Craving My Boss

By: Tasha Fawkes


Ashley Shiels. She’s a fixture at Pen and Quill, as dependable professionally as she is beautiful. I have tried on several occasions to speak with her after I’ve exited my office and made my way down the hallway from my large office, but some business matter inevitably called her away. I always thought her restrained, maybe even a little uptight, but that might just be a symptom of my own presence. Most of my employees don’t know how to act around me. I consider Elektra the only exception.

Nothing about Ashley was restrained just moments ago. I’ve barely devoted a single thought to the man that was with her since finding them both sprawled on the floor. It looked like a drunken accident, nothing more illicit than that.

But I could easily make it more illicit. I can’t stop thinking about her breasts: those pert, porcelain mounds, with nothing covering them but a pair of arms and an inexpensive bra that looked as easy to tear off her as the dress she wore. I can’t stop reliving the moment I saw her standing there bared before me. It was all I could do to keep from snatching her by the wrists and pulling her arms apart, the man on the floor be damned.

How dare she hide herself from me? I felt the Dom in me rising, and I’ve fought to tamp it down before she meets me in her office, which I know she will.

I do what I usually do in these instances, when work interferes with the pursuit of pleasure: I distract myself. There isn’t much to look at here, but Ashley’s laptop is open; the green light flashing rhythmically on the side. I tap the space bar and the screen lights up. I pull it toward me without much interest. Maybe I should feel guilty for invading my employee’s privacy, but I doubt that a cursory glance at what she’s working on—on her night off to attend the Christmas party, for that matter—will do much harm. I’ve already seen more of her than she was probably expecting to reveal to me.

A manuscript. I gaze at the familiar formatting. She’s working on her own manuscript. Most everyone around here is secretly working on one, no surprise there. Still, I didn’t expected Ashley to have a book in progress. What else is my scintillating little editorial assistant hiding from me?

“Fuck me,” she begged. “Please. Any way you want me. I can’t stand this torture any longer.”

I lift an eyebrow. Well then.

“You’ve ruined your stockings,” her lover purred as he swept the dark chocolate cascade of hair back from her shoulders. “You’re so wet, you’re positively dripping. Does my own particular brand of punishment turn you on so much?”

My cock stirs and offers an aggressive twitch at the word punishment. “Just what have you been writing, Ashley?” I murmur as I scroll down the page. I’m an adept speed-reader—I have to be in my line of work—but I want to take my time processing this latest revelation. Evidently, Ashley spends her spare time writing smut, and as for her predilections…

“Maybe you forgot who’s boss around here,” he growled as he flipped her over and shoved her back against her desk. Her pencil holder toppled and spilled its contents onto the floor, but she couldn’t have put a halt to the proceedings now if she wanted to… and like hell she did want to. She let her supervisor thrust himself between her legs. She rocked her hips back against the edge of her desk. His honey-blond hair fell forward over savage green eyes, brimming with hunger for…

“Stewart! Where is Daniel… Mister Stone?”

I hear her alarmed voice coming from just outside in the hallway. It’s all I can do to tear my eyes away from the screen and the torrid scene unfolding in my mind—courtesy of Ashley’s sizzling-hot words. I have maybe seconds to act before she joins me.

And I do. I tab open Ashley’s e-mail, attach the manuscript to my address, and hit Send. Then I close out of the window and shut the laptop, giving it a little nudge with my hand to arrange it the way I found it. There’s nothing that can be done about my throbbing erection tucked against my thigh.

I watch the door, making a deal with myself as I wait for her to enter. It’s something I’m used to doing, but this time the deal is unusually sweet. If Ashley Shiels walks in here with the front of her dress torn, I intend to do something about it. Something that is decidedly not chivalrous.

She pushes the door open, and I’m disappointed, though not surprised. I knew she was smart enough to engineer a quick fix, and she’s managed to salvage the shredded fabric and make herself halfway presentable again in the process.

Pity.

“Miss Shiels.” I keep my voice low, though I’m already certain of our privacy. I motion toward the door, and she nods, closing it quietly behind her.

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