Bad for the Boss_A BWAM Office Romance Page 3

  “My little sister made them,” he said. Jen immediately felt guilty at the filthy direction of her thoughts. Here she was, salivating over his jawline, and he was feeding her his sister’s baked goods.

  “She’s very talented,” Jen said. “I’d like more. I mean—I’d like to buy some from her. If she sells them. Does she… Never mind.” Her cheeks warm, Jen shoved another bite of the tart into her mouth. Maybe that would help her shut up.

  “She doesn’t sell them,” he smiled. “She stress-bakes to avoid revising. She’s studying sociology at university. Actually, she made them for you because I asked her advice on the, ah, Johnny Bravo situation. Apparently building a safe space is crucial if you’re going to release your trauma.” He quirked a brow.

  Jen almost choked on her tart. “I’m not traumatised,” she spluttered. Not by Ollie Hatton, anyway. “It’s nothing like that. Really. I was just irritated. An office sleaze trying to flirt—it happens every day.”

  He laughed, and something about him seemed to relax at her words. “You’re sure?”

  “Very.” She nodded emphatically.

  “Well, alright. Still, I’m glad you’re enjoying the cake.” He gave a wry smile, and she sent one back in return.

  “I feel bad about all the fuss,” she admitted. “But I’m definitely enjoying the cake. Definitely.”

  “You can take some home, if you want. She’s always making more.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  “Jennifer,” he said, turning fully away from his computer. “I know you want the cake.”

  “Well—“

  “When you took that first bite I thought you were about to come.”

  “Oh my God!” Her cheeks flamed, and she thanked God that at least the darkness of her skin could hide her blush. She seemed to blush a lot around him. “You did not just say that.”

  “It’s true! I know my sister has skills, but damn.”

  She laughed helplessly. “Have you tried these? You’d lose it too.”

  “I doubt that,” he said, raising one thick brow.

  “I’m serious. Come on, have one.”

  “Well…” He looked down at himself for a second, as though checking something. She’d thought he was about to agree, but when he looked up at her, his expression was carefully neutral. “No,” he finished. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, come on.” Grabbing another plate, she chose one of the little whipped tarts and stood up, bringing it over to his desk. She was ready to eat at least three more, which meant he had to have one or she’d just feel greedy.

  Teasingly, she leaned over the desk and put the plate right by his hand. “Can you resist?” She grinned.

  He looked up at her, his eyes hooded. “I don’t know,” he murmured, and the teasing atmosphere of the room sparked, set alight. Laughter was seared away, and desire rose up to take it’s place.

  She remained trapped by his gaze, hypnotised, her palms flat against the desk. Some distant part of her mind realised that this position was beyond inappropriate—she was leaning over in front of him, her chest hovering before his face, her back arched like an offering. But she couldn’t move.

  He reached up pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth, the touch sending a shock through her body. Then he slid the digit across her lips, the pad of his thumb rough and firm. Somehow she felt the pressure elsewhere, as though he were touching her lower. Way, way lower.

  “Sugar,” he rasped out in explanation.

  “Oh,” she breathed. He was still touching her mouth. As her lips parted, his thumb grazed the wet inner curve, and Jennifer lost all control. Before she could think better of it, she wrapped her lips around the warm digit and sucked gently, her tongue tasting his skin like a new dessert.

  He let out a strangled moan, as though he hadn’t meant to make a sound, but couldn’t help himself. And then, just as Jennifer’s courage was about to fade, he stood.

  Her jaw dropped.

  His thumb slipped out of her mouth, but she barely noticed. All she saw was bulge of his erection, jutting out obscenely beneath his suit trousers.

  “Oh, Lord,” she murmured.

  That couldn’t be his cock. Could it?

  Oh, Lord.

  He leaned against the desk, his rolled-up shirtsleeves exposing thick, veined, forearms. For a moment, he frowned and let his head fall forward, and the smooth planes of his face fell into shadow. Golden skin, a wide, lush mouth, heavy-lidded eyes—all of it took on a smokey, forbidden air in the failing light.

  Then he shook his head sharply and looked up.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “I… I noticed.”

  His full lips kicked up at one corner. “Smart mouth. Maybe we should fill it up again.”

  Her nipples tightened at the silky promise laced in his tone. But then her common sense returned, loud and demanding and sounding frighteningly like her Grandma’s voice.

  Jennifer Johnson, you are not about to shit where you eat!

  Yep. Definitely Grandma.

  “Mr Chamberlain,” she said stiffly, standing up straight. “I apologise for my behaviour—“

  “Don’t do that, Jenny. You don’t need to do that.”

  “Nevertheless—“

  “I want you,” he said again. “And I don’t think I’m wrong to believe that you want me too.”

  She bit her lip.

  “But just know that if I’m wrong—if, for whatever reason, you don’t want to do this—you can leave now, and we’ll pretend this never happened.” He cracked a smile. “I’ll even give you a box for the cake.”

  Well. That was unexpected.

  In the American TV dramas her Grandma watched, the boss never gave anyone an out. No; he propositioned his cleaner, or his plucky virginal secretary, or whoever, and expected obedience—or else. And yet, Theo continued to wait patiently for her answer. His smile, while strained, was apparently genuine.

  “Really?” She whispered. “I can go?”

  His smile wavered, but he didn’t look angry. “Of course,” he said.

  “You won’t sack me?”

  “No. God, no. I would never do that. I promise you, Jen. You don’t need to worry.” He cleared his throat, raked a hand through his hair. “And I’m sorry if I—“

  “I don’t want to go,” she said.

  He stilled. “You don’t?” His voice was hoarse, husky, almost. His eyes were hypnotic, drilling into her as though the rest of the world had fallen away. And yet her gaze kept falling, scandalously, to the intimidating line of his erection.

  “No,” she said, and she meant it. She really, really meant it. She’d been a very good girl for a very long time. She was long overdue a fall from grace. And Lord, what a way to fall.

  His midnight eyes flashed. He stepped around the desk and held out a hand, like a lord of old asking his lady to dance. She put her palm in his, and the minute their skin met, her need for him spiked. Wrapping his long fingers around hers, he pulled up out of her chair and into his body. She came, of course she did; the tug of his hand was a force stronger than gravity.

  When they were close enough for his fingers to slip from her hand to the small of her back, he spoke again. “How old are you, Jennifer?” He was taller than her, though not by too much. His ribcage brushed against her tits, his powerful thighs grazed hers, and when she tried to avoid his gaze, he tipped up her chin with an insistent finger.

  “Well?” He prompted softly.

  “Twenty-six,” she said. “How old are you?”

  His lips quirked. “I’m forty.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re far too young for me.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment filled her.

  “And far too beautiful for me to resist.”

  She looked up sharply, and found him staring intently down at her.

  “Oh,” she said again. Then he leaned down to kiss her, and the world became suddenly unstable.

  His scent surrounded her, d
ark and rich. His lips were soft, so soft, and gentle, grazing hers, a mere breath of a touch. When the finger pushing up her chin became a hand cupping her face, she whimpered. Yeah. Whimpered. But there’d be time to roll her eyes at herself later. Right now, she kept them wide open as his lips brushed over hers. His tongue traced the seam of her mouth, and his expression became pained as he groaned, “Jennifer. Jenny”.

  She felt like she might fall, and so she reached out and touched him for the first time. She clutched his shoulders, then pushed off his suit jacket, a thrill tearing through her body. Kissing was not her area of expertise; she was prickly, and prickly things weren’t often kissed. But something about the way he held her made her feel soft and powerful all at once. She could do this. He deepened the kiss, his lips soft and his tongue hot as he slid his hand from the small of her back to the curve of her arse. Oh, yes. This she could do.

  Clumsy but determined, Jennifer unbuttoned his shirt and slid the fabric off of his skin, pushing it to the floor. She ran her palms down his bare chest to his abs, tracing the ridges of muscle with something verging on awe.

  “Jenny,” he moaned into her mouth, and then he bent to press hot kisses along the line of her jaw. He bit down on her earlobe, and then traced his way back to her mouth like a magnet. Suddenly, she did something she’d never done before. She closed her eyes.

  “No-one calls me Jenny,” she whispered.

  “Good,” he panted against her lips. Between their bodies, he undid his belt and fumbled with his fly, his hands brushing against the centre of her desire as he worked the zipper down. Her eyes were still closed. She didn’t think she could lift her heavy lids if she tried. Previously, lust had been a vodka shot; with him, it was a pill. A good one, too. She bit his lower lip, giggled at her own daring.

  And then she gasped as he grabbed her by the waist and swung her round, settling her onto his desk.

  She squealed. “I’m too heavy for this!”

  “Obviously not,” he smirked as he shoved up her skirt. “Come here. Spread your legs, for me, Princess.”

  Biting her lip, she did as he asked. She felt utterly wanton, almost drunk with it; her skirt was gathered around her waist and her knees were spread wide, exposing the pink cotton of her underwear to him. He stared at her pussy as he pushed his trousers down, revealing thickly muscled thighs covered in dark hair. He kept his briefs on, fisting his cock through the material.“No condom,” he said, his voice rough. “Better to keep them on.”

  “O-okay.”

  “You too. If I see that pretty cunt bare I’ll probably come in your lap.”

  She put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. He stepped between the cradle of her legs, pulled her hand away and kissed her palm. He ground his thick cock against her, and the pressure, the friction, had her swollen clit aching.

  “Theo,” she gasped. “I want to come.”

  “I’ll make you come, Princess. I’ll do anything you want.”

  The first claim, Jennifer did not doubt. But the latter? Well. Passionate men had passionate mouths.

  He tore her shirt from her, pulling it up over her head as though it didn’t have buttons down the front. He kissed her neck, followed the sensitive curve as it swept into shoulder, than ran his mouth over the indents her bra straps had left behind as he slid each one down. Before she could shake the languor of his lips, he had unclasped the bra and tossed it to the floor. She looked down to see his hands cupping her breasts with the reverence of a man who truly appreciated a fine pair of tits. His thumbs circled her nipples, looking somehow pale against the darkness of her flesh, and then he bent his head and brought one aching peak up to his lips—

  Oh, Lord. Jennifer wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding her clit against his swollen dick, the layers of cotton between them doing little to ruin the sensation because Jesus. She looked down at his dark head over her breast, felt the tug of his tongue at her nipple, and champagne fizzed behind her eyes. He groaned, pulled back, looked at her as though he couldn’t believe what was before him. Then he moved his mouth to her other breast, kneading the one he’d abandoned with a rough, callused palm.

  Mindless, she grasped his head firmly because God forbid he stop right now. Only she didn’t think she could speak to tell him; all that came out when she tried was “Oh, fuck, Theo, please”—and who knew if he’d understand that. He was thrusting against her, right where she needed it, and her legs held him tight and maybe one of her heels was digging into him but she really didn’t care because she almost had it and oh yes now, now now now now—

  Her orgasm came, and it was everything. Everything everything everything, and it made her blood sing.

  He kissed her gently, his lips curved in a smile. “So,” he said. “That was quick.”

  “Yeah. You’re… You’re good at that.”

  “So are you,” he laughed. “We should do this again.”

  And there went her post-orgasm glow.

  Jennifer’s eyes snapped open and she sat up, the movement pushing him away.

  “Jenny? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbled. Lie. Cold shame crept up on her, like ice water dribbling down her spine. God, what the hell had she been thinking?

  Her spine stiff, she slipped awkwardly off the desk. Avoiding Theo’s gaze, Jen pulled her skirt down before wrapping a protective arm around her stomach. Her tits, he could look at all he liked, but her stomach felt suddenly soft and pathetic. Naked. She was very, very naked.

  “Can I have my bra?”

  “Of course.” He bent to grab it, and he certainly didn’t seem worried about his stomach. Probably because it was rock-fucking-hard, just like his cock. “Are you okay?”

  “Yep.” She slipped on the bra, grateful that he politely averted his gaze as she went about the myriad manoeuvres that breasts as big as hers required.

  “You sure?” He pulled up his trousers, fastened them with infuriatingly relaxed movements. “Because you seem… Not okay.”

  “I’m fine,” she said breezily, patting the braided crown of her hair with experienced fingers.

  “It’s perfect. Your hair, I mean.”

  “Thanks.” Jennifer said, even though he was wrong; she could feel her kinky little baby hairs popping up. Another brand of edge control bit the dust, then. Aria had sworn this one was sex-proof, but then Aria’s edges knew how to behave.

  Whatever. His secretary was gone; she didn’t need to look presentable anyway.

  “You know, when I said we should do this again… Well. I didn’t mean on my desk,” he finished awkwardly.

  She didn’t bother answering that. Just gave him her best business smile and said brightly, “Well, then. I’d best be off.”

  “Jenny. I want to see you again.”

  “Good evening, Mr Chamberlain.”

  “I’m going to email you my number.”

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary.” Her cheeks aching with the strain of holding up her rictus-grin, she hurried to the door.

  “Jenny. You should call me.”

  Shaking her head, she opened the door, trying not to look back at the little table of desserts. She hadn’t even tried an eclair. God. Men.

  “Jenny—“

  “No-one calls me that. It’s Jen.”

  “Jenny,” he repeated. “Call me.”

  “No,” she replied, and walked out.

  Chapter Four

  Aria had a boyfriend. Again.

  Jennifer swirled her lemonade, wondering if ‘death by boredom’ counted as an emergency. If she called 999, would they come and rescue her from her roommate’s latest squeeze?

  Nah. Probably not.

  They were in the living room, and the couple of the moment were cozied up on the sofa together, with Jennifer sitting awkwardly at one end. Boyfriend number eight-hundred-and-fifty-nine was in the middle, his weight dragging down the leather cushions and causing Jen to slide closer and closer to him with each passing minute. Joy. The Stone Ro
ses were blaring over the speakers of Aria’s shitty sound system, although sadly not loud enough to drown out the boyfriend’s droning. They had to keep the volume reasonable, you see. The upstairs neighbours had a kid.

  “Yeah, so I’m pretty heavy into metal,” he was saying over Ian Brown’s earnest vocals. He had very round eyes, like a vole. Or rather, how Jennifer imagined a vole’s eyes to be. She’d never seen one before, being a city girl and all.

  Living with Aria had its ups and downs. The ups: her best friend was always within reach; Aria hated Jack Daniels, so Jennifer’s favourite drink never went missing; they wore the same foundation shade, so it didn’t matter if Jen ran low.

  The downs: Aria was messy—even messier than Jen. She was flakey; she didn’t always pay the bills on time, and when she couldn’t, Jen had to call Aria’s parents. And finally, possibly the very worst of them all: every so often, she’d start shagging some boring guy who didn’t know when he’d overstayed his welcome, and their lovely little living room would become a torture chamber.

  In hindsight, when the guy arrived that evening, Jennifer should have feigned illness, rushed to the bathroom, and climbed out of the window—they were on the ground floor, after all. She hadn’t, because she was a good friend and a responsible adult. But she should have. She really, really should have.

  But dwelling on the past was pointless, wasn’t it? She was here, stuffed into old, hole-y leggings and bed socks, watching Aria stare at the aforementioned boyfriend like a small child stares at Peppa Pig on an iPad. Rapt, gormless, etcetera. It was sad, really.

  "I'm not that into this stuff," the boyfriend continued, waving towards Aria’s crappy speakers. He sipped his Sambuca like it was Merlot and rolled his eyes.

  "So what do you like?" Jennifer prompted, not out of any genuine curiosity, but because she was an excellent friend.

  "Oh, you know," the boyfriend said, his face assuming the confident smirk of a Man of The World, Surrounded by Peasants. "Heavy stuff," he finished vaguely.