Page 13 of Filthy Boss

CHAPTER 7 TY

Milly is nowhere to be found. That’s not like her.

Or is it? I barely know her.

Once I do know her she might end up disappointing.

Or I might be.

So much for professional and just business. I dreamed of her and all the awful things I wanted to do to her. And she loved them all.

I dreamed of eating her sweet pussy and how it tasted the way I knew it would.

I needed her help with the boxes Reed had sent. My hands were not ready yet.

There was a dull ache in my hand, and I could feel my heartbeat in my cock thinking of her. A pain pill would solve both problems, but fuck that. This was a test, a reminder to not be so reckless.

A lesson.

It took forever to find an orthopedic surgeon who agreed to scope every joint on each hand, fourteen on the left, fourteen more on the right. But even then, Dr. Lilling would only do a few at a time.

This morning he scoped my left hand, I had negotiated two fingers and a thumb. And it was some of my best work. He was adamant about only doing one joint per finger, leaving my hands useless purposefully, so I couldn't interfere with the healing process.

Ever try to argue with the man with knives and sedatives?

All I had for leverage was the argument that I was an impatient man. I managed to convince him that I could be patient for a few days while they healed, but not for the weeks he wanted. Essentially that I was too stubborn or stupid to not injure myself if he had his way.

He muttered something about dog's wearing lampshades because they were stubborn and stupid too, but he gave in and scheduled surgery today- with more over the weekend and through Monday.

Dr. Lilling was supposed to be the best. He specialized in repairing fire cracker damage every July 4th. Carpal tunnels he could do in his sleep he said, and if he decided on a toe-thumb, he was practically the inventor of the procedure.

I was glad he wasn’t funny, the good Doctor’s weren’t supposed to be funny.

I found her coming out of the elevator carrying a box against her hip. I almost ran into her but stopped myself- she dropped the box and it fell against her thigh on its way to the floor.

She whimpered and swept her skirt up, showing a scrape and bruise where the box caught her.

The bruise on her leg showed black and blue against the creamy flesh of her thigh. What did you put on bruises?

My eyes were fixed on her bared thigh, on the deep lace of her white slip, the tiny, silky white panties under that. The sort of skin that made a man want to touch it, taste it.

But she's too damn young.

Don't even think about it.

I kept my eyes on that smooth, slim thigh, the delicate silky panties, the lace that I swore I could see through. .

Heat smoldered inside me.

She hurriedly dropped her skirt.

I watched the hot pink flow up her face, and those innocent wide eyes open up.

“Mr. Dalton, good morning.” She managed as she smoothed her skirt. “I mean Boss.”

This isn’t going to work.

Not with those eyes.

Not with those thighs.

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