Boss of Me

Chapter Seven

        But he's not bad at this. 

        At all.

        There's nothing bad about this. Not even a modicum. In fact, I can't believe how insanely good this feels—the way Max's lips pull at mine, the feel of his calloused fingertips cradling the back of my head—and we're just kissing.

        Normally, it would take someone's fingers to be sliding over me, in me, to build this pulsing ache between my thighs, but he gets me there with just his tongue in my mouth.

        If this is what kissing him feels like—otherworldly—I can only imagine what it'd feel like to fill my body with his.

        I have this overwhelming urge to find out.

        Max seems to know what I need, because the next thing I register, his large hands are on my hips and he's lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his waist, aligning our lower bodies. The friction is immediate. Phenomenal. Oh God, yes. Unashamedly, I press myself closer, wriggling against him, hoping it's enough to assuage the intense throbbing that's settled at the very centre of me. 

        It's not.

        "Need you," I pant, too turned on to be embarrassed. I'm barely able to think straight, let alone form coherent sentences. "Max. Please."

        I hate that I'm begging, that he's reduced me to such an unintelligible mess, but I'm desperate, so wholly and completely at his mercy.

        He steps backwards, lowering us to the couch, and I don't hesitate. I slide forward in his lap, straddling him, and God, this new position is sublime. The hard ridge of his cock pushes against my clit—a pressure that has my stomach swooping—and I sigh contentedly, my eyes falling shut.

        I can definitely work with this.

        Then, his mouth is back, and I'm drawn deeper into this swirling storm of white-hot desire. His tongue brushes against mine in a tantalizing sweep, and I whimper into his mouth. I actually whimper. But it's not my fault. Kissing Max while straddling him is a heavenly combination, quite possibly the best thing I've ever experienced. It quickly outranks all my favourite things—mochi, the countryside, golden retrievers, and my Studio Ghibli comfort movies. And that's a big claim.

        To make matters worse, kissing my ex-boss is nothing like the hazy nightclub hook-ups I'm used to, or the infrequent Tinder dates my roommates convince me to go on that blossom into short-lived flings at best. I can't pinpoint why I've never managed to hold down a serious relationship before, but it's surely a team effort: they stop trying, and I grow bored. My relationships always die a swift death, so this . . . this is just a physical relationship. It has to be. Anything more only guarantees awkwardness and heartache—especially if I do take him up on his offer and return to Elevated.

        However, now that we've crossed that line, now that I'm gathered in Max's arms, I can see that it'll never just be that—purely physical. We're messy and complicated, everything I don't want. More than I bargained for. But the intensity that rolls off him in waves, the feel of his powerful suit-clad body beneath mine, makes it impossible to stop this, to wrench myself away.

        Instinctively, I start to rock against him, feeling that familiar heat curl through me, twisting, dipping. His big hands slide further up my bare thighs and his fingers grip my ass, grinding me down on him.

        Wow. Okay. So, he is a team player. Why wasn't he this cooperative—obliging—in the office?

        Maybe I wouldn't have quit.