Page 58 of Our Little Cliche
I practice the words in my head like a recital.
Cyrus, can you please fuck me in my sleep?
Cyrus, can you please fulfill my new and appalling—and highly illegal—fantasy of you waking me up with your cock inside me?
And while you’re at it, with a mask on. Like the books you write.
That’s just insane… I’m insane.
I drop my glare from his captivating blue gray eyes down to my closed fist that’s scrunching his clothes the way that Rose should have held Jack in Titanic, then back up, and back down again. The amount of heat that’s burning between my knuckles to hisobscenely large, and scrumptious pecscould start Black Saturday fires all over again.
I’m so close to him. Too close. To my boss…
Yet somehow I’m not nearly close enough.
Knocks, thumps, throbs and whomps are the sensations of my heart racing uncontrollably in my chest, spreading to my throat and head.
I can’t do it.
What is it about something that you can’t have, only makes you want it more? Like a juicy, succulent cake that oozes with dripping wet chocolate when you’re on a diet, or a BookTok trending romance novel everyone is raving about, but you’re on a book buying ban.
I tell you what, FOMO is real! And I’m smack bang in the middle of it. I want, no—needCyrus more than I need air at this point.
“Cyrus…” It’s barely a whisper.
“…Yeah?” He mirrors a similar volume with a curtailed breath, it’s like a purr.A rumble. Fear mixed with arousal reflects in his eyes as I hold this six foot something, grown ass hunk of muscle in the cusp of my hand. I’m going against everything I’ve been fighting myself over since I met him. My body splitting in two between morals and desire.
I’ve said it to myself so many times that it’s like a tattoo in my brain:if we do this, we lose our entire careers.Cyrus is famous. A bestseller, climbing the ladder to be on that New York Times leader board. If it gets out to the press that I’m screwing my boss, then not only will my digital footprint be ruined, but his writing career would be thrown in the bin, totally un-redeemable.For our whole lives.I’d be forever known as the slutty editor, personal assistant, sleeping her way to the top.
I’ve worked so hard to get to this point in my life—despite getting absolutely maggoted and moving countries, but that’s neither here nor there—and now I’m working for an amazing author, with opportunities to travel across the globe, to fuck it upnow would be an abomination. And not at all Holly Cate style. Besides, I don’t sleep with just anyone.
Isn’t that the whole point of why you want him to annihilate you in your sleep in the first place, because he’s not just anyone? If he can write it, he can do it, right?
“Ahh, shut up already!” I screech, not intending to express my frustration out loud.
His brows rise, then he blinks four or five times. “Me?”
“What?”
“You just told me to shut up?”
“No… I was…” I sigh, still holding him prisoner in my hands. “I was just talking to myself.”Because I’m sick of arguing with my brain about you, I want to say.
I can’t believe I even gave it a thought. There is no way or how I’m going to ask my boss to have sex with me while unconscious. I barely even made it through him reading me a few chapters of his manuscript before I made some kind of sound from my mouth—a moan. Meanwhile I’d been fighting the urge to strip off my clothes, spread my knees apart, and show him how wet he made me.
Wet. Wet. Wet.
Bucket and mop type wet.
“Why?” His tone is desperate for an answer.
“It’s—”
He looks down at my hand then back up again.Shit.
I release his shirt and my breath halts in my chest, very much not expecting the abrupt attack of his hand banding around mine. Cyrus returns it to where it was, having no choice in the matter but to let him. Not that I’m saying no. Not that I feel controlled.
“You were saying.”
