Bad Boss: A Steamy Romantic Comedy

by Liv Lane

  But not as hot as the man whose shoulders he has his arm around. Matt smiles as he leans in to speak to his brother, but as if sensing my lust-struck gaze, he turns and looks directly at me.

  There’s not the slightest hesitation in that shift of focus. No skimming over the crowd before arriving at me.

  How often has he been studying me? Did he witness my cringe when the first cocktail arrived, or see the excitement when I discovered it tasted so good? Betty finds great amusement in my uncensored expressions. Never take up poker—she once advised.

  As I stare at him, I remember the kiss in his office, the way his fingers closed and then tugged on my hair, and my stomach flutters anew. And after, his big hands smoothing down his jacket before he straightened his tie.

  God, it was so hot. My face is engulfed in a fiery heat—damn my stupid genetics. I need to stop thinking about that kiss.

  Matt leans in to speak to his brother again while I’m still caught mesmerized. Dillon nods, and they part from the group.

  And head directly toward us.

  My gaze snaps back to the swirling silver cocktail in front of me—the blue one I had barely touched has mysteriously disappeared—and I busy myself taking a sip. The taste is delicate. Lavender? Seriously, I think the bartender is messing with my brain.

  “Hey, Babe.” Dillon snakes his arm around Susan’s waist. Now that they’re together, I can see he’s younger than Susan, perhaps by five to ten years. He sweeps her glossy hair aside before dropping a gentle kiss against the side of her throat. “The company stocks have gone crazy today. I might be able to afford a proper ring.”

  “You’re drunk!” She pats the hand around her waist, playfully. “I loved you when you were a student bum, and I was picking up the tab.” She smiles as she touches the slender gold band around her finger. “And I adore this ring.”

  “I was never a bum,” he protests and presses a kiss to her cheek.

  “Trust me, some days you’re still a bum,” she teases.

  The seat beside me is empty, and I’ve been distracted by the show and the love they so obviously share.

  It’s not empty anymore, I realize.

  “Trust me, they can get a lot worse,” Matt says, close to my ear. “I’ve had to kick Dillon out of my office more than once.”

  A sense of imminent flight surrounds Emma. From the awkward, what do I do with a cocktail, to the how long before I can get out of here. The steady flow of drinks Susan has been sending over courtesy of Dillon’s tab has obviously thwarted her escape plans.

  She doesn’t look at me again, even when I take the seat beside her and lean in to speak. There’s a shiver, though, and her cheeks are pink. I like that color on her. If I have my way, she’ll remain flushed all night.

  I wonder if she’s thinking about the kiss. There’s going to be a lot more kissing later, hot, dirty kisses that she won’t be able to forget either. But first I need to get her out of here, which I’m hoping won’t be a problem because she definitely wants to leave, I need to work out whether it’s with me, though.

  I realize that this is the first time I’ve actually pursued a woman. It’s not like I’m a passenger in such things, but normally there is a not so subtle hint that they want more.

  The table occupants are busy laughing at Dillon’s antics. He’s the natural life of the party, and on a high from the week’s events.

  My attention returns to Emma. She knows I’m staring at her, and she’s doing a terrible job of trying to ignore it. I smile. She’s not going to make this easy for me, and that’s okay.

  “You ready to leave?”

  Her head snaps around. I’m grinning; she’s so easy to fluster. I want to see how flustered I can make her. Andrew asked me to make sure she got home safely. I’m confident he regretted the words the moment they left his lips. But he’s got a date with one of the many leggy blonde models he knows so Emma will need to fend for herself.

  “Leave?” She sounds confused. But also a bit hopeful. I lean in closer. “Emma, I need to confess something?”

  She starts to speak, then clamps her mouth shut. Her eyes flicker to my lips, and she nods.

  “I want to fuck you, Emma. I want to do a lot of wicked things to you. I want to taste every inch of you and learn what makes you wet. Then I want to make you come. Yeah, I really want to make you come.”

  She doesn’t blink for the longest time. I can see her chest rise and fall raggedly.

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay, yes.”

  I’m out of the seat and taking hold of her hand, I hustle her out of the bar faster than she can blink. I pat Dillon’s shoulder as I pass, and he lifts a hand to wave.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHAT THE HELL am I doing?

  Like really, what the hell.

  I try and relax into the soft leather seat of his beautiful car, but my brain is running at a million miles an hour, and I’m so tense I think I might expire on the spot.

  I don’t do jumping into bed with anyone, and certainly not my boss’s boss. He’s asked me twice if I want to be taken home. Obviously, I look terrified, which I am, but I’m committed now. I think my body just needs time to catch up with the momentous decision my brain has thrown out.

  And I do want to do this. This is like once in a lifetime stuff. It’s not like there’s a queue of ridiculously hot men beating down my door.

  I don’t have a queue of any type of man. Or even one average joe, now that I think about it.

  Betty says I give off ‘don’t bug me’ vibes. And I don’t get out much unless Betty is dragging me. I’ve always been too busy and too focused to worry about a relationship, but still, my limited prior experience is suddenly worrying me.

  What if he expects me to do something, and I don’t know how, or worse, do it wrong? Men like Matt are probably used to sophisticated women.

  His hand pressing against my knee drags me out of this rumination with a jolt. “Try and breathe normally.”

  I might have been hyperventilating a bit. I try to focus on the mechanics of pulling air in and out of my lungs.

  In, out.

  In, out.

  He’s smirking.

  But it’s a sensitive kind of smirk.

  Is there such a thing as a sensitive smirk?

  No, his eyes are sensitive. His smirk is devilish.

  I think his hand is making it worse. It’s just a hand, and it’s on my knee for goodness sake. I can’t even feel that much through my jeans. It’s a nice hand, though, big and capable-looking, with an expensive watch peeking out at his wrist. Why is that hot?

  I remember how those long fingers felt wrapped around my arms when he caught me in the office earlier.

  I need to stop thinking about that.

  He returns the hand to the wheel as he takes a right at the lights, and I try to relax as I stare out the window. He focuses on the road for the next five minutes, and I use the time to spiral in and out of panic. We turn into a street, and I come out of my stupor as I realize it’s my street.

  I frown.

  He can’t possibly live here?

  The car switches off, and he’s staring out the window with a pensive expression. He doesn’t look impressed.

  “This is my home,” I state inadequately.

  He turns back to me, and understanding hits me. He’s taking me home despite my many protests.

  No, I am home. It’s done.

  His regard is contemplative. The car is dark, but there’s a street light close by illuminating the side of his face. He’s so beautiful. I didn’t realize men could be beautiful, but he is. A sinful kind of beauty.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you up.”

  This isn’t what I wanted. I’m still trying to work out how it all went wrong, and he’s out of the car and opening my door.

  He offers his hand, and I take it, because what else can I do? I’ve messed this up, messed up my one chance at heaven.

  I know, I know. There’s no way of knowing how the evenin
g might have played out. Maybe he is a selfish lover. Perhaps he would have left me hanging then rolled over and began to snore. I’ve experienced that before. Or maybe I’d have been too nervous, and no matter how gentle, considerate, or skilled he is, I can’t come. I’ve experienced that before, too.

  Maybe he senses that I’m a lost cause, too deep in my own head to live in the now.

  I feel broken and broken down. I feel empty and hopeless. I wanted this so badly, wanted to let go, to be like other women, and enjoy the moment. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.” I try to cut him off at the bottom of the stairs. He’s seen enough, and I don’t want him to see the shambles going on inside.

  Ignoring my plea, he escorts me up the three flights of stairs where he takes the key from my trembling fingers and opens the door…and follows me in.

  His gaze skims over the room—and the romance novel lying on the coffee table. It’s got an old receipt in the middle as a bookmark, so it’s obviously a work in progress…and a half-naked, tattooed biker on the front.

  Doreen, a middle-aged care assistant who lives two doors away, gave it to me last week. She doesn’t drink or smoke and lives for her job, but she has a thing for biker romance and insists on leaving her cast-offs for me.

  I wasn’t going to read it. I usually hang on to them before passing them back a couple of weeks later. I’ve become extremely skilled at providing evasive answers when she asks me what I thought. I’m more a thriller sort of girl. But I didn’t get a chance to hit the library this week, and it was there, taunting me, so I started reading.

  Okay, I’m going to admit, it was surprisingly difficult to put down.

  Matt doesn’t say a word. Maybe he didn’t see it? My evening is already a disaster, and desperate not to make it any worse, I try to work out how I can remove the evidence…or cover it. Yes, I’ll cover it!

  While he is staring out the window at the streetlight that’s been blinking for the last week, I drop my jacket casually over the table. Not that casually, more of a—sprawl, a messy sprawl. Now I look like some sort of a slob. Great!

  “Do you want a drink?” I’ve got tea or coffee. I don’t have any sugar, and I’m nearly out of milk. I feel frantic and wonder why I would offer to make a drink when I just want him to leave. What am I going to do if he calls my bluff?

  He turns back and smiles. “A black coffee would be great. Don’t worry about the cup.”

  I blink a couple of times—that smile is lethal—before I realize he’s teasing. I’m not very good at getting when people are teasing me. Except for Betty, I’m on to Betty now, but it took like a whole year, and sometimes she still slips something past me and laughs so hard she cries.

  He shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it over the nearby chair. Somehow it lands neatly…and he begins rolling up his sleeves. I never thought forearms were sexy before, and his shirt fits so perfectly that I get distracted by imagining what lies underneath. Sitting on the couch, he stretches his long legs out while loosening a button on his collar.

  He looks great there.

  I realize I’m still staring at him. I should go and do—something. What was I supposed to be doing?

  He turns to face me. “Please don’t give me that look. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  I drag my eyes to his face. What look was I giving? I can feel my cheeks flush—damn my stupid genetics.

  Right, coffee.

  Starting the coffee off, I grab a glass of water, chugging the contents down as I peek at my guest.

  The couch faces away from the kitchen, so all I can see is the back of his head and the dark unruly hair I desperately want to run my hands through. His head is bent forward. Probably on his cellphone. Good. If he’s occupied with the phone, he won’t be thinking about that damn book.

  I get lost, staring at his bent head…from the safety of my tiny kitchen. Hiding. Why haven’t I gone over there and climbed onto his lap?

  Because he’s just rejected me. He rejected me a while ago, several blocks ago, in fact.

  If I kissed him, I’m sure he would kiss me back.

  He said he wanted to fuck me. No, he said, he really wanted to make me—no, I’m not going there.

  I take two cups out of the cupboard, then two more. It’s a challenge to find some that don’t look twenty years old. They are actually twenty years old. I don’t think they make this hideous design anymore.

  I should get them valued, they must be bordering on antique.

  I spy a new one. It was a present from Betty. It has the words FOR and SAKE on the front and a cartoon fox picture in between. I thought the fox was super cute when Betty gave it to me last year. I’d been using it for months before Betty challenged me when she saw Mary from three doors down, drinking tea out of it.

  Mary is a sweet old lady, but her arthritis is acting up. She pops by occasionally for a drink and a chat. I do her shopping for her whenever I get the chance, and Doreen helps out too.

  Her eyesight is poor, but she’d always referred to it as the ‘cheeky mug’ and drank her tea with a curious smirk on her face.

  You know it’s time to throw in the towel on life when your eighty-year-old neighbor is more streetwise than you.

  The coffee is ready, and I decide to go with the fox mug. If I turn it around, he won’t notice, and at least it’s not chipped.

  I’ve been hiding in the kitchen for nearly ten minutes. It’s time to get back in the game that I’m losing.

  I take comfort from the fact that I can’t screw this up any worse. Mentally bracing myself, I return to the living room. Placing the mug on the table in front of him, I make sure the picture is facing away. Perfect. A nice white, un-chipped mug.

  Wait? Where the hell did my jacket go? And the book! Where in the freaking hell is the book?

  Once more, I’m getting tunnel vision.

  Then I notice my jacket laying over the chair beside his. Thank goodness!

  The book isn’t on the table. It must have fallen off or been scooped up with the jacket.

  “Thanks,” he says. He’s still preoccupied with his phone.

  Only he isn’t holding his cellphone.

  “Oh!” My mind blanks out for several seconds. No, this can’t be happening. He can’t be sitting there reading the biker romance book.

  The receipt-bookmark rests on his thigh, and he’s concentrating on the book. Appears riveted by it. He rubs absently at the stubble on his chin before he turns the page…and smirks at whatever is written there.

  Ohmygod!

  I want to die. To actually die for the second time since starting my new job. This is worse than Coffeegate. Worse than throwing myself at him when I entered his office this morning.

  Another noise escapes my lips, it sounds remarkably like the whimper of a wounded goat.

  Goat?

  How is it possible for a human to make such an unattractive noise?

  I get his raised eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about my goat noise or the book. No, I don’t want to know. I’d like to erase this whole evening from my memory. I thought this couldn’t get any worse?

  I was wrong, so very wrong.

  He tucks the bookmark casually back into the book, and places it on the table next to the mug, face up. Then he turns the mug around and chuckles as he sees the picture. Why am I the only person who doesn’t immediately get that joke?

  “Nice mug.” He shoots a wink my way, picks it up, and takes a sip.

  I’m still standing there, stupefied. I also have a coffee in my hands but I’ve zero interest in it anymore. I should sit down, or go and lock myself in the bathroom and rock in the corner until he gets the hint and leaves.

  I elect to sit on the couch since it’s closer, and there are fewer coffee-spilling-related risks involved, and my legs aren’t feeling too stable anymore.

  “How do you feel about choking?” he asks before taking another sip of coff
ee.

  It’s cheap coffee, but he doesn’t mention the taste. I used to think it was fine until I had my first barista coffee this week. I sip my own. He probably has one of those fancy pod machines at his home, the expensive ones that George Clooney advertises.

  Wait? Choking? What about choking? I shake my head in confusion. Is he talking about my goat sound?

  I should have gone to the bathroom while I had the chance.

  He leans over and taps a long tapered forefinger on the book cover over the top of the biker’s ripped torso.

  My attention locks on the book as his hand moves away.

  He takes another sip of the coffee before putting it on the table beside the book.

  The book?

  The freaking book!

  What the hell was written on the next pages of the book?

  He leans back into the couch, and I drag my focus back to him. He appears relaxed…and predatory again.

  “On cock.”

  I don’t answer. My heart is beating so fast I think I might go into cardiac arrest.

  “Something you fantasize about, or something you like to do?”

  My eyes return to the book, and I swallow. I’ve never choked on a cock. I’m pretty sure I never want to, and I’ve never read about it either. But yes, the book was pretty explicit, and the biker, Mitch, was the kind of guy who took what he wanted when he wanted. I could imagine him standing over Charlotte, stroking his big dick in his hand as he told her to open up and take it like a good girl.

  When I look up, Matt is staring at my lips.

  He wants to do that to me.

  I want him to do that to me.

  Why would I want him to do that to me? Why does the thought of something so dirty excite me?

  Later, when I’m alone, I might be able to understand my interest in such a shocking thing, but right now that’s not happening, and all I have is a feverish need I cannot understand or explain.