Hot Boss

by Anne Marsh

Hazel sets her laptop on the floor and comes around to stand behind me. “This is a really bad idea.”

  “Absolutely.” Another cute couple shot. Click. Champagne on ice. Click. A selfie as Evan wraps one arm around my wife and another around an enormous trophy—compensating much?—and plants a celebratory kiss on her upturned face. Click. Click. Click. “She can’t have known him for long, so what kind of feelings could she possibly have for him?”

  “Fun ones,” Hazel says dryly.

  And now I’m realizing that I might have expected Molly to come back, to admit she was wrong.

  I grab my phone and fire off a quick text. “I’m going to Vegas.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? What’s the objective?”

  She looks baffled, so I point out the obvious reason to make an emergency trip to Vegas.

  “Someone needs to vet Cowboy Bob. How much money can the guy make riding cows?”

  “You think he’s her boy toy?” Amusement colors Hazel’s voice.

  Objectively, however, Molly is probably the richest English teacher on the face of the planet. Definitely in the continental US. I was scrupulously fair in our divorce settlement and even Molly couldn’t spend millions of dollars on books.

  “Molly needs looking after.”

  “Jack—”

  “You might as well say it.” If it’s physically possible for a grown woman to explode, Hazel’s on the edge.

  “Speaking as a grown woman myself, if you go charging in there to approve—or not approve—her choice in men, I can assure you things will end badly for you.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Are you nuts? One of us needs to not get arrested as a delusional stalker, because we have important business meetings next week.”

  “Come with me and make sure I don’t get arrested.”

  “No.”

  “Please? It’ll be fun. There are spas. We can have sex in a hotel room.” I stab a finger at the naked cowboy shoulders. “I’ll get you the biggest tub in Vegas.”

  I know I’m being irrational. It’s not an incentive-rich offer. No sane woman would take it. My only hope is that Hazel is ever so slightly crazy. In the best possible way.

  Hazel sighs, a big, gusty exhale. I know before she says anything that I’ve won.

  “This is insane. I’m going with you because letting you get arrested or castrated in Vegas would be detrimental to our business.”

  My phone buzzes with a confirmation from the private plane people. “We take off in three hours.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE PRIVATE JET terminal is posh. You never know who you’re going to meet. I was about to board my jet for a European meeting once when I swear Prince Harry came strolling out of the men’s room. I walk beside Hazel toward the plane.

  She casts a quick glance down at my hand cupping her elbow, and a smile touches her mouth briefly as she shakes her head. “You don’t change, do you?”

  I don’t know what she means, so I concentrate on getting us on board. The sooner we’re seated and buckled in, the faster we can get to Vegas. Our luggage has already been stowed away by the ground crew. The cabin holds eight and looks like my uncle’s living room. There are four cream-colored leather recliners with little red throw pillows and a big leather sofa grouped around a coffee table. Since the flight to Las Vegas is just over an hour, I passed on a stewardess. We can pour our own drinks.

  It feels like it takes forever to get airborne, although it’s really less than fifteen minutes. I debate hiring a PI to track down Molly and her Cowboy Dick in Vegas, but since he’s performing in the big national rodeo there, he can’t be that hard to find. After the Pinterest fiasco, I texted her “to check in,” but she ignored me. I tried giving her a call, but I rolled straight to voice mail. She’s probably ignoring me.

  One of the many advantages of flying private is that we’ll go above the commercial traffic and take the most direct route to Vegas. This means no fighting for airspace and a shorter flight time. We can’t get there fast enough for me. I bounce my knee up and down, considering next steps. Maybe I should have driven.

  Hazel’s hand covers my knee. “What’s the plan?”

  “I have tickets for the rodeo tonight. We’ll go there, check out this Evan, and I’ll see if I can have a couple of words with Molly.”

  “She’s not going to want to talk about this,” she murmurs.

  “Then she shouldn’t have a rebound cowboy.”

  “Mmm.”

  It’s an excellent plan, but she’s frowning at me.

  “You think I overlooked something.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re thinking it.”

  “What if Molly’s genuinely happy?”

  “With a cowboy? Molly doesn’t like horses. Or cows. Or anything else you find on a ranch.”

  Except, apparently, for cowboys. Judging by her Pinterest, she definitely likes cowboys. I’m not sure what it is about a man in boots and a hat with a sweet spot for ladies that appeals. Huh. Put that way, why wouldn’t Molly choose a cowboy for my replacement?

  Hazel squeezes my knee, her thumb sweeping back and forth. It tickles, but it also feels good. She casts a glance at the closed door that separates us from the cockpit.

  “How private is your jet?” she asks.

  She makes jet sound downright dirty. I laugh and twist so I can see her face. “Not that private.”

  “You’re not a member of the mile-high club?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you want to be?” Her hand slides up.

  I capture her fingers with mine. “Do you really want to play naked sardines in an airline bathroom?”

  Hazel makes a face. “Don’t we get a bigger bathroom on this thing?”

  “Not that big.” I drop a kiss on top of her head. I doubt that she’s really issuing an invitation to have a quickie at forty thousand feet.

  Plus, Hazel is a nervous flyer. She usually takes a chill pill before boarding, which means that we never schedule same-day business meetings for her as she needs time to “turn her brain back on.” I’m not sure what her doctor’s prescribing, but she’s definitely not anxious right now. In fact, she seems totally relaxed.

  Maybe she’s too comfortable.

  “Plan B,” she says. “You make me come.”

  Turns out she’s not taking any chances. With a sharp grin, she grabs my hand and puts it exactly where she wants it. It’s like I’m her very own magic rabbit toy.

  I’m not quite sure if she’s teasing me or not. I mean, she’s definitely teasing, but does she want me to do something more? We’re not exactly private here, even if we’re alone. I also haven’t made out on a plane in years and even then it was just kisses in first class. There’s probably some kind of single-guy etiquette that covers this situation but I’m not sure what it is.

  “Hold that thought,” she announces.

  Wait—what?

  There’s no thinking happening, at least not on my part. Even though our flight will be short, she’s wearing clothing meant for relaxing on the plane—some kind of very clingy matching knit set. The fabric’s soft beneath my fingertips, although that’s not the reason I stroke gently back and forth. I love touching Hazel. The pants and leggings are a perfectly tame, muted gray, and I can’t help but notice that there’s no visible panty line. Is she commando? I’m immediately distracted from that avenue of inquiry, however, because when she leans down to rummage in her bag, the material hugs her boobs and does insane things to her ass. Plus, my hand’s shoved against her crotch in the best ever Hazel sandwich.

  A creamy strip of skin is visible above the waist of her leggings. Naked. She’s most definitely naked
underneath. I bite back a groan. My dick has been hard since we boarded the plane and this isn’t helping the situation in my pants. Fortunately, I have about thirty-five minutes to make Mr. Happy less...happy.

  Without missing a beat, she snags something from her purse by our feet—a cashmere throw I’ve seen dozens if not hundreds of times before. It’s Hazel’s constant companion on every flight because she’s always cold, and on more than one occasion I’ve heard her vow undying love to it. With a flick of her wrist, she drapes it over us.

  Hiding the evidence.

  She’s the smartest woman on the planet and my hand’s still on her crotch.

  I do my part and grab the remote, dimming the cabin lights. The pilots probably won’t come out and I know for a fact that there are no security cameras in the cabin, but it never hurts to play things safe. Neither of us wants to read about horny billionaire business partners getting inducted into the mile-high club on one of the online gossip sites. The media sucks sometimes and this would be far too much click bait for them to pass up.

  “Yes?” I run my thumb over the waistband of her leggings, asking permission to take things further.

  “Absolutely.” Hazel nods enthusiastically, shimmying in her seat. The throw slips and she catches it, her eyes laughing at me over the edge.

  I slip my hand into Hazel’s leggings. There’s a moment of happy confirmation—she’s not wearing panties—and then the scent and feel of Hazel becomes my entire world. She’s slick and swollen, so wet that my fingers glide over her easily. She groans encouragement as I skim my fingertips down. The angle is awkward, my wrist bent in an uncomfortable bow. The dark, the blanket, the near pain in my wrist—it reminds me of high school and I tell her so.

  She laughs. “Who was your first? Cheerleader? Best friend’s older sister? Math teacher?”

  I’m not sure why she wants to have a conversation now, but I want to make her happy, so I take a shot at forming a coherent sentence. “You have a dirty mind.”

  And it’s fabulous.

  Hazel makes that snort-laugh—mission accomplished on the happiness front—but then her breath catches. Oh, good. I’ve distracted her. “Yes, like that.”

  I skim her folds more lightly before sinking a little deeper. She’s so wet and soft there. All the stupid comparisons come to mind—she feels like silk, a flower, rose petals. They’re not enough. Even if she didn’t blow my mind so completely, I’d never find enough words to describe Hazel. Somehow, she’s simply more.

  She presses harder against my hand and I find a faster rhythm with my fingers—teasing, circling, gliding my fingers around her clit. I can feel the little tremors starting in her sensitive flesh.

  “I don’t want to come yet,” she groans.

  “I could do this all night,” I whisper roughly against her hair. “But there’re two problems with that plan. First problem? Vegas is only a short flight.”

  I move faster until I’m getting her off with my fingers and she’s chanting my name, her hands locked on my wrist as if I’d let go of her now. When she comes, it’s fast and hard, and I savor each sweet pulse. I love making her lose control; I love catching her when she lets go and fall-flies over the edge.

  We sort of collapse together in the sudden silence blanketing the cabin. Eventually, I trail my mouth over her cheek to her ear. “You’re amazing.”

  She mutters something, but it’s incomprehensible. I reach over and do up her seat belt before I pull her up against my side. The pilot announces that we’re landing, and the Vegas lights rush up to greet us outside the windows.

  We’re on the tarmac at McCarran International Airport before she says, “You never shared the second problem with the class.”

  I smirk against her hair. “You’re loud. No way we do it all night and the pilots don’t hear you.”

  She folds up her blanket. “I’m just incentivizing you. Or giving you positive feedback on your performance.”

  “My boss is the best,” I say mock-solemnly.

  As we taxi toward the private jet terminal, she sits up and grabs her purse. I watch as she puts herself back together, brushing her hair, applying a red slick of lipstick to her mouth. This is Business Hazel—calm, in control, certain of herself.

  She winks at me as the pilots bring us to a smooth halt. “I have the best plans.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THERE’S A DRIVER and car waiting for us when we get off the plane in Las Vegas. Hazel hums something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a Christmas carol even though the holiday is months away still. I realize my palm is curled protectively around her elbow just in case she trips or there’s a zombie attack, and I drop my hand. “Sorry.”

  “Let’s try a compromise,” Hazel suggests.

  I slant a glance down at her as we start toward the terminal. Neither Hazel nor I compromise well. One or both of us always insists on being in charge.

  On being right.

  “Hit me,” I say lightly, nudging her with my shoulder when she veers in the wrong direction. When I bring my fingers to my nose, I can smell Hazel. She wanted to show me some love but we ran out of time, so now I have an IOU that she scribbled on a twenty-dollar bill because neither of us had any paper.

  “You’re a dirty boy, Mr. Reed.” Hazel leans into me, her arm brushing mine, and just that simple touch sets me on fire. “But let’s start with something that can be done in public.”

  She reaches for my hand, her fingers tangling with mine, her thumb tracing a small, private circle on mine. I look down at where we’re now joined. It feels good.

  It feels like we’re a couple.

  “Is this okay?” she asks.

  As if I could let her go now. I’ve missed this sense of being half of a whole, of feeling connected to another person. “Yes.”

  She doesn’t let go until I’ve handed her into the waiting town car. Las Vegas is every bit as loud and colorful as I remember. It’s not a place I come often—I prefer the ocean—but Max, Dev and I used to drive over the mountains and through the desert to spend long, decadent weekends drunk off our asses to celebrate the end of another college quarter. Hazel’s quiet as we drive up the Strip. Walking might be faster thanks to the hordes of people crossing every corner and the never-ending streetlights, but the casinos are all lit up and Hazel seems happy to look out the window. I think about telling the driver to turn off and take the back way, but Hazel already has the window rolled down and is recording our slow crawl down the Strip for posterity.

  When we reach the Bellagio, the fountains rocket up into the air. Enormous jets of water rise and fall, exploding across the surface of the lake in well-choreographed bursts. Tourists crowd against the wall that separates them from the lake, jockeying for the clearest point of view.

  I booked a Bellagio pool villa. Typically the villas are available only to high rollers, but exceptions are always made for billionaires, and Hazel deserves nothing but the best for having my back. The living room of the villa is done in tasteful creams. Italianate villa but screams money. Two bedrooms, five bathrooms, a kitchen, dry sauna, massage room, fireplace, hot tub and our own private pool. The roar of the fountains almost but not quite drowns out the louder babel that is Vegas. While Hazel disappears, exploring, I tip the butler generously, willing him to disappear.

  He doesn’t catch my subliminal message. “Can I do anything else for you, sir?”

  Before I can send him on his way with a polite “no thanks,” Hazel bellows out her obscene admiration from another room for “the world’s biggest fucking tub.” I’m not sure if she’s referring to the tub’s proportions or to activities that could be performed within it, but it’s Vegas. Anything is possible.

  “Perhaps our romance package?” The butler makes the suggestion discreetly, but I can feel him fighting back a smile. I nod, because what the hell. I’m sure Hazel would enjoy ros
e petals in her bath or something.

  We don’t have much time before the rodeo starts, so I keep my plane IOU for later and we change and head out. I’m not going for the full-on Wranglers, boots and Stetson look, but jeans and boots seem like they would blend better than a suit. Hazel also gets into the spirit of things with a full skirt that stops just below her knees. She’s wearing bright red cowboy boots and a Western shirt that she’s tied up around her waist.

  The rodeo is being held down the Strip, in the same venue where the resort usually hosts medieval jousts and dinner shows that serve enormous turkey drumsticks on platters so you can get your inner knight on. The cowboy hats are as outsize as their wearers, although nowhere near as large as the two-story posters of the top competitors lining the walls. This gives me an opportunity to check him out before confronting him face-to-face. Evan Wilson is not a bad-looking man. He’s not as tall as me, which makes him a medium-sized Viking and a big man. Close-cropped brown hair, bad-boy stubble, brown eyes and—fuck me—a dimple in his left cheek.

  I nod toward the picture of my replacement. “Do you think he’s hot?”

  Hazel’s eyebrows pull together as she gazes up at larger-than-life Evan. If it takes longer than three seconds for her to decide, the answer is yes, though there’s an unfamiliar, sort of hollow sensation somewhere near my stomach. Maybe I should work room service or dinner into tonight’s plan. Maybe—

  Hazel shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

  Two seconds. I think she may be lying, but I appreciate it. Hazel’s good people.

  Our seats are the best money can buy, so it would be impossible to get closer to the arena without actually entering the competition. The rodeo one. Not the one for Molly. And not that I’m competing for her. Or want her.

  Something twists inside me.

  I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.

  Evan’s competing in the second event, bareback riding. Rider after rider explodes from the bright yellow chute, hanging on while the bronc does its best to knock them off. When Evan comes busting out, it’s clear he’s a big crowd favorite. He racks up an impressive score in eight seconds. It’s not enough for the win, though. Second Choice Boy comes in third. I don’t see Molly, though.