by Smart, Kit
Your Fake Boss,
Owen Bishop-MacQuoide
Objectively Sexy Ginger and Walking Stiff at Courage After Fire
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8
Owen
“Jonathan Roberts, Director of Paws on Duty.” The feeling of my fake executive assistant’s hand against my bicep, as she braces herself against me, sends a shiver of warmth through me that is only slightly less arousing than the tidal wave that washes through me at the sensation of her breath against my neck as she murmurs in my ear. “You met him last week at the Luncheon Event at Hartfield Green.”
Tilting my head slightly toward her, I catch her eye. “Dog show?”
“Yes.” She nods and lowers herself off of her tip toes only to gasp slightly as she catches a heel in the hem of her long red dress.
Reflexively, I reach out and wrap my left arm around her waist to prevent her falling. I keep it there as I shake hands and exchange the requisite pleasantries with Jonathan Roberts.
“I’m fine now thank you.” She tells me rather primly for a woman who’d, just this afternoon, been discussing the merits of sticking her hand down my pants in a work email chain.
I give her a look as I remove my hand. “You wouldn’t have these problems if you wore more appropriate footwear.”
“If I wore more appropriate footwear, I wouldn’t be able to whisper in your ear.” She returns with that little sideways grimace she gives me from time to time. Catching sight of another person approaching she returns her hand to my bicep, and turns toward my ear. “Lady Diana Mallory. Chief Curator of Altead Gallery in Heath.”
“You may not be able to whisper in my ear.” I glance at Seri to check her reaction before I continue. “However, you would be more comfortably able to stick your hand down my pants.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re honestly going to bring that up now?” All professionalism my exec. She’d given me nothing else since I’d woken up on her office sofa and snapped at her unfairly, and from a work prospective, I genuinely appreciate that about her. I had, in fact gone to great effort to ensure that we didn’t continue on our initial footing.
It wouldn’t have been fair to her to continue the way we had begun, when it couldn’t possibly lead to anything.
From a personal prospective, I often wonder what goes on behind the calm, collected, efficient facade she’s been presenting me with in the office.
I’d seen cracks here and there, traces, of the funny, quirky woman I’d met that first day; the one who’d looked at me like I was unexpected, but exactly right.
They never lasted for more than a moment or two; and they were, none of them, directed at me, at least not until this afternoon, when she’d accidentally cc’d me into her email chain.
It’s my fault—I know—that things are this way between us.
I recognize that it’s for the best.
But seeing the way she is with others; comparing it with the way she is with me—the way she’s been with me since I woke up in her office—makes me feel like I am starving.
The embarrassing truth is that I’m hungry for her attention. So, hungry, in fact, that it has effectively decimated my better nature. I want her to look at me like she did that first day—I want her to look at me like I am an option.
“You’re the one with all the interest in bringing things up.” I return quietly and find myself smiling at the disapproving look she gives me as I turn to offer my hand to the woman in front of me.
I am aware of her eyes on me the entire time I speak to Lady Diana, and I’d be a liar if I said that being the subject of her regard weren’t causing my blood to heat.
“You’re teasing me.” She murmurs, when, Lady Diana successfully dealt with, I resume my post beside her. She doesn’t look at me.
“My tongue can do a better job of teasing you than my words can.” I return as I forcibly keep my own gaze forward. Take that. “You have a dirty mouth Ms. Hunt.”
“I may have a dirty mouth but I can do great things with it.” I barely manage not to whip my head around at her reply.
I don’t know why it surprised me; by this point I already knew to expect the unexpected where she was concerned.
In the next moment, she puts her hand against my bicep and raises herself up onto her toes, so that she can lean in to whisper against my ear. “I think you may have meant to say that I have dirty fingers.” She tells me, and I find myself involuntarily lifting a hand to my chest as my nipples tighten and throb against the material of my shirt. With great effort, I refrain from rubbing them. “It was an email, so dirty fingers.” Tilting her head down ever so slightly, in a way that I am certain is deliberate; she exhales softly against the sensitive line of my neck. “I want you to imagine my fingers sliding along your body—knowing and enjoying every line of you. Can you feel them?” She exhales; lets that sink in; waits until my body clamors, and throbs at the sensation of her phantom fingertips, and then she leans closer, until her lips all but brush my ear lobe as she speaks. “Hamilton Alexander and his wife Maria. They donated twenty-six thousand pounds to our equine therapy program last month. This is the first time you’ve met them. Their daughter Lucy is an intern in said equine therapy program.” Mission accomplished she lowers herself off her toes, and steps back, leaving me, body on fire, to suffer through the requisite pleasantries alone.
Despite my best efforts, my body is no calmer when; having greeted the Alexanders and sent them on their way, I step back beside her. “You’re a menace Hunt. I should send you back to the office.” I tell her as, unable to stand it any longer, I casually grip my left shoulder with my right hand, so I can apply the pressure of my forearm to the rioting nerves of my chest.
It’s almost enough.
“Don’t tell me what to do unless you’re naked Bishop-MacQuoide.” Hands clasped neatly over her evening bag—some ridiculous little silver contraption barely large enough to hold whatever it is that women keep in their evening bags—she looks up at me through her bangs; the combination of heat and amusement in her gaze as she glances down at my chest and then back up at me; telling me that she isn’t fooled by the casualness with which I grasp my shoulder. She knows exactly what she is doing to me.
It’s both viciously arousing and fucking annoying.
I take a deep breath; wait to see what she’ll say next.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“You caught me.” She tilts her head to the side, regards me thoughtfully from serious brown eyes. “You shouldn’t have. I should never have written those emails, but there’s no undoing them.” She gives a little nod; the same calm little nod she gives at work when she is taking in information. “I admit it. I fantasize. A lot. About you. Insanely, fucking sexy fantasies.”
“Hunt—” I protest as my body threatens to combust right there in front of all of the fancy people milling around. I am very near the point where I will no longer be able to function in a social setting and am torn between telling her to stop, and pushing her up against the nearest wall and kissing her until she forgets how words work.
She, damn her eyes, raises an amused eyebrow at me. “Hot and bothered?”
“Hot and bothered doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Good.” She tells me.
“Good?” I can’t believe what I am hearing. Good?!
“Consider it a warning.” She gives another of her trademark workmanlike nods and my only consolation is that heat flickers in her gaze as she stares me down.
“A warning?” I repeat dumbly. Is there a parrot in here?
“A warning.” She holds my gaze steadily. I watch as an unholy light flickers to life in her eyes. “If you get involved with me, and the term involved extends to whatever game you are playing here tonight, I will make it my mission to make you as hot and bothered as possible in really awkward situations.”
Seri
“How is it that we’ve been working together for the better
part of a month and I am just now hearing about your perverse desire to have your wicked way with me?” Taking the last two glasses of champagne from the tray proffered by a passing server; the Chief offers me a glass.
Seriously? Accepting the glass, I tilt my head back and look up into Bishop-MacQuoide’s blue eyes. Amusement with a touch of seriousness.
I consider his question. Why had I never acted on my desires? The man had been featuring heavily in my secret lustful imaginings from the moment we’d been introduced. The things we’d gotten up to in my dreams… I glance down as, in response to my thoughts, awareness skitters through me and settles low in my belly. In an attempt to get control of myself, I toss back my glass of champagne, and gesture with my empty glass for him to do the same.
“That smile—” I look back up as his hoarse tone breaks into my memories. “What is that smile?”
Noticing the people around us beginning to make their way toward the door of the auction room, I take his arm and drew him along as I consider my answer. Surely discussing the erotic fantasies you have of your boss, with your boss, breaks some sort of sexual harassment regulation or other?
“Hunt—” Bishop-MacQuoide never takes his gaze off of my face as he permits himself to be drawn along, and that more than anything else decides my answer for me. The interest appears to be mutual. I tell myself. At least insofar as this evening goes anyway. I grimace as I recall the short lived promise of our first meeting. On the upside, technically he’s neither my boss, nor in my direct chain of command. Chalk up one of the benefits of working for a clandestine government organization masquerading as a non-profit. I keep my gaze front and center as I guide him in the direction of where he needs to be next. Try to start some sort of game of sexual brinkmanship with me will you? Let’s see how you do with this: “That smile was me thinking about how it felt to have your hard cock pushing against me; making me wet; filling me inch by inch.” I reply under my breath as I pull him around a couple who has stopped to admire one of the paintings gracing the entrance way of the exhibit hall. “How it felt to feel your body naked on top of mine as you began to rock the tip of you cock against my g-spot.” I risk a glance at him and find him slack jawed with shock. Precisely what I was going for. Gotcha. “Too much?” As if I care after the past couple of weeks.
Pulling his face back into a semblance of order, he shakes his head slowly. “No—” He hesitates; examines my face. “Hunt,—I—have to tell you—” He shakes his head in exasperation; runs his free hand through his hair; looks away and tosses back his champagne. “Why in the name of god are you telling me this now?” He stares at me. “I mean why did you wait until now?” A nod in the direction of the party beyond the wall. “You’re telling me this now, at a charity auction, where I am about to be sold off as a date to the highest bidder.” His blue eyes are inscrutable. “Your timing leaves a lot to be desired.”
Shrugging in the face of those blue eyes and whatever was in them, I go for broke. No sense in holding back now. I mean, you’ve already put it out it there in writing. “Your personality.”
He looks taken aback. “My personality?” He repeats.
“Yes.” Surely this isn’t a shock? You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder since week two. I flick a look at him as I lead him through the door that leads out into a hallway that would take us backstage. “You are aware that you are not the most approachable person on the plan—” Suddenly aware of how offensive the words coming out of my mouth might be, I attempt a mid-sentence edit. “—at the office?” Despite my irritation with him, I find myself not wanting to hurt his feelings. After all, he may not be able to do anything about his personality. The man I had met initially may have been the product of… some sort of clandestine slipping of drugs into his food or tea or something. Personality drugs. Happy pills. Sexy pills. Happy-Sexy pills. Happy-Sexy-Ginger pills.
Bishop-MacQuoide gives a huff of something that may be laughter. It’s hard to tell in the relative darkness of the hallway.
“You just don’t seem to be particularly interested in sex.” I stop at the door that I know from my earlier explorations, leads backstage left. When I had arrived, I had set up everything MacQuoide would need for the speech he is about to make.
He stills behind me, and I pause with my hand on the door. Wondering what’s wrong, I look over at him and am surprised by the glacial expression on his face.
Have I offended him somehow? I attempt to correct my last statement. “I mean at the office—not interested in sex at the office. As is professional.”
Wanting to ask about his reaction, but conscious of the time; I pull open the door, and guide him to the offstage prep area I had arranged earlier in the evening. Unsurprised to see his second in command waiting at the small table, I assume NSU business and point to a backpack on a chair beside the table. “Your notecards are in there. Along with a bottle of iced tea, and some paracetamol.” Not wanting to waste more time by listing the entire contents of the bag. I wave a hand in my patented etcetera etcetera gesture which garners a raised eyebrow but no comment. “I will be back in twenty minutes when it’s time for you to go on.” With that, I make my way to my pre-arranged position out in the hallway where I can make certain that nobody can gain entrance backstage while the two men confer.
Seri
When I return backstage at the appointed time, Bishop-MacQuoide is alone at the table notecards in hand, and bottle of iced tea open on the table in front of him.
The part of me that is his professional minder, and is concerned with things like bathroom breaks, notes with approval that the bottle is only halfway empty. “Ready?” I ask him as I came to a stop in front of him. “You have—” I check my watch. “Six minutes.”
He tips his head back and looks up at me and my heart stutters in shock when he smiles. “Six minutes.” He confirms like the professional operative that he is. Tucking his notecards into the pocket of his jacket, he pulls his legs in from their comfortable sprawl in preparation for standing up. I frown at the too small table. “I’ll make certain that you have a better table next time.” I tell him and taking my phone out make a note. “I keep forgetting how tall you are.”
“You keep forgetting?” He laughs as he pushes himself to his feet beside me. “I thought that my height was the reason behind those absurd shoes of yours.”
“I intermittently forget.” I correct myself absently as I study his expression. Gone are the lines of tension at his forehead and temples; the tight expression in his eyes and the tense jaw, and in their place is a slackness that I’d never seen from him before. The relaxed expression; the smile, and the ebullience in his gaze combine to leave me with the impression that I am looking at a much younger version of him. He’s stunning. My muddled brain freezes at the thought only to roar to life seconds later as something occurs to me. “Are you drunk?”
“Drunk?” Bishop-MacQuoide sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels as he laughs down at me. “No.”
I scowl suspiciously. The maneuver is so charmingly boyish that I have to rein myself in with force. I have never seen him act like this before, and it sends my stress levels shooting through the ceiling. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong?” He lifts a hand and smoothes the hair back from my temple before sliding it to down to cup the back of my head. My neck tingles where the heel of his hand presses against it. Maintaining eye contact, giving me every chance to pull away, he lowers his head and presses a feather light kiss to my forehead. “Absolutely nothing.” He murmurs as he drops his forehead to rest against mine.
I stare into his eyes as my body alternately ripples and melts with pleasure in reaction to the unexpectedness of it all. I mean, I had spent the evening pretty much sexually taunting the man, but this, this was something different. Something unexpected and a fair bit more delicate; more intimate; than the night of (hopefully) wild sex I’d been gunning for.
Apparently sensing my surprise. He searches my eyes. “Do
you mind?” He asks quietly. “I never thought—” He stops.
I consider his question. “Me neither.” I take a breath; feel it out. “I don’t mind though.” I tell him and am surprised at how true that feels when I say it. Who knew?
He smiles at that and I find myself grinning back as the joy in his expression infiltrates my being like it’s contagious.
A beep from my watch brings me back to the present and I cup his face in my hand charmed by the way he turns his face into the contact. You like to me touched eh? I can work with that. Later. “That’s the one minute warning MacQuoide.” I use my thumbs to caress his cheekbones surprising something like a purr out of him. “It’s showtime.” Pushing gently with my hands, I step back, and busy myself straightening up and not looking at him.
After a moment, when all the blatantly unnecessary straightening has been attended to, I look over at him and am surprised to find that he has turned his back to me. I watch as he tucks in his shirt and then stands silently unmoving; head bowed with his hands on his hips.
This goes on for so long that I actually have to check my watch to assure myself that we are still on schedule. Forty seconds. I wait another ten seconds before clearing my throat. “Thirty seconds.”
MacQuoide exhales loudly. “Seri?”
I jump at the unexpectedness of hearing my name on his lips. It’s been awhile. “Yes?”
“I need two minutes.” He murmurs wryly.
I consider my own rioting nerve endings. “No problem.” With a useless nod at his back, I make my way to the edge of the stage and catch the eye of the Master of Ceremonies at which point I hold two fingers up.
A member of the team and well versed in working under such conditions, he takes my meaning immediately, gives me a slight nod and continues to address the audience without any outward sign that anything has changed.
I turn and step back into the wings. “You have two minutes.” I tell MacQuoide’s back.”
