Craving My Boss

By: Tasha Fawkes

Settle. Settle. Settle. The lone word echoes in my head, knocking against empty passages that should hold all the worthwhile memories I have of my time with Stewart. Why can’t I recall a single instance of feeling satisfied?

“You mean you want to make it official?” I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Stewart grins. He’s handsome when he does that. Hell, he’s handsome most of the time.

“Yeah. Settled,” he agrees, or at least thinks he’s agreeing.

I yank my hand from his. “Stewart, how much more ‘settled’ can we get?” I ask, my voice ringing with frustration. I rise from my chair, and a belated moment later, he mirrors me. I square off with him from across my desk, bracing myself for the outpouring of words I’ve been meaning to say for so long. I gush it all out. “You make lists that have to do with foreplay! Don’t think I haven’t seen them. Spend no more than five minutes performing oral sex before confirming readiness for penetration. Really?”

“I read that in a journal!” he quickly defends. “Published in a prestigious paper! I thought it was sound advice. You seemed to like it at the time.”

How can I tell him I’d faked it? I resist the urge to tug my hair out in annoyance. I settle for grinding my teeth and pinching my nose for the umpteenth time this evening. “It’s the same thing over and over with you,” I continue, not unkindly. “I don’t want lists, Stewart, even of the things I like—and, by the way, that is way too brief a session of oral for any sexually mature individual to get anything worthwhile out of it. I want more than just clinical biology. I don’t want to be examined, or tested, or… or…” I wave a hand, mentally erasing what I just said. It doesn’t matter. He won’t get it. Trying to get him to see what I’m saying is a fruitless endeavor. A waste of breath. Stewart’s eyes narrow, but in anger. Like he’s considering something.

“You want more spontaneity?” he asks.


“I can be spontaneous.”

Before I know it, Stewart rounds my desk and wraps me in his arms. I consider backing away, but the defiant part of me wants to see just how far he’ll go. It isn’t Daniel Stone bending me over my desk, but maybe, just maybe…

I gasp in alarm as his arms hug me a moment, and then he bends slightly, his arms now reaching around my waist. Stewart might be a pathologist who sits in a lab most of the day, but I know better than most that he’s actually pretty athletic. He puts his muscled arms to good use as he lifts me off the ground and slings me over his shoulder.

“Stewart!” I admonish, a little louder than I intended. “Put me down!” I try to grab onto the corner of my desk for balance. I miss and grab his ass instead.

He chortles. “This is what you wanted, Ash!”

Too late. I realize that I made a huge miscalculation by being upfront with him. Sober expression or not, Stewart is still drunk—and now he’s quite literally taken my life into his hands.

“Stewart! Put me down!” I command, pounding now on his ass as he carries me out into the hallway. No, no, no… this can’t be happening! I try to lift myself enough to shoot a glance over my shoulder to see where he’s heading, but it’s difficult to get my bearings bouncing on his shoulder. I think he’s taking me toward the elevator. His grip tightens over the swell of my ass in response to my insistence that he put me down. At that moment, I know it’s hopeless trying to negotiate with him when in such a vulnerable position. As soon as he puts me down, though, I’ll make him wish he’d never…

I gulp and scramble for purchase, trying to lift myself so I can balance my hands on his hips, but I start to slip. “Stewart! I’m slipping!” The reality of being dropped prompts me to freeze. “Stewart!” My voice rising in panic now. “I’m going to fall!”

“Relax babe, I would never—”

The bastard trips. He actually trips, stumbling over nothing but his own impaired reflexes, and my slinky dress might as well be butter in his hands. He scrambles to catch his balance and with his body off-kilter, I slide forward. Our legs tangle. I see myself falling ass over teakettle, but I manage to instinctively twist and barely manage to break my fall with my hands, lucky I didn’t break one of them in the process. I topple to the ground onto my right hip, my hands sliding forward so that I actually manage to land on my forearms. Unfortunately, Stewart slides to the side. In Stewart’s defense, he twists at the last second to avoid all of his weight from crashing down on me. In my defense, he decides to use the front of my dress as a handhold.

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