With a genuine smile on his face that is very rare to capture, he says, “Why am I an asshole?”
“Well, just look at you,” I say, trying to hide the sigh that wants to escape when I look down his torso. “You eat Danishes every freaking day. How do you have abs?”
He glances at his chiseled stomach and then back up. “Fast metabolism.”
“Ugh, men.” I go to turn around again, but he stops me.
“You can’t be mad at me for having abs. That’s ridiculous, and there’s one thing my mom told me about marriage.”
“You know we’re not actually husband and wife yet.”
“I know that, but still—”
“And, we haven’t told your parents yet . . . so do her rules really apply?” Although I’m teasing him, I am wondering when we’ll tell his parents. And how . . .
“Yes, her rules apply, because they’re good rules. Are you listening, Bag of Dicks?”
“Ah. Are you always going to call me that?” I roll my eyes.
“Well, you coined it first. Anyway, as my mother has always said, you should never go to bed angry.”
“Right, then you better not say things that make me angry. And we’re still not married—”
“We will be, and when we are, I expect you to abide by my rules.” His voice is playful.
I’m about to go off on him when a smile stretches across his face and he starts to chuckle.
“Oh, you’re lucky you’re just joking, because you were about to get schooled, mister.”
Still chuckling, he says, “Oh, I could see it, the way your hand cocked back, the anger in your eyes. You were going to deliver a punch, weren’t you?”
“I don’t know what was going to happen; all I saw was red starting to take over.”
He gently pushes some hair behind my ear and says, “Don’t worry, babe, it’s an equal partnership where I’m concerned.” He studies me for a few beats, his eyes scouring across my face, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again, but this time longer. Would he kiss me in bed? Is that one of his mom’s rules too? Always kiss before falling asleep? My greedy little self hopes so. Unfortunately, before I can ask, he pushes off the mattress and goes to his side of the bed. “Now stay on your side and try to contain yourself. No groping.” Arrogant ass.
“Oh, you wish.” Yeah, I won’t be groping him. There’s one important thing I know about myself, and it’s I don’t move when I sleep. I’m not a traveler like some people. If I lie down in one position, I wake up in that position. If he wants to be accidentally groped, he’s going to have to look elsewhere.
“Good night, Charlee.”
“Night, boss man bridegroom.”
Chapter Nineteen
RATH
Mmm . . . that feels good.
Feels really good.
I shift, but my leg is clamped against something. What is that?
I peek an eye open but now that it’s Fall, it’s darker for longer so I can’t see a damn thing.
Feels like a cat or something rubbing against my leg. Is it weird that I like it? And where did my pillow go?
I move my arm, trying to find it and that’s when I touch the edge of the bed, my head parallel to it. Am I sleeping sideways? I try to move my leg again, but this time it’s firmly clamped down in place at my calf as something’s rubbing against it.
What is that?
“Ohhhhhhh . . . yeaahhhhh.”
My head lifts straight up from the sound of another voice in my bed . . . and that’s when I remember Charlee stayed here last night.
Charlee . . . is that Charlee rubbing against my leg?
Twisting to look over my shoulder, I squint to try to detect what the hell is happening, but I can’t see anything thanks to the blackout curtains I closed before we went to bed. Something is happening though, something weird.
Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, not easy with my leg still stuck in a viselike grip, I turn on the flashlight and spotlight it on Charlee’s side just in time to see her riding my calf like her own personal dildo, her head thrown back in the throes of passion, and her hands rubbing over her covered breasts.
Damn, girl.
“So thick,” she says in her sleep. “Oh yeah, big boy.”
What the actual fuck?
I can’t help it, I snort out loud, which shines the light directly on her face.
Her hands fly up to her eyes and her body stiffens.
“What in the name of Jesus is going on? Mom, turn off the light,” she yells, eyes still closed.
Mom. I snort again.
“I’m not kidding. I was about to get off with David Hasselhoff.”
And that’s all it takes. I lose it, straight-up cackle as she stills. Her legs release mine and she scrambles to the edge of the bed.
“Who’s that? Who goes there? I know how to bite. Stay away.” One arm is covering her eyes, the other is swatting around like a nunchuk. “I’m not kidding, make yourself known.”
“Charlee,” I say on a laugh, now able to twist around and sit up. “It’s Rath.”
She turns. Ramrod straight. I’m honestly nervous that someone secretly pushed a bar up her ass. She blinks a few times and I lower the light so it’s not directly shining on her.
“Rath.” She smiles awkwardly and fiddles with her hair. “Oh hi, there you are. Heh, kind of forgot you were on the other side of this bed.” She twists a strand of hair on her finger. “How was, did you sleep . . . was that your leg I was humping?”
“Yup.”
She presses her hands to her forehead. “Okay, yup, that’s what I was afraid of.” Keeping her eyes covered, she gives me a short wave. “Thanks for, uh, putting your leg on loan. You know how people say lend me a hand, well, I guess thanks for lending me a leg. Must have been weird huh, me humping it? Yeah, that’s really weird. Never thought I would actually hump my boss’s leg, but I guess never say never, right?” She’s rambling, still not making eye contact. “I didn’t get off on your calf if that’s what you were wondering. I mean, I was close, I felt the twinges . . . I mean, no, I wasn’t close. I don’t get horny or anything off legs it was—” She sighs heavily and looks up at me. “Okay, fine. I’m very horny in the morning. Okay, something I’m sure you didn’t need to know but now you know.”
Definitely not something I needed to know, because morning sex is one of my favorite things in the world. Waking up and getting fucked, before you even get out of bed? There’s nothing like it.
“Do you get horny in the morning?” she asks, and I know it’s because she feels really uncomfortable and probably wants to die from humiliation.
So, because I’m a good guy, I say, “I usually wake up with a boner, so yeah, I guess so.”
Possibly surprised from my candidness, she smiles shyly and says, “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
“That doesn’t mean I hump people’s calves envisioning them as David Hasselhoff.”
“Oh God, I said that out loud?”
“You also called me mom, which is slightly terrifying given you’re wearing my ring on your finger.”
She glances down at her hand and then back up at me. “God, you’re right. I’m wearing your ring. Did that really happen yesterday?”
“It did.” Okay, here’s what’s weird. For all intents and purposes, this should be completely awkward. I cannot imagine any other woman could calmly address her boss, while in his bedroom, having just humped his leg . . . like Charlee is doing here. And I can’t help but admire her for that. She’s hilarious, refreshing, frank, and . . . of course, conversation aside . . . sexy as hell. Never thought yesterday morning that my Tuesday morning would look like this. At least things are . . . comfortable.
She sighs and then tilts her head. “Do you have a boner this morning?” Or not comfortable.
“I mean.” I shrug. “It’s not flaccid.”
“Really?” She tries to look around my shoulder but I block her with the blanket.
“W
hat the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She pauses and thinks about it and then laughs. “Huh, I guess I don’t know. Is it weird to look for your boner as your assistant?”
“I think so.”
“Yeah.” She purses her lips to the sky. “I think so too.” Then out of nowhere, she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, revealing a tiny tank top that’s suctioned to her body. What I can see is faint because the light is barely filtering in, but it’s enough to turn my flaccid penis into a full-on hard-on.
Medium-sized breasts, I would say a B-cup, with hard nipples that look like they want to escape past the thin fabric of her tank. God, they’re perfect, exactly what I was afraid of. Not only is her personality and smile grabbing me by the balls, but so are her tits.
“God, you’re like a furnace in this bed. I feel overheated.” She reaches under the covers and removes her pants as well, which only means one thing: Charlee is in my bed, in her underwear.
Jesus Christ.
As if she has no idea what she’s doing to me, she stretches her arms above her head, revealing a small patch of skin right above her waistline. “What time is it? It’s so dark in here.”
I glance at my phone and nearly hop out of bed but due to the boner situation, I stay put. “Holy shit, it’s eight.”
“What?” She scrambles out of bed and starts running around the room. “We’re going to be late.”
Painfully, I watch her little bubble butt jiggle around the room in a small pair of pink panties, her hair a wild mess, as her tank barely contains her breasts while she bends down toward her suitcase.
I switch the blinds so they move up, revealing the bright light of the day.
Comically, Charlee trips over her suitcase in her rush to the shower, scattering her clothes everywhere, even the yellow thong she picked out for today. Fuck, she wears thongs under her work clothes?
As she reaches for her thong, I say, “You realize I’m the boss, right, and it’s okay if we’re late?”
She pauses and then sits up. Her face relaxes as she says, “You’re right, and I’m the boss’s fiancée, which means I can get away with anything I want.”
“Well, let’s not get carried away. You’re still held to the same standard as everyone else. You’re just allowed to give me blow jobs now.” I don’t know why I say it—it’s something frat-boy me would have said back in the day. Definitely not sophisticated Rath Westin—but it slips past my lips before I can stop it.
“Oh, is that right?” she asks, picking up her things and walking over to me. Her body swaying seductively. Stopping right in front of me, she bends forward and tips my chin up with one manicured finger. “I had no clue that was my privilege now.”
Christ. I’m desperate to ask her if she wants a practice round right now but know that’s way out of line. Where are the lines here?
Where are the fucking lines?
I’m so screwed.
“If you get blow jobs, what do I get?”
Holy shit.
“The pleasure of having my dick in your mouth.”
Hell. What am I saying?
My cruelty, however, has zero effect. She leans back and says, “Men think so highly of their dicks; it’s absurd.” She takes her things to the bathroom where she sets them down and then turns to me. Smiling she says, “Penises aren’t all that great, you know. They’re just noodles dangling between your legs.” Turning away, she peels her tank off her body and tosses it to the floor. Then, she covers her breasts with her arm and faces me again, and my mind about explodes. “Boobs, on the other hand, now those are something to marvel at because I bet you anything right now, if I lowered my arm, you’d have a really hard time not jacking off when I get in the shower.”
I’m going to have a hard time not jacking off whether I see them or not.
“I’ll be quick.” She looks down at my crotch. “I hope you’re quick too.”
With that, she shuts the door, locks it, and turns on the shower.
I give it a few minutes, and when I know she’s definitely in the shower, I throw the covers off, grip my achingly hard cock, and get myself off . . . the whole time thinking about my future wife’s tits.
I’m fucked.
* * *
“Are you hungry?” Charlee asks, stepping into my office.
Yes, I’m hungry for you.
Desperate to have a taste.
Dying a slow death over the short skirt you’re wearing.
What is with that skirt? I’ve never seen it before and it barely curves over her ass. Did she not even look at the outfits she packed or did she pack that one on purpose? Either way, I’ve felt like a pervert the whole goddamn day every time she’s around, leering at the smoothness of her legs, the curve of her butt, and every time she bends over, I wonder if I’ll get a peek of her yellow thong.
Yup, that’s where I’m at. Creepy-old-man leering at his assistant.
I try to tell myself it’s okay, we’re going to be married, but then my brain kicks in and reminds me that it’s a fake marriage.
But why can’t we have fun during our fake marriage?
Because she’s your assistant and you said you’d never fuck another one of your assistants.
Apparently, that promise to myself is slowly dwindling.
I lean back in my chair, my pen clutched in my hand. “I am.”
“Me too.” She struts across my office and takes a seat.
Seriously, what is this outfit? Short skirt, tucked-in white button-up shirt with a sweater vest and black high heels. She looks like a naughty school girl, and my penis is applauding her for her choice.
What happened to Miss Frizzle with the color coordination and crazy hair?
Who am I kidding, I even liked those outfits.
“What are you thinking?” She crosses one leg over the other and I beg my eyes to stay trained on her and not to fall to where I’m sure her skirt is riding so incredibly high that I could catch a glimpse of that yellow thong.
Clearing my throat, I scratch the side of my head with a pen. “Anything is good at this point. I think it will be a late night for me.”
It’s almost six, and I’ve yet to finish going through my emails because my mind has been wandering elsewhere. I have yet to tell Bram and Julia about the engagement. I’m sure Roark hasn’t said anything because even though he can be a dick sometimes, he’s not that big of a dick. And there’s no way Bram or Julia would wait to come rip me a new one if they knew.
“I can order us some food and tackle whatever needs to be done—”
“No.” I shake my head. “You go back to your place. Be with your grandma.”
“You know she’s going to turn me away and make me go to your place.”
“That’s fine.” I need you out of here before I do something stupid. “Go spend some time with her. Check up on her. Maybe start looking at flowers or whatever wedding shit has to be done.”
“Oh no, you don’t, Rath Westin.” Charlee leans forward, her blouse popping open, giving me a view straight down her shirt to her full breasts. This morning, when she spun around, only her hand covering them . . . Christ. “I am not planning this wedding by myself. If we’re going to get married then we are going to do it together. You’re not a bridegroom who simply shows up. No way in hell would I let you get away with that. This is our marriage, which means we plan it together. Understood?”
Fuck, serious Charlee is like a wet dream. Her cheeks are flushed, her temper flared, her body tense. What I wouldn’t give to fuck that tension right out of her. With a light lift of her skirt and a push of that thong to the side, I would fuck her right on this desk, eat her pussy, tease her—
“Are you paying attention?”
“Hmm?”
“Oh my God, Rath.” She stands and stomps toward my door. Turning around she says, “If you’re going to be married to me, you’re going to give me one hundred percent of you, do you understand? Which means, when I’m talking
to you, you’re paying attention. I’m ordering you a gross, measly salad for dinner so you can think about what you did. And then I’m leaving to spend the evening with my grandma, someone who will actually listen to me.”
One way to piss off the future wife . . . get caught up in a fucking-her fantasy and not paying attention to what she’s saying.
Noted.
* * *
When I walk into the apartment at nine, it’s completely dark. The only reason I know Charlee is here is because I asked the doorman. She arrived a half hour ago. Just like she predicted, her grandma sent her back here. Kind of wish at this point she was back at her place, because the last twenty-four hours have been complete agony for me. And yet for my fiancée, life has just carried on as if nothing at all is out of kilter. I am out of kilter.
I set my things on the floor by my door, too lazy to be neat and orderly, lock up, and then head to the bedroom where I start taking off my clothes. From the lack of light streaming under the door, I’m assuming she’s already asleep.
I assume wrong when I hear the faint sound of music coming from the bathroom.
Not wanting to scare her, I call out. “Hey, I’m home.”
“In here,” she says somberly.
Shirt undone, ready to undo my pants as well, I peek into the bathroom to find her lying in the tub, covered in bubbles, reading. One leg is perched over the side and even though there are a lot of bubbles, they barely cover her chest.
Motherfucker.
“Uh, sorry, I didn’t know—”
“You’re fine,” she says, not giving me any attention. Must be a good book. “Do what you need to do. I’m going to finish reading this sex scene and then go to bed.”
Boss Man Bridegroom Page 23
