Page 80 of Bad Boss

Not one to be outdone, I strip his robe and toss it aside before mounting the edge of the mattress, as far from him as possible. I place the bag between us and lay out the extravagant selection—a lobster and caviar frittata, with crème puffs drizzled in Belgian chocolate.

I don’t attempt to offer him any, but he maneuvers himself closer anyway, snatches up a fork, and we eat in silence from the same containers. An awkward, tense silence that at the same time somehow manages to seem… easy?

Too easy. I’m still wearing that damn negligee—something I don’t realize until I spill a bit of egg down my front, and a thick finger is there to brush it away, electrifying my skin through the layer of satin. I could cringe and make a bigger issue of the contact, but I don’t… and whether because of that or merely by coincidence, he’s closer. We’re halfway into a mound of caviar when I feel his hand on my waist, nudging me sideways so that he can swing himself onto his stomach, his bare ass visible.

“See something that you like?” I drag my gaze downward to find him watching me watch him while chewing on a buttered scone.

I ignore him in favor of another massive bite of caviar, and we stay that way until nearly every morsel is gone. Then he stands and pads to the center of the room without bothering to so much as wrap a sheet around his waist.

And I simply can’t be blamed for not turning away.

“Get dressed,” he tells me while I clean up the empty containers.

“Why? For another ‘lesson’?”

He doesn’t deny it outright, and when I glance up, I can’t read the look that crosses his face. “You probably want to shower alone rather than with me,” he says, ignoring my question completely. He crosses over to his dresser and rummages through a drawer, withdrawing a fresh pair of briefs—masculine ones this time. “You have ten minutes,” he calls back before heading to the bathroom adjacent to his room.

It’s funny how a week ago, the commanding tone wouldn’t have made me blink twice. I would have hopped to action—and not only because he paid me, but now…

“What makes you think that I can’t shower with you?” The words are out before I can take them back. Strangely, a part of me doesn’t want to. It’s incredibly satisfying to tilt my chin into the air and march past him toward the walk-in shower, knowing he’s watching me.

But then he reaches over me and yanks the water on, sending it cascading down, and I have no choice but to strip out of my nightie completely and step inside. I back myself into a corner, and he follows me in, holding my gaze as he snatches a bar of soap from a metal shelf built into the wall. He lathers up while I snag a washcloth and copy him.

All in all, the experience is rather… platonic at first. He washes himself methodically while I wet my hair beneath the spray and attempt to comb out the mess he left behind. The monotony lulls me into a false sense of security. I’ve almost begun to relax when I feel his thigh press against my ass.

Oops. The professional thing to do would be to excuse myself and make a break for it. Instead, I remain there, sandwiched between his heavy body and the frosted glass of the shower’s wall.

“You missed a spot, Ms. King.”

Holy crap. His voice is sinful, dipping several octaves lower, and my entire body buzzes with residual vibrations. Then the bastard steps closer and runs his fingers along my forearm before seizing my washcloth mid-swipe.

“Allow me to assist,” he murmurs before pressing against me fully from behind.

My eyes drift shut as I register the feel of him. All six feet, whatever inches of hardened muscle and British charm soaking wet and at my mercy. The effect he has on me is so unfair. As his breath fans my shoulder in a slow, heady rhythm, I find myself leaning into him.

Before I can stop myself, my shoulders are pressed firmly against his chest, and another part of his anatomy is straining against my lower back. Despite his obvious discomfort, he still seems utterly in control as he reaches around me brushing his palm over my stomach before heading downward.

He isn’t even using the guise of “washing” me this time. The rag is in his other hand, and all I feel are the warm, rugged surfaces of his fingers, slipping along my clit in teasing swipes. Once. Again. I’m panting with every brush, hating how quickly he has my brain turning to lust-addled mush.

“Do you approve?” he asks. To my relief, he sounds just as breathless, as if he feels every jolting bit of pleasure shooting through me.

I can’t even form a coherent reply. I just rock on my heels, letting his touch work its magic. My knees buckle when the pleasure finally spills over, and Graeme stumbles in his rush to hold me upright.

“You’re right,” he says as I catch my breath. “I think we can shower together in relative harmony, Ms. King.”

Bastard.

Minutes later, he steps out into a towel and tosses one back at me.

“The foyer. Five minutes,” he commands before heading once again for his closet.

Five minutes. I spend three of them wrestling with the decision before I finally creep into the guest bedroom and grab one of his outfits from the closet—a beige sundress paired with leather sandals. One benefit to the ensemble is that the dress has a pocket the perfect size for my phone to fit in.

When I descend the staircase, he’s already waiting by the door, dressed in a gray suit, black tie. I wonder if he dressed that way on purpose. Without a word, we enter the hallway, only before I even step over the threshold, his hand captures mine.

“You’re on retainer,” he reminds me, and my mind spins for the millionth time that morning alone.

One minute he’s enforcing boundaries. The next, we’re eating caviar in his bed. He fires me without warning, yet re-hires me, and demands we hold hands in public.

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