Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“I’d like to feel a little less ornamental.”
I open my mouth and snap it closed again before I suggest she stop wearing skirts that look like she’s been poured into them. The issue isn’t what she wears. It’s in the cesspit that is my brain. How can I try to be a brother to her when I want to fuck her from here to Lands End?
“You just told Brin you worked through your lunch,” I say, remembering the conversation. “That says to me that you have enough to do.”
“I do.” She inclines her head. “Things that Jody left for me. Things she’d diarized. But you’ve got to do your bit, too. Whoever heard of a CEO chasing his own damn laundry? You, boss man,” she says, pointing my way. “Me,” she adds with a tap to her chest, “here to do your bidding.”
“My bidding?” My answer falls from my mouth far quicker than it should, the thoughts accompanying it pure fucking filth.
“Yes, Mr. Whittington. I’m happy to assist however you see fit.”
Her words are like a lick of warmth against the lining of my stomach. Fuck me. Was that a come-on?
Stop being a cock, the little angel on my shoulder says. It’s got a dirty fucking mouth, that angel.
“So Mr. Boss man,” she says stepping closer, “what can I do for you?
“I’m the same person as I was,” I grumble. “Just a bit older.” A lot wealthier.
“A little crankier.” She comes to a stop a couple of feet from the other side of my desk. “What did you want me for?”
I force my eyes to remain on hers as a dozen wants prickle on my tongue. Get on your knees, open your mouth, and stick out your tongue. “Last month’s P & L account.”
“What about it?”
“I haven’t gotten it yet.”
“It should be in your inbox,” she replies breezily. Too breezily, maybe. Was she hoping for a different kind of request?
“Well, it’s not.”
“Well… I sent it yesterday.”
“I also need a hard copy.”
“There’s nothing about that in the book.” She looks mildly confused.
“What book?” I find myself frowning.
“Jody’s instructions. The first Monday of a new month, the report comes to me. I’m to reformat it and forward it on to you. Which I did.”
“I need you to print it out.”
She makes as though to stand on the tips of her toes.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if your fingers had all fallen off. Your laptop has a print button, right?
“Don’t be a smart arse.”
“Then stop staring at it.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you started it.”
I give my head a shake. I must be fucking losing my marbles. “The report?” I repeat.
She glances behind me to where my personal printer sits on the cabinetry.
“It’s not working,” I say with a glower.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it is that it’s not working.” I know I’m being a prick, but now that I’ve called her in here and the door is closed, I need her to leave before I do something very fucking inappropriate.
“Can’t you fix it?” she asks.
“If I could, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“But you’re the man who brought modern banking to the hands of the masses.” I feel even more ridiculous as she holds out her hand as though waiting for an explanation to drop into it. “Via their phones.”
“I didn’t create interface.” My voice betrays my frustration. Frustration that makes her glower as she presses that hand to her hip. “I’m a banker, not a coder or a software engineer. And even if I could do all those things, it doesn’t mean I’d be able to fix a bloody laser printer.”
“A laser printer doesn’t work by ‘laser beams.’” She has the audacity—the fucking temerity—to make air quotes around those two words. “Fine.” Before I can properly protest, she makes her way from the other side of the desk, her hip brushing my shoulder as she leans to examine my laptop. “Let me check the settings.” She begins to busily tap the keys, and I don’t even protest.
Why does she smell so amazing? Would she notice if I sat back in my chair right now? Would she be able to feel my eyes roaming over her delectable arse? I’d never considered myself an arse man, but hers is the kind I could stare at for days. And I probably have. But it’s not just her arse that makes me feel like a pervert. I watch her plump lips as she speaks just waiting for a flash of that tiny gap between her front teeth. I’ve probably spent hours wondering what it would be like to kiss her, and my imaginings don’t stop there. I curl my fingers into my palm when the notion to slide my hand over her rear flits into my head. Over the firm roundness, I’d run my hand down the back of her thigh before slipping it under her skirt and travelling back the other way. Her stockings are holdups, I’m sure. I haven’t seen the outline of a garter belt, though I look again, just to be sure.