Page 28 of Never Say Yes To Your Boss

Hmm, that’s not actually a bad idea…

“Take off your shirt,” I pant, my voice all rough and sex-crazed. “I want to smear that peanut butter all over your chest and lick it off.”

“That would probably glue your mouth together. It’s rather sticky.”

“I don’t care. I can spread it thinly. I’ll grab a knife.”

His eyes widen. “That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“A butter knife,” I say dryly, but neither of us moves. It seems like a good time to blurt out something honest and embarrassing because my mind is a little bit scrambled since all the blood inmy body is still lingering between my thighs. “I’ve thought about your nipples since I almost drowned you in the pool.”

“Hmm. Are we telling truths now?” Darius studies my face, which has to be totally red now. “Okay, we’re telling truths then. Well, earlier today, when your mom and sister were in the room, you were wearing that dress, and you bent over to look in the cat cage. I was standing right behind you, and it rode up and nearly exposed your panties, and your bottom looked delicious in it, and I…uh…let’s just say that slacks don’t have much room when it comes to hiding a big boner. I mean, there’s room, but they go all tent-like and—” he trails off, and his face goes scarlet.

I tell myself not to calculate inches, but of course, that’s what I’m doing. I mean, god, where else is my mind supposed to go after a comment like that? He basically said his pants couldn’t contain his erection. Holy shit, he’s cut, and he’s totally hung. He’s also my husband, and I really want to get him naked right now and ride him right here on the table after I lick peanut butter clean off of him.

Unfortunately, soft footsteps in the hall interrupt that thought, and we look at each other with the same amount of panic at the same time.

“Shit, someone’s coming!” I whisper-shriek. “Pants! Oh my god, my pants!”

“Got them!”

A soft, fuzzy set of pajama bottoms is shoved into my hands, and I fly off the prep table and slide into them in a single glide. Then, I rearrange my messy hair as best as I can—hey, it’s the middle of the night, and no one is expecting perfection—while I try and run my hand over my lips to hide how kiss-swollen they are. But then I figure that’s suspicious, so I drop it right as my mom pushes through the kitchen doors.

She freezes when she sees us. “Oh! I didn’t think anyone would be up at this hour.” Her gaze roams over me, and I swear she cansee how utterly transparent I am at this moment and also how kiss-ruined and utterly wanton I look. It’s not a look I’m used to donning, and she can probably smell it a mile away.

Oh god, please do not let my MOTHER smell ANYTHING a mile away. Please, please, please, please.

Mom rubs sleep from her eyes, and it looks like she hasn’t spent the past few hours tossing and turning but just woke up and decided she was starving. That means she’s not on top of her mom-game, which means she won’t sniff out anything amiss. I really need to stop using olfactory references. After what we just did on the prep table, it’s more than slightly disturbing to think that way.

“Are you hungry? Is that why you’re down here?”

“We are, yes, we’re starving. We’re going to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Yeah, we’re making them. Getting right on that. Except the jam won’t open. We were trying to figure out a way to get it open.” I give her my bestthat’s all we were doing in this kitchen, nothing funky or anythinginnocent look.

It would be so much more helpful if I didn’t catch Darius out of the corner of my eye looking up at something. And that something is the pot rack, which my underwear is still stuck on.

Fuck me with a cursed jar of jelly. Please don’t look up, Mom.

Thankfully, she doesn’t. Not yet, at any rate. Darius whips across the kitchen and thrusts the jelly jar into her hands to distract her. I let out half a sigh of relief because we’ve only dodged half a bullet. I meet his gaze from behind my mom, and his eyes are trying to say something to me, but my telepathic skills are totally lacking. I finally get what it is when he points up at the pot rack and then at my mom and mimes opening a jar, even though it looks like he’s just throttling the air and trying to strangle it to death. He points at me, then back at my mom.

“Mom.” I loop my arm around her waist and steer her to the other side of the kitchen, toward the sink. “I already tried beating it and running it under hot water.”

“I can see that.” She looks at the thoroughly dented lid. “There has to be a jar opener in here somewhere. Or a garlic mat. Those things work awesomely.”

I grin. How can you tell we’re related? “Try running it under hot water while I look for something.”

I search the bank of drawers closest to us, and while my mom’s back is turned and she’s busy at the sink, I glance behind me at Darius. He’s kneeling on the prep table, and he’s so tall and sexy, his body streamlined and his muscles flexing as he reaches up to the pot rack. His fingers curl around my panties, and he frees them before stuffing them into his pocket. They make quite a bulge because they’re not lacy and compact, and my face goes scarlet before I whip around to my mom.

“I haven’t found anything yet.”

The last drawer contains a pair of yellow rubber gloves, the kind that people wear for cleaning and dishwashing. “Oh! Those might work!” Mom is way too excited about the gloves, and she shuts off the hot water.

I take them out and pass them over to her. She slips them on, and I have to say, she can get way better traction on a wet jar with those gloves than I could with my bare hands. She knocks the jar a few times, hitting the lid against the sink’s edge. One grasp of those gloves in her deft and talented mom hands, and the jar gives up the game with a loud pop.

“No fair,” I point out, my arms crossed. “You have mad mom skills.”

She chuckles, delighted with the praise. By the time she turns around, Darius has a loaf of bread, the jar of peanut butter I was just fantasizing about, a knife, and several plates set out on theother side of the kitchen on yet another prep table. One where we didn’t just uh…do very naughty things on.

My mom takes over, whipping up sandwiches that are extra delicious because I wasn’t kidding about those mad skills she has. Everything tastes better when a mom makes it, I swear. At least, it does when my mom makes it. She passes me a sandwich oozing with jelly and thick with peanut butter, and my mouth waters. She gives two to Darius and takes one for herself.

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