Page 7 of Hot for the Boss

“Thank you. Really,” I murmur, feeling an odd urge to…I don’t know. Hug her? No, something more, but physical contact is not an appropriate way to express my appreciation to my assistant. Besides, what’s rolling through my head now is muddier. My urge to be closer to her isn’t strictly professional, and I don’t understand. “I’ll leave you to it and do the dishes.”

Nia nods as I go. After I rinse off tonight’s bowls, I tuck away the last of the pans we washed by hand earlier. Then I empty the dishwasher, only to fill it up again. I’m not really sure where any of the clean stuff belongs, so I shove everything somewhere and hope I can find it again.

In that thirty minutes, she’s organized my room, remade my bed, and started my laundry. As I begin down the hall, I can hear her muttering to herself. It’s nice to have someone else in the house. She’s been good company. I’ll hate to see her leave. But soon she’ll have to head home. She’s already gone above and beyond. I can’t insist on her company until exhaustion finally takes me somewhere around two a.m. And as questionable as my thoughts about her tonight have been, I don’t know what would happen. It’s better if I let her go.

Even as I tell myself that, I walk into the bedroom for more of her company. And I stop short when I get an eyeful of Nia.

She’s on her elbows and knees, obviously searching for something. All I can see is her bent over. Her soft, round ass fills my vision. In that instant, I want to sink my hands—my teeth—into that.

Holy shit.

I stop breathing. I stop blinking. A lightning bolt of lust jolts me. I can hear my jagged heartbeat suddenly thudding in my ears.

It’s been nearly two hundred days since I’ve had sex. I see beautiful women all the time. Seattle is full of them. Hell, Stratus Solutions is, too. Since Becca’s death, some of her lithe, lanky yoga friends have even hinted they’d be interested in comforting me with more than a homemade casserole and a hug. I haven’t truly been tempted.

Until now.

With a huff, Nia tosses her hair back and sits on her heels. Her thin gray sweatshirt rides up, the band at the bottom circling her tiny waist, accentuating her curves. Her hair, which she usually has pinned up in some complicated twist at the office, falls in ebony waves halfway down her back.

Suddenly, she whirls around. I should look away…but I can’t. She’s flushed. Her eyes are bright. And a goddamn strip of her smooth, bare abdomen shows below the hem of her shirt, flirting with my overloaded senses. I gulp and hope she can’t see how hard my cock is. For her.

I need to think of something to say—fast.

Nia rescues me. “Do you know how many socks are under your bed?”

I press my lips together and try to pry my thoughts off her body. When I attempt to focus on her question, the shock of my sudden attraction has my brain boomeranging away from the clutter and back to all the things I can suddenly picture doing with her. To her.

Somehow, I manage to shake my head. “No idea.”

That’s my honest answer. I have no idea what’s going on. Why this is happening. What I’m going to do next.

She scoffs. “You must have tossed them under here at some point. I’ve managed to find what I can. Once the washing is done, you’ll probably fall a few pairs short. Oh, and did you know there’s some painting canvases under the bed?”

“Yes.” I try not to flush.

“Were they Becca’s?”

They’re mine. Diana taught me to paint as a teenager. I used to find it soothing. When I couldn’t sleep or when I couldn’t solve a business problem, something about turning off the analytical half of my brain and focusing purely on the creative when no one was watching and there were no rules to follow would free up my subconscious enough to untangle my dilemma.

All that ended when Becca perished. A few brush strokes across the canvas weren’t going to change the fact that she was gone. My will to dig for what little creativity I possess dried up. I shoved everything under the bed and left it there for good.

I don’t lie to Nia. Instead, I simply shrug. “I’ll move them later and see if I find any socks underneath.”

“Okay.” She stands, a handful of mismatched socks in her grip. “I’ll toss these in the hamper. They can go in the next load.”

We make our way to the laundry room, her talking about water temperature and me trying not to fixate on the sway of her pretty ass.

A few minutes of torturous laundry talk later, she meanders back to the living room. I can’t take my eyes off her as I follow. When she stops, I do, too. And I realize I’m standing closer than I should. My breathing becomes harsh as I watch her turn in a slow circle and take in her handiwork.

“This looks better.” She nods, seemingly pleased.

“A lot. Thank you for everything.”

“Happy to help. Can I do anything else for you tonight?”

She can’t possibly mean that the way it sounds. I only hear suggestion because I suddenly have sex on the brain. Still, how do I answer?

“I, um…” Want to fuck you so bad.