The Bedroom Blog

I Can't Resist My Boss's Hot Husband

Chloe get intimate with Clarke. No, not like that.

By Alessandra Torre

I have a very short to-do list this weekend.

1. Get an apartment. I actually have the money for a deposit and first month's rent. Now I just have to find that perfect place where I can grow the hell up and venture out from under Cammie's comfortable and fashion-forward wing.

2. Learn how to mind my own business. I seem to have forgotten how to keep to myself. Forgotten how to not snoop. Forgotten how to keep my head down and color without getting my crayons all worked up in someone else's drawing.

I made a mistake today. A big one. Twenty minutes before I was supposed to head to set, I ran into Clarke. I had just put Chanel in her warmest winter coat — a good assistant's job is never done! — and was packing up Nicole's macrobiotic snacks when I heard his voice.

"Chloe."

My name, spoken in greeting, shouldn't have been sexual. His voice shouldn't have brushed kisses along the back of my neck. I shouldn't have needed to clench my thighs before I turned.

But I did. I clenched my thighs, set down my coffee with a trembling hand, and turned, gripping the kitchen island for balance as I tried a smile. "Mr. Brantley. Good morning."

The words came out well. Smooth and casual. Like my heart wasn't pounding. Like my mind wasn't racing over what to say when he asked the question that I knew was coming. He'd texted me a few days ago. Asked for an update. A text I had ignored.

He stepped into the kitchen, the click of his shoes sounding on the polished floor. I gripped the edge of the counter and leaned against it. Felt it dig into my ass and tried to think of something, anything, to say. The air suddenly felt thick. Hot.

Clarke stopped three feet from me. Three feet. Do you know what a short distance three feet is? It's nothing. It was close enough I could see the blue of his eyes, the worried pinch of his forehead. The bits of silver in his dark hair. Silver. He seems too young for silver, yet too masculine for anything else. I leaned back, took in a breath that shuddered, and watched his eyes narrow. Heard the click of his heel as he took a step back. "Too close?" His voice rolled thick and rough over the words, a bit of a catch in them.

"A little." I smiled in relief and sagged a little against the counter. God, I'd be lost if he ever touched me. If he leaned in and gripped my hips. Dug his fingers into my skin and pulled me roughly forward. Pressed his lips against my skin and sucked at the flesh. I'd dissolve underhis touch and lose all control. Claw at him and beg for more. How could Nicole want anything else? How could she kiss Paulo when she had Clarke? How could she do anything contrary to touching every inch of this man every day all day?

The thought of Nicole cleared my mind a little, pushed through the wave of stupidity I seemed to adopt in Clarke's presence and smacked a hard hand across my face. I straightened just in time for Clarke's question.

"Was I right? Is she…" he paused as if the words caused him pain. Closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Dropped his chin for a moment and — when he raised it — his face had hardened, into a stone mask, every feature hard and strong and achingly beautiful. His next words were dark and low, the type of tones you wanted ordering you to bend over and lift your skirt, not heighten this clusterfuck of a situation. "Is she … sleeping with Joey Plazen?"