Page 7 of Bourbon Wishes
Constance is doing itagain, tempting me toward the precipice of madness. Every fucking time she wraps her pouty lips around her straw and takes a sip, another bead of sweat rolls between my shoulder blades. My knuckles are already white where I'm gripping the edges of my desk in adesperate bid to keep myself in my chair instead of pushing her to her knees to wrap her lips around something else.
She's your employee, you sick fuck.
You'd think after three months, my cock would have gotten that memo by now. No dice.
He knows what he wants. And what he wants is Constance Maverick.
He isn't the only one. The petite little minx has my goddamn mind twisted in knots. When I should be working, I'm stalking her on the fucking cameras, just to see what she's doing. When she's in her office, I'm thinking up excuses to interrupt her workday, just so she has to speak to me.
My obsession is quickly spiraling out of control. That's a problem.
She's my employee. Even if I had time to date—which I don't—it wouldn't be someone whose livelihood I hold in the palm of my hand. I may be an asshole, but even I have integrity.
She's seriously fucking testing it.
Every damn time she gives me attitude, I want her long brown hair wrapped around my fist while she's begging me to let her come. When she growls at me, I want my handprint turning her round ass red. And when she smiles? I want to fall to my knees and worship at her feet.
Nothing and no one has ever tested me like our new social media manager does on a daily basis. My life has always been this vineyard, and ensuring we don't fuck it up, that we're leaving something for the next generation, the same way our parents left it to us.
If the long hours and sleepless nights mean my siblings and cousins get to have lives outside of the vineyard, I've always been content with that. Right up until Constance strolled in, anyway. Now, I find myself craving something entirely new.
Specifically, her on her knees with my dick down her throat and her makeup ruined. Or her on her back, screaming the roof down while I fuck my kid into her.
I want her claw marks in my shoulders and the indentations from her heels in my back.
And I'm reasonably certain she'd rather pour gasoline on me and light the match than give me the time of day. She's sunshine and rainbows to my cousins. To me, she's sass and venom.
It keeps my fucking cock hard and eats me alive at the same time.
"Are you even listening to me?" she grumbles, her blue eyes narrowed like I'm pissing her off again. It's not a surprise. I've managed to piss her off every damn day since she waltzed her curvy ass through the door and turned my office upside down.
I'm used to pissing my cousins off. Keeping them on task is like trying to herd feral cats. They all mean well, but they do what they want and let someone else figure out the mechanics. A business can't work that way, so I make it work.
They bitch about it, but they know they can't do what I do, either. I'm not saying they aren't capable. They are. But Jax prefers working the fields. Haven would rather work in the winery. Trystan is focused on the restaurant. Oliver and Gabe prefer spending their time crafting the wine. Jareth is currently in Tennessee, and Ridley only just got home after years of managing the vineyard in Italy. Everyone else has their own little thing they'd rather be doing, and dealing with the everyday minutiae of running the business isn't it.
They need someone pissing them off to get shit done, or they find nine reasons to do something else instead.
Constance is different. Smart. Motivated. Dedicated. Driven.
She's fucking fascinating.
"Bastian!"
"What?" I growl, resisting the urge to squeeze my cock through my pants. If Constance doesn't stab me with the very-pointy heel of her fuck-me shoe for doing it, Haven absolutely will when she finds out. My cousin is already threatening to maim me if Constance quits.
I guess they've become good friends.
"Did you hear anything I said?"
"I heard everything." I've never missed a word from her lips.
"Oh, really?" She arches a brow, her expression all cool disbelief and boiling frustration. "Then what did I say?"
"Engagement with our content is up six percentage points across apps, but we need to reevaluate advertising assets as our CPC is on the rise," I recite. "You'd like to see it inch back down, particularly on lead generation advertisements. And then you launched into a rant about one of the apps changing all of their targeted reach options yet again."
"Fine, so you were listening," she says, her tone begrudging. "But you do realize that conversations require participation, right? Otherwise, it's just me giving a monologue, and I did enough of that in college. I'd rather not repeat the experience because you're in your feelings about not being able to browbeat that wrinkle out of your tie this morning."
"Browbeat the wrinkle out of my tie?" I quirk a brow at her.
