was. Organization, control and essentially telling people how to run their lives – these are the things I specialized in. Throw a challenge my way, and I will beat it every time. I am that good!

  Of course, these character traits extend into my personal life as well. Some people say I keep myself too regimented and need to let go a little. I say there is nothing wrong with having things carefully crafted and planned. Chaos breeds disaster. Plain and simple. And that is not how I want to live.

  Besides, I don’t have a lot of free time to enjoy my personal life. I’ve had hookups, but nothing long-term. I live for my clients these days. A time will come when I can focus on me. Now, however, is not that time.

  Once I graduated from NYU, I had half a dozen clients and just as many new referrals looking to have me as their fairy godmother. Life was great. I moved into a quaint, one bedroom apartment in an up and coming neighborhood in Greenwich Village and hit the ground running with my new business that I masterfully titled, Your Personal Concierge. Calling yourself a personal assistant is so last year… don't you think?

  Over the last decade, I guess you could say I’ve seen everything. And I do mean everything. The stories I could tell you would keep you laughing for days and wondering what the hell people with money were really thinking.

  Let’s see… There was the investment banker who was having an affair with his young, Swedish nanny. I walked in on him with his pants around his legs, literally, and his wife wasn’t much further behind me. Needless to say, the girl got deported and the wife took him to the cleaners, getting me in the divorce. I still have visions of him continuing to fuck her, while I watched, and then scrambling off her when the wife started throwing stuff at his head.

  Oh, and there was the Sweet Sixteen party for a snobby Manhattanite. The little brat made me organize a trip beforehand to Italy for her and her ten “closest” friends, so that she could find a one-of-a-kind dress to wear to her party. Then I had to convince the “it” rapper of the moment to appear at the party, just to have her snub him and decide I should have gotten another “it” rapper instead. That was embarrassing and a complete waste of her daddy’s money.

  To make it worse, she whined all night like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she had started singing “Give it to me now.” She even had the nerve to kick a girl out of the birthday party just because the girl’s diamond necklace was bigger than hers.

  But the real kicker was when she disappeared, and I had to hunt the bitch down so she could cut her cake. For almost an hour, I scoured every nook and cranny of the rented mansion in the Hamptons, wearing the ridiculously high and uncomfortable shoes she insisted I wear, just to find her in the wine cellar. And what I found there had me cringing and wanting to bleach my eyeballs. She and another girl were experimenting with the bottles of wine, if you catch my drift. Not only were they underage, but they seemed to be enjoying it way too much for my liking. And when she realized that I could out her for being a lesbian, she tried to have me fired.

  Then, there was the big shot executive of a major television network that I found handcuffed to his bed with whip marks all over his body. Turns out he paid a Dominatrix to punish him and bring out his submissive side. How cliché is it to want to reenact Fifty Shades… Seriously? Apparently, when he refused to pay her bill, she decided to teach him a lesson by leaving him locked up. That was a three a.m. phone call I wish had gone to voicemail.

  I was quite disappointed and a little embarrassed for him when I released him from his confines and got a good look at his package. I realize when aroused a man’s penis expands, but his penis was so small, I’m not sure it would effectively be able to penetrate anything. Poor guy…

  There was also the client who had such a crush on me. He was delusional enough to think that if I walked in on him masturbating, I would be propelled to join him. So not going to happen. Especially since he was as hairy as a gorilla. It totally creeped me out. There was nothing remotely sexy about watching him yank on his dick or begging me to take over.

  Then of course, there’s the prime Manhattan realtor who insists on fresh lilies every week, regardless of the season. Or the plastic surgeon who thought I could actually get corn on the cob in December. Or the actor who likes me to find him young blondes to whet his appetite after he finishes his Broadway show each night. And I do mean barely legal blondes.

  Don’t think that just because I’m giving you these intimate details into other people’s lives, that their secrets aren’t safe with me. I’m known for my professionalism and anonymity, which is why you’ll never – and I mean, never – find out the names of the people I just spoke about. If you did, then I wouldn’t be the ultimate in indulgences and cleaning up messes.

  These examples aren’t even the worst of the bunch. I could spend hours telling you scary, funny, dirty and beyond unbelievable stories. Maya loves it when we have “storytime.” Before she started working for me part time, we used to sit in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine every Sunday night, and I would entertain her. Now, we entertain each other with tales of sex, drugs and insanity.

  By the second day of living together at NYU, Maya and I became inseparable. She is the yin to my yang in every sense. With her dark, brown hair and green eyes, she is the epitome of the girl next door. But don’t let the sweet face fool you. Maya is fierce, loyal, and has quite a dirty side.

  Maya is outspoken and extremely social, which is why she tried her hand at acting. She got a few random commercials, but never caught a big break. When her roommate after college moved out, she decided it was time to look for alternate ways to supplement her modest income, so she came to work for me on the side. She handles my less high-maintenance and lower-profile clients. Thanks to her, I’ve been able to take on a few more clients, which is perfect since I send money home to my mom now that my dad has passed on. I felt compelled to take care of her since she can’t work anymore because of a
bad back.

  And all that brings me here standing in Grant Morgan’s multi-million dollar apartment in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. What I wouldn’t give to live in that place. It is palatial in terms of what an apartment generally looks like in New York City. At roughly four thousand square feet, it has four bedrooms, including a master bedroom, five bathrooms, a living room, kitchen, and a wrap around deck. The views of the Manhattan skyline are to die for and can be seen from almost every room courtesy of the floor to ceiling windows.

  As is customary on my first day on the job, I might have snooped a little to find out a bit more about our Mr. Morgan. It’s all in the name of providing superb service of course.

  I’ve learned that he likes to wear Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I imagined they were nice and tight on his gorgeous tush. Don’t judge… One of my tasks is doing his laundry. It was necessary and legitimate research.

  I also found his bulk package of condoms – size extra-large. I’m trying not to think about that one. Must stay professional.

  And I’ve learned that his apartment might be immaculate, but his bedroom seems to be where he spends the most time and thus has the most mess in it.

  There aren’t many personal items in the house. I did find one picture of two young boys and a young girl on a beach. Other than that… nothing. The place is sterile. Beautiful, yet void of any personality. I hope that isn’t a reflection of the man.

  After finishing my note, I did a final sweep through the apartment, admiring the beauty of it before heading down to the street to catch a cab. For as much as I’d have loved to stay and admire the scenery a little longer, a lady’s work is never done.

  Chapter Two

  The White Rabbit

  Dropping my bags on the floor, I flopped back on my couch unceremoniously and closed my eyes. This afternoon was a doozy. After I left Grant Morgan’s apartment, I headed over to Mr. Rosencrest’s house. I needed to bring his aging father’s seemingly vintage car to get a tune-up. Carrying the grocery bags for delivery to my next client, I loaded up the car and got in, adjusting the seat. I turned the key, and nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.