Page 6 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

The peephole in the half-bath dated from a time when the bathroom was part of a smoking lounge. Other architects might have swapped the wood paneling for tile, but I tried to honor original design as much as possible. The result was a wood-paneled half-bath with a peephole that gave me a direct view of Riley O’Sullivan.

And the view did not disappoint.

She wasn’t on her knees, but her ass was very much front and center as she leaned over the sink and swiped a cleaning rag around the faucet. She’d removed her jacket, and the white shirt she wore underneath hugged a narrow waist that led to flaring hips and the longest pair of legs I’d ever seen. The black skirt inched higher as she stretched forward, and I held my breath as the fabric teased at the bottom of her rounded ass.

There was enough there to grasp. Enough to give a man something to hold onto.

“What are you looking at?”

Her voice made me jerk my gaze up. For a second, I thought I was busted.

Then she made a face and used the rag to make a playful swipe at her reflection.

I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Still gazing into the mirror, she brought her brows together and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t take interns, Miss O’Sullivan.” She lost the frown and changed her voice to a higher pitch. “Really, Mister Barnes? Do you take enemas? Because you’re so full of shit I bet you could use one.”

A smile tugged at my mouth. Some part of me—the mature, responsible business owner—was irritated. But the teenage boy part appreciated the crudeness of the insult.

The teenage boy didn’t mind how the buttons of her shirt strained across her breasts, either. Her lacy black bra was visible under the white cloth, as was the tiny pink bow nestled between the cups. There was also pink piping along the underwires.

I frowned. Her clothes were cheap—the kind of throwaway fashion available in shopping malls. But her lingerie was expensive. Why wouldn’t a job hunter do things the other way around? Another mystery.

And, damn, but I wanted to play detective.

She spoke into the mirror again, her brows together and her voice low. “That’s inappropriate, Miss O’Sullivan. I’m going to have to spank you.”

Heat blasted my chest like a shot of fireball, and my cock sprang to attention. For a second, I could almost feel my palm tingle, my brain imagining what it would be like to bring a stern hand down on those sweet curves. Over and over. Until she gave up trying to wiggle away and parted her thighs.

Not too much, of course. Just enough to let me slip a hand between her cheeks and slide down to her pussy. I could give her a few swats there, too. There was a delicious element of surprise in a sharp pussy swat. A couple good cracks and she’d apologize for mocking me. Then she’d beg for an indulgent finger or two on her clit.

The sound of labored breathing filled my ears. With a start, I realized it came from me.

Get a grip, Barnes.If I kept sucking in air like a freight train she was going to discover me. Considering I was hard as an anvil, that might lead to some awkward conversation.

She stared at the mirror, her cheeks flushed. Then she rolled her eyes and let out a self-deprecating snort. She grabbed a bottle of blue cleaner, aimed straight at the mirror, and pulled the trigger several times, misting the glass.

I had a decent idea whose face she pictured as she did it.

She wiped the mist away with a paper towel, then did a slow turn, her gaze moving around the bathroom like she was looking for the next area to clean.

There wasn’t much. The half-bath wasn’t dirty to begin with. My mother ran a tight ship when I was a kid, and she didn’t tolerate a messy bathroom. My brother and I had perfect aim by kindergarten.

Riley’s gaze landed on me—or at least the wood paneling in front of me.

I took a quick step back.

She drifted forward, her expression intense. “Ooh,” she murmured, “aren’t you beautiful.”

The frieze.Pleasure curled inside me. I’d restored the horizontal band of carved walnut myself, spending weeks with a magnifying glass in one hand and a Q-tip in the other. Merriman was born to a poor farming family, but he grew up to have expensive taste. He’d imported the frieze from a castle in Germany, where it spent centuries adorning a private chapel. As with so many ancient things, the craftsmanship was exquisite. The long-dead artisan had carved the entirety of the Bible on a strip of wood no wider than my hand. It was one of the reasons I bought the mansion, and it had kept me going when I doubted I would ever bring the massive building back to its former glory. On long nights during the restoration, I used to pick my way across rotted floorboards and stand before it, my bones aching from a day spent on a scaffold, and think of the skilled hands that brought such beauty into the world.

Aren’t you beautiful.

Most people didn’t appreciate a medieval frieze like that. Didn’t marvel at it or stand before it in open-mouthed awe. To most people, it was just woodwork.

But not to me. And not to Riley O’Sullivan. Her lips parted, and she released a soft exclamation as her gaze moved over the wood. “Awesome,” she breathed, a hint of Southie in her voice. She traced reverent fingertips over the carvings—the Battle of Jericho, if memory served me correctly—and her lips curved in a smile of pure delight.

Suddenly, the frieze was the furthest thing from my mind. All my brain cells were focused on those full, pink lips. My cock tightened, and my heart thumped so hard I worried she might hear it through the paneling.

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