Boss of Me

Chapter Twenty

        Those dark brows furrow, snapping together in a harsh line. Then a funny, almost wistful look flits across his handsome features. "We both know that's not true," he counters, his lips twitching. The hand on my knee scales a little higher, and I inhale softly. A mischievous glint flickers in his eyes. He's totally doing this on purpose—teasing me. Distracting me. "But okay. If that's what you want."

        I'm so focused on what he's doing, on the pads of his fingers, sliding up my inner thigh, on how close his face is to mine—we're literally breathing the same air—that I struggle to get my thoughts straight.

        "Is it? What you want?" he repeats, softer this time.

        All I want is to be with him.

        I've been fighting the urge to touch him, to tell him how I feel—friendship isn't enough for me—for weeks now, and I'm fucking exhausted.

        When he reaches the apex of my thighs, his fingers swipe over the seam of my lace underwear, and I'm hard-pressed to remember anything about our conversation.

        At that moment, I realise two things: not only is Max Griffin insanely talented when it comes to running a company and making a shitload of money, but he's also so damn good at driving me crazy. It's like he really knows me—how to push my buttons, where my weak spots are, and, worst of all, the fastest ways to make me melt.

        I nod, or at least I think I do. My body feels so heavy and weightless, the pressure building and clamping down in that familiar, intoxicating way it does.

        "Do you really want me to touch you—fuck you—like this means nothing?" He stills his movements for a second. It's like he knows there's no chance I'll be able to form a coherent response if he's actively touching me.

        I'm not even a little embarrassed about it. I think I've done well to hold out for as long as I have; feigning indifference and going along with this ruse that we (still) can't stand each other. We both know that couldn't be further from the truth.

        "Yes. I want you to fuck me," I breathe, my throat unbearably tight. I omit the last part, because, if I'm being honest with myself, I think I do want this to mean something . . . I just don't see how it can. Unless I resign—and I really don't want to do that—Max and I have no future together. I'm a realist, and I just know it isn't possible. We're going to be stuck as employee and boss for a long time.

        Before the reality of our situation can fully creep in and remind us of all the reasons we shouldn't do this—especially here—his mouth crashes down on mine. He closes the remaining distance between us, and I open up to him completely.

        This kiss couldn't be more different to our first. Or our second. There's no finesse. No patience or hesitation. Just need and want. Max claims me, his tongue tangling with mine, and I offer no resistance. It's so easy to lose myself in him, to no longer keep him at a safe distance.

        He's kissing me—holding me—like I matter, like I'm something precious or breakable, and maybe I am. Maybe he won't ruin me, after all. Maybe he'll make me better, too.

        Right now, in this blip of time, we're not two people who work together, two people who couldn't be more wrong for each other . . . we're just Summer and Max. And, like always, it feels so right—to let go, to give in.

        I don't want this to stop.

        My legs encircle Max's waist, drawing him that tiny bit closer. The full length of his body presses against mine, and I relish the silky feel of his suit pants against my bare legs, then his rock-hard erection, lining up against my damp core. More heat floods my veins, and a soft moan vibrates in my throat. Instinctively, I grind against him, desperate for more friction, to feel even a modicum of what I felt that night on my couch.