Raise the Heat: A Forbidden Office Romance (Beastly Bosses)

by Cassia Leo

  My breathing quickens as she frees my erection through the slit in my trunks. I lean back, one of my hands splayed on the soft cushion, as she grabs the chocolate sauce.

  I use my free hand to run my fingers through her hair, tenderly moving it out of her face, so I can watch as her mouth makes contact. I moan as she curls her fingers around the tip and firmly slides her hand down to the base, stretching the skin taut. Flashing me a cheeky grin, she pours the warm confection on the head of my cock. Her eyes lock on mine as she swirls her pink tongue around the tip.

  “Fuck,” I groan as she licks enthusiastically.

  Her tongue moves up and down and all around, paying close attention as she cleans every bit of sauce from every inch of the tip and shaft. When she’s satisfied she’s gotten all the chocolate, she takes my cock halfway into her mouth.

  I hiss as I lean my head back in pure fucking ecstasy. Her head bobs up and down, making my heart feel as if it’s ready to leap out of my chest every time my cock hits her soft palate.

  “Fucking hell,” I say through gritted teeth as she squeezes the base of my erection, and I feel damn near ready to explode.

  Her eyes are laser-focused on mine as she pumps her fist a few times, then takes me all the way into her mouth. Tears stream down her gorgeous face as my cock glides into her throat with some resistance. Tightening my fist around her hair, I let her bob her head a couple more times before I yank her head back. She gasps and chuckles a little as she catches her breath, then she goes for it again.

  But this cat-and-mouse game has me teetering on the edge. As my cock once again enters her throat, my balls tighten up, and I let go of her hair as I lean back and explode into her mouth. She takes her time licking up every drop of cum around my twitching cock.

  I have no desire to tell her to stop. This is her way of getting me ready for the next round. Unfortunately, we have more pressing matters to attend to.

  I brush her hair out of her eyes and take her face in my hands, forcing her to look up at me. “Sit down, love.”

  She looks confused as she takes a seat on the chaise behind her. “Are you not in the mood?”

  I shake my head as I tuck my cock back inside my trunks and fasten my jeans. “That’s a silly question. You know I’m always in the mood for a good shag. But first, we need to talk.”

  She looks worried now. “That sounds ominous.”

  I laugh as I kneel before her and stuff my hand into my pocket.

  The worry in her eyes turns to curiosity as she sees me pull out a box. “What’s that?” she asks as the corners of her mouth inch upward.

  “You know exactly what this is,” I say, opening the box to retrieve the princess-cut diamond ring I’ve had sitting on the top shelf of my side of the closet for months, where my pint-size Alice could never find it.

  Her face screws up as if she’s in physical pain, then she covers her mouth and weeps.

  My fingers tremble slightly as I place the box on the table next to me and reach for Alice’s face to grab her left hand. Her entire body is shaking like a leaf as I place a tender kiss on her knuckles.

  “Forgive me for interrupting you, my lady,” I say in the stodgiest Queen’s English I can muster. “I know you were having so much fun licking my sword, but I simply cannot wait any longer for your answer.”

  She lets out a congested laugh as she uses her free hand to wipe her tears. “Your chivalry is not wasted, sir. Ask away,” she says in a terrible British accent.

  Her comment reminds me of the first time I groveled at her feet, the day she told me my chivalry was wasted on her. We’ve come so far since then, me and this woman I love.

  “Very well,” I reply, placing another kiss on the back of her hand. “I have but one question for you, and that is…”

  Her gaze flits back and forth between my right and left eye as she waits impatiently for me to resume.

  “I put ring on finger. You sign paper. Big wedding. Grow old together. Make me very happy. Yes?” I say in the most terrible caveman accent anyone has ever heard.

  A strange sound comes out of her mouth, something between a woeful cry and cackling laughter, as she throws her arms around me before I can even place the ring on her finger.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she shrieks into my ear.

  I try not to drop the ring as I fold my arms around her and squeeze with all my might. Placing a soft kiss on the sensitive spot behind her ear lobe, I whisper, “You’re clinging, love.”

  She loosens her hold on me and sits back again, her eyes searching for my hands. “You’d better get used to it. I’ll be clinging to you for the rest of your life.”

  My heart is bursting as I slide the ring onto her trembling finger. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I take her face in my hands and kiss her perfect mouth, then I laugh as she grabs the front of my shirt and greedily pulls me on top of her.

  “Is it your turn now?” I ask, laying a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

  She nods as she flashes me a cheeky grin.

  I trace my finger along her bottom lip and smile. “Okay, but can you do one thing for me?”

  “Anything!” she replies excitedly.

  I gaze into her eyes for a moment before I speak. “Can you stop taking those ruddy pills?”

  Her eyes widen at my blunt delivery. “My birth control? Are you saying you want to put a bun in my oven?”

  I nod without hesitation. “Four or five buns, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

  “Oh, well, when you put it that way,” she says, tapping her chin as if she’s thinking about my proposal, “of course.”

  “Really?”

  She nods enthusiastically. “My oven is your oven. I’ll stop taking the ruddy pills tomorrow.”

  I laugh as I think I finally understand what it feels like when someone says they feel positively giddy. “Drop those knickers, love. You’re in for the rogering of your life.”

  She giggles as she begins to undress. I watch her intently, helping her when she needs it, giving her space when she doesn’t. As her exquisite body lies before me, I take time to compliment her gorgeousness as I devour and pleasure every inch of her.

  Like a fine wine or a perfectly cooked steak, a woman’s beauty must be savored. And all women are beautiful in their own way; even when they rip your heart out, there’s beauty in the lessons they offer. So, take your time. Appreciate the subtle flavors. And never let your twin have a single bite.

  The End.

  Want more boss romance? Turn the page to learn more about the Beastly Bosses series.

  Coming soon!

  RAISE YOUR GLASS

  A Fake Fiancé Office Romance coming spring 2021!

  How to plan your boss’s wedding:

  1.Pretend to be engaged to your irresistible beast of a boss.

  2.Let the media—and your parents!—believe the lie.

  3.Let your fake wedding plans snowball out of control.

  4.Move in with your fake groom to maintain appearances.

  5.Fall in love with your fake groom?

  More info at cassialeo.com/beastly

  Coming soon!

  LIKE HONEY

  A Slow-Burn Stand-Alone Romance coming late summer 2021!

  I meet sexy, enigmatic Jacob Maxwell the day my sister dies. He turns the worst day of my life into the best one-night stand of my life.

  And through the years, that one night becomes years. Our chance encounters turn into amazing sex. And our potent chemistry sparks many failed attempts at monogamy, which are always sabotaged by Jake’s need to push me away.

  Despite the intensity of our attraction, I’ve never been able to make him stay. The mystery of his reluctance to get close to me hangs between us like a giant question mark, the answer just out of my reach.

  But neither of us can let go. Until, after our most recent and dramatic breakup, Jake leaves Seattle without a word.

  No goodbye.

  No forwarding address.r />
  No more question mark.

  I have my answer now.

  Or so I think.

  I soon find our story doesn’t end there. Our mystery has yet to unfurl.

  Because the love we share is slow…like honey.

  Preorder Like Honey now!

  PREVIEW OF BREAK

  CHARLEY

  Then

  They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I would say a picture is worth a lifetime of words, since a single photograph can change your entire life.

  When I was fourteen, a chubby girl in my freshman Spanish class attempted suicide after her former boyfriend posted a naked photo of her on MySpace. It was the scandal of the school year. I publicly expressed my disappointment with the way my fellow classmates were body-shaming her. Privately, though, I judged that girl. I couldn’t help but wonder… Who would be foolish enough to trust a teenage boy with nudes?

  Just ten more minutes. Don’t pass out yet. Just hold on for ten more minutes.

  I repeat the words over and over in my mind, like a mantra. Just ten more minutes and I can go home, drink a gallon of NyQuil, and sleep away this dreadful flu.

  The art gallery just off the Sonoma State campus is small, but not quaint. Situated in the middle of 4th Street in Santa Rosa, among an eclectic mix of upscale and fair trade shops, the gallery has a wall of windows facing south. This wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t eighty-two degrees outside and the gallery’s air conditioning wasn’t working.

  I loosen my black scarf and swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth as the urge to vomit begins to overtake me again. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths as I attempt to quell the sensation.

  “I’m sorry. I just need a minute,” I say to my professor as we move onto the next photograph in the exhibit.

  If I knew, when I chose to be an art major, that I’d have to do my final exam — a solo show using selected pieces from my photography portfolio to tell a story — in an overheated art gallery, while secretly popping Tylenol every time my professor turns his back on me, I might have seriously reconsidered my dream of being the next Annie Leibovitz. Or I might have chosen a major where I could take my final exam in an air-conditioned lecture hall. At the very least, I’d rethink my brilliant idea to wear a scarf today.

  My attempt to look like an artsy-fartsy ballerina — in my lucky black scarf, baby-pink bateau-neck top, black skinny jeans, and pink ballerina flats — and my refusal to request a postponement of the solo show the moment I came down with the flu, will be my downfall. No matter how hot it gets in this gallery, I can’t take off my lucky scarf. Therefore, I predict, if I don’t get high marks on this final, I’m going to drop dead on the high-gloss marble floor.

  I trail behind Professor Healy like a baby duckling, answering his questions about lenses, exposures, and filters while trying not to stare at the Florida-shaped birthmark in the center of his bald spot. The show is supposed to tell a story, and the only story that matters in my world is the story of Ben and me. The exhibit begins with images of the beach, where Ben and I first met, then moves through a collection of places we’ve visited together. With Ben’s fame becoming such an issue these past few years, most of the pictures depict secluded landscapes: sparkling lakes, rocky coves, and misty forests.

  As I discreetly wipe the sweat trickling down the back of my ear, my phone vibrates in my hand. I quickly slide it into my back pocket as we approach the picture I took of the Sky-house.

  The Sky-house is a hollowed out Redwood tree near the forested campsites of the Bodega sand dunes, just steps away from where my boyfriend Ben Hayes and I grew up next door to each other in Bodega Bay, California. The Sky-house was Ben’s hideout before it became ours, and we promised we would never reveal the location to anyone. He approves of my use of the photo for my final, but I’m supposed to destroy the evidence after my solo show. We named our tree the Sky-house because you can look straight up through the hollow trunk and see the sky.

  Also, because it was fun to play “house” in there.

  I wish Ben was here. He would kiss my forehead and tell me everything was going to be okay. Afterward, he’d take me home and make me some instant ramen — because he couldn’t make chicken soup if his life depended on it. Then, we’d cuddle on the couch to watch Futurama until falling asleep.

  Oddly enough, I didn’t get my usual good morning text from Ben today. He must have been up late and decided to sleep in. But he knows today is my show. It’s not like him to forget to wish me well before a big test.

  As Professor Healy examines the photograph of our hideout from various angles, my phone begins vibrating in my back pocket — nonstop. One pulse of vibration after another, like a phone call that keeps ringing or when one of my Instagram pics goes viral and my notifications are blowing up. But I haven’t posted any pics on social media in a few days. I’ve been too busy preparing for the show.

  Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

  Maybe my voicemail isn’t working. Or maybe the mailbox is full. I’m notoriously guilty of letting unchecked voicemails pile up.

  Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

  The vibrating continues for what feels like at least five minutes straight, but is probably only a couple minutes. I finally pull the phone out of my pocket and apologize to Healy for the interruption. Glancing at the screen as I reach for the power button, I see a long list of Instagram mention notifications on my lock screen, and my heart drops along with my jaw.

  2 min ago: @charleywinters have you seen this, girl?

  2 min ago: lmao. @charleywinters just got dumped in front of 600K people. #sorrycharley

  2 min ago: @charleywinters More like millions of people! This is gonna be news.

  1 min ago: @charleywinters Don’t pay attention to these assholes. You didn’t deserve this. #sorrycharley

  1 min ago: so fucked up. can’t believe @officialbenhayes would do something like this to @charleywinters #sorrycharley

  1 min ago: @charleywinters don’t pretend you haven’t seen this post. @officialbenhayes is too good for you. #byefelicia #sorrycharley #actuallynotsorry

  1 min ago: haha! so true! Why doesn’t @charleywinters get that bump on her nose fixed? #sorrycharley

  “Charlotte, are you listening?”

  I suddenly understood why Ben didn’t text me this morning. I can literally feel my blood pressure dropping. My entire body feels cold and light as a feather, like I barely exist.

  The room begins to spin as I look up from my phone screen. “What?” I murmur as Healy’s red, bulbous nose comes in and out of focus.

  I unlock the phone as my professor’s voice murmurs in the background of my consciousness. Tapping the Instagram app, then a recent notification, I’m taken to a picture of Ben riding a motorcycle on the beach at sunset. Sitting on the back seat, with her head thrown back in gleeful laughter, is a blonde I recognize right away. A blonde the entire world could probably recognize.

  The caption on the photo reads:

  @officialbenhayes to new beginnings. #instalove #newlove

  MAY 11

  I blink as Professor Healy steps around me so he’s facing me straight on.

  “I asked, ‘How long is the exposure on this picture?’” he glances at the label beneath the frame then turns back to me. “The one titled ‘Sky-house.’ You’ve achieved a stunning depth of field with this lens. How long is the exposure? Based on the softness, I’m guessing it’s at least a thirty-minute exposure, since it doesn’t appear to be motion-blurred or out of focus or over-exposed.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but only one word comes out. “Exposed.”

  “Charlotte, your face is blood-red. Are you all right?” he says, grabbing my elbows.

  I shake my head, still unable to speak as my phone continues to vibrate in my hand.

  “Oh, dear. Let’s sit you down. This is not the first time I’ve seen this happen,” he says, placing a hand on the middle of my back to guide me toward a gold velvet tufted bench about
ten feet away.

  “Do you need some water?” the gallery curator, a middle-aged woman with dark hair as glossy as the marble floor, asks.

  I shake my head again as I sit on the bench. “No,” I whisper, reaching up to pull off my lucky scarf.

  “Are you sure? Do you mind if I feel your forehead?” the woman asks gently.

  I nod this time, closing my eyes and flinching slightly at the sensation of her cold hand on my face.

  “Oh, my God. You’re burning up. I’m calling an ambulance,” she says, setting off to find a phone.

  “Wait,” I call out, holding up my still-vibrating iPhone. “I have a phone… Here. Take it. I don’t want it.”

  As she walks toward me, I can’t help but think about that chubby girl in my Spanish class. We are kin now. Today will be known as the day a single photograph changed my life.

  The curator is a couple feet away from me when I lose my grip, dropping the phone on the floor as I pass out.

  CHAPTER 1

  CHARLEY

  Now

  Social media is a blessing and a curse. It can be used to galvanize support for important issues, like shedding light on social injustice. It’s the best resource we have for sharing inspiring art and funny memes. On the other hand, social media has also become a means to pass judgment on people before they can defend themselves. The court of public opinion delivers its justice swiftly and without remorse.

  I killed all my social media accounts about two and a half years ago. I’d rather be a nobody than a cog in that kind of machine. My friends, however, have started to question my commitment to this philosophy.