Page 1 of Boss Daddy's Girl

1

ELLIE

Ireally, really hate rock climbing. So, as I lie in bed, sliding my hand down the front of my panties with a picture of a rock climber on my phone screen is admittedly a little odd. Maybe even hypocritical.

Then add in the fact that this certain rock climber, Drake Evans, is my boss, and well, let's just say there's a whole lot to unpack here.

But what else am I supposed to do? It's only 9 PM, a relatively early bedtime for a 28-year-old, and I just can't seem to fall asleep. I've got to catch a flight tomorrow afternoon, and I need all the energy I can get to deal with Drake all weekend … and to deal with how much he turns me on and pisses me off in equal shares.

Right now, though, he's not here to annoy the hell out of me, and the image of him coming off the cliffside this afternoon—shirtless and sweating, strolling towards me like I was his salvation—is fresh in my mind. Drake Evans is so gorgeous, soabsurdly sexy, that it short-circuits my brain, making me forget myself.

I've seen his shirtless torso before. Of course, I have. I've worked for the man for over a year. And he's not the only rock climber I've seen without a shirt on. I've spent the last two years of my life as the personal assistant to the world's most famous (former) rock climber, and that means spending time around a lot of shirtless guys. None of them compare to Drake, though. Born in New Zealand, Drake moved to Denver, Colorado in his early 20s, already a rising star in the climbing world. He brought with him a sexy accent and an attitude as large as the mountains he climbs.

It's just … usually, I can handle it. But Drake is under my skin tonight, and I can’t seem to shake him.

And I've been in the office too much. That's why this is happening. My brain is starved of endorphins, and that's the only reason why my boss' face is so firmly fixed in my mind. Not just his face, either. The way his fingers felt sliding over mine as he took the chilled smoothie from my hand, the pat on the cheek he gave me in thanks that should have been condescending, but coming from Drake gave me full body shivers.

It makes me forget that he had me drive all over town to find his favorite smoothie. It makes me forget the infuriating way he calls me "my girl". It makes me want him with a ferocity that I, still a virgin at 28, have never felt before.

But he's my boss, a world-famous athlete, and utterly demanding in all the worst ways. He is certainly NOT interested in me, his personal assistant.

This is just to take the edge off. If I can come looking at his picture, imagining his fingers instead of my own, maybe I won't be on the verge of hyperventilating every time I'm near him for the next few days.

I pull his social media page up again and scroll down to the bottom, where the oldest photos are. The casual ones are taken by friends, and his smile is genuine. I start with his body, taking in the strong lines of his legs, his powerful thighs. I scroll up, my gaze catching on his biceps, flexing as he holds himself on the cliff face.

Finally, my eyes find his face. He's mid-laugh, head thrown back, emerald eyes sparkling. His teeth are white, his smile wide. God, his smile. My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow hard.

Dropping the phone on the bed beside me, I let my eyes flutter closed, falling into the fantasy of "what if" from earlier today. In my fantasy, he doesn't take his long-anticipated drink and brush past me. Instead, he throws it aside, pins me against my car, and whispers in my ear, "I'm thirsty for something else."

One hand between my legs and the other sliding up to tweak my own nipple, I let the imaginary scene play out. In my head, Drake's fingers are under my skirt, rubbing the perfect spot, making my knees weak. He presses me harder against the car and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it through the thin cotton of my shirt.

His hand slides into my underwear, and he lets out a low growl when he feels how wet I am.

"God, Ellie, I want you so bad. You're all I can think about," imaginary Drake murmurs. "Tell me you want this. I can't go another day without having you."

My fingers move faster, and my breath hitches as my imagination gives me a glimpse of what Drake would look like above me, his cock thrusting in and out, the muscles of his shoulders bunching and releasing as he pushes himself closer and closer to his orgasm.

I'm hot all over, slowly climbing the hill towards orgasm, my thoughts nothing but Drake, Drake, Drake. Pulling my hand out of my shirt, I grab my phone again, desperate for another look at him before I come. I'm almost there, teetering on the edge?—

And then a call comes in, blocking out the screen, the phone shrieking in my hand.

Drake. As if somehow, he knows exactly what I'm doing.

I gasp, my fingers slowing, my arousal draining out of me like a bucket with a hole punched in the bottom. Fuck. I let the phone ring, and then silence falls again. It's quiet. And then it's not.

The phone rings again, and predictably, it's Drake. Feeling like I'm on the edge of tears, bizarrely nervous that he somehow knows I'm masturbating to his pictures, I answer. "Hello?"

"Ellie, my girl, how are you doing this fine evening?"

I close my eyes, suppressing a groan of frustration. "I'm trying to sleep, Mr. Evans."

"It's 9:15." He laughs, a deep, warm sound. "I'd like to think you can manage to stay awake for a few more minutes."

"Why are you calling me?" I ask. I've been working for Drake for the past year, and although he has no concept of leaving me alone after work hours, he rarely calls me at night.

"I need a favor. I know we're supposed to fly out at 3 PM tomorrow, but could you possibly get us an earlier flight? My old mate Chris is going to be at the conference, too, but he and a few other guys are going to climb Breaking the Wheel in Ogden before check-in. It should take three hours, tops, but we definitely need to fly out earlier."

I want to scream. This is classic Drake—almost impossible requests made at the last minute, with the full expectation that I can pull it off. Luckily for him, I'm excellent at what I do, and nine times out of ten, I do manage to make magic happen. This is just a flight change; it should be no different. Even if it is a pain in my ass.

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