Hard For My Boss

by Daryl Banner

  “But no leather cuffs? No nipple clamps?” She rolls her eyes. “Boring, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t. Can you block Lukas’s account? Buy us some time?”

  “I can block his PayPal and Google Wallet easy,” she confirms, “but I cannot make any guarantees if they do a direct deposit through his bank, though I doubt even he would be so bekloppt.”

  I won’t pretend to know what that word means. “Do what you can, Jazz. We can’t let those videos get out. Not one. Forward me Lukas’s information again, keep your eye on him, and tell me at once if those videos ever leave his phone.”

  “Already doing so.”

  I start rubbing my temple. “And explain to me again why you couldn’t just hack in and delete the videos?”

  “Too complicated to explain.”

  “You mean you think I’m too dumb to understand.”

  “Correct. Are all of your clients such … sexual disasters?” she asks, her eyes pinching half-closed. “Like you?”

  I snort. “Me? I’m not a sexual disaster. The hell you mean by that?”

  “I have known you nine years now. No boyfriend or girlfriend. No long-term lover. No wedding. Is there something you are not telling, dear Benjamin? Has your sweet cock broken off?”

  Jazz has a way of putting things. “Nope. It’s in working order, thanks for asking.”

  “And you surround yourself with pretty young boy-men,” she goes on, her dialect growing thicker by the syllable. “Benji Boy, you are thirty-three years old, but your cock is twenty-three.”

  “Jazz …”

  “Young men, all around you. Why only young men? Why not men your age?”

  “Blame Rebekah who does the hiring.”

  “Hiring that you approve,” she counters.

  I sigh into my palms, then lift a warning eyebrow at her. “This sort of prying isn’t the kind I pay you for, y’know.”

  “I do not pry on friends,” she states, feigning innocence. “I am simply curious.”

  “So I’m your friend, then?”

  “Perhaps. Maybe. Shut up about it.” She shrugs, the subject making her uncomfortable. “I will get a new number and contact you, Benji Boy, my friend, as the old one is compromised.”

  “Aww. I hit a note with you. How about your love life, Jazz? You know everything about me, probably up to and including the flavor of my toothpaste, and I know next to nothing about you.”

  “I like it this way.”

  I smirk. “Then I guess I’ll be alone dreaming tonight of how miserably single I am and wondering what’s wrong with me.”

  “Not enough chocolate syrup in your life. That’s what.”

  I choke on a laugh. “Keep in touch, Jazz. Or Irene. Or whatever your real name is.” I give her side eyes. “Nine years, huh?”

  “Nine years, two months, sixteen days. Hmm. Now I have a craving for chocolate donuts.” The tablet goes dark, Jazz’s face vanishing.

  With a shake of my head and a smile, I swipe the tablet off the desk on my way out of the office. I’m really glad I have Jazz working with me, despite the trouble my clients often cause. Since the start, Miss Melina and her spoiled daughter have been nothing but a general pain in my ass. Seriously, how many damned world-shattering crises can one celebrity have in a week? She’s a soap opera actress with a soap opera life.

  And maybe so am I.

  I push open the door to the conference room. My team sits at the long table chatting with one another—Julian, Samantha, and Quentin. At the opposite end of the table are two interns, awkward and silent as the chairs they sit in. One is bearded and handsome.

  The other is Trevor.

  Of course it is.

  11

  Trevor is still working. Harder.

  There’s a great big marching band in the room.

  Wait, no. That’s just my pulse.

  My terrified, humiliated, mortified, panicking pulse.

  Like, it’s literally pounding in my ears so loudly, I don’t even hear Ben’s first words of greeting.

  His name’s not just Ben, I scold myself. It’s Mr. Benjamin Gage. Your boss. He is your totally untouchable boss and nothing more.

  “Julian. Samantha. Quentin.” The boss says each of the names of the others at the table in a tone that’s detached and cool. Whatever banter they were having is now replaced with piercing silence as Benjamin Gage strolls by on his way to the dry erase board at the front of the room.

  Which gives me a very unfair, perfect view of Ben’s ass. If anything, it has gotten five and a half times more epic since the last time I saw it. You know—at Ben’s place. With his pant buttons undone. And his junk on display in those tight, bulging boxer briefs.

  And I almost caved.

  In the next instant, I hear Ben’s voice fill the room, deep and dominant. “And you two are here for…?”

  My eyes flick up from his butt—to find he’s not even looking at us. He’s at the board, calmly fishing a marker out of its tray.

  “I’m Brandon,” states the bearded one at my side. “We were sent to take notes for R-Reynold and Emilio.”

  A corner of Ben’s mouth curls upward. “You’re taking notes for Raymond, not Reynold,” he corrects him. “If you are chosen as the assigned note-taker for someone, I recommend you know the person for whom you’re taking notes.”

  Brandon’s eyes flash wide. “Y-Yes, sir.”

  “And keep up,” Ben goes on. “I don’t go slow. And you were sent to take notes for Emilio, I presume?”

  I’m staring at him, surprised at his complete coldness and lack of acknowledgement. Are we really going to pretend like we didn’t meet each other at all this past Friday? Is he going to ice me out like I don’t exist?

  And then I realize that last question was directed at me.

  “Yes,” blurts Brandon, answering for me. “He is, sir. And his name’s Trevor.”

  Benjamin Gage—chiseled jaw, breathtakingly handsome, cold in the eyes—continues to write on the board without once looking our way. “And did Trevor somehow lose his voice between the introductions and this conference room, or is it possible for him to answer me himself?”

  My mouth parts. The whole room looks my way. I feel the eyes of the three at the other end of the table and Brandon at my side. Their stares bore into me like aiming archers.

  But not Ben. The pompous, arrogant, cocky, powerful, cold-as-can-be Ben only continues to squeak that marker on that board, not even allowing me the simple dignity of a glance.

  It’s infuriating. Couldn’t he at least treat me like a human being who’s worth the air he breathes? He doesn’t have to announce to the room that I drank his wine, or took off my shirt in his home, or eye-fucked him across a smokey nightclub.

  But he can at least acknowledge my damned existence.

  “Perhaps he has lost his voice,” muses Ben, taunting me worse as he continues to circle, squiggle, and draw arrows across his big board.

  I squint heatedly, lift my chin, and use my voice. “I’m Trevor,” I state, “and I’m taking notes for Emilio. And no, I did not lose my voice. It is very much here. Obviously. Sir.”

  Piercing silence is all that is returned to me. After it persists for a second too long, Ben finally pops the cap back onto his marker and faces the room.

  Namely, me.

  And the look on his face is not the indignant one I expected.

  He looks … amused.

  The subtle twisting of his striking eyes to convey how very funny he must think this whole situation is makes me angry. Doesn’t he know how much effort I put into preparing for this internship, preparing for the workload I would have to endure and the expectations I would have to live up to, and preparing to meet him and get in his good graces?

  His “good graces” are all I wanted to get in. I didn’t count on almost getting into his bedroom before my first damned day in his office. That wasn’t part of the plan.

  And damn it, neither is this.

  “You know
,” he says at long last, “that kind of attitude you just threw my way would have me kicking any of my interns to the curb without so much as a sticky note of good riddance.”

  The blood drains from my face.

  “But …” He crosses his arms and squints at me, questions and curiosities in his eyes. “You’re not just any intern, are you?”

  Despite the glint of defiance in his gorgeous eyes—those same eyes I poured into, even if briefly, Friday night—I don’t find myself angered in the least by how he’s looking at me.

  Instead, worse, I’m turned on.

  Really, Trevor? Turned on? Right now?

  Yes. Right now. Turned on by the heat in his eyes. Turned on by the bulges his biceps make when his arms are folded in that tight shirt. And I’m finally looking upon those lips of his again—those full, lush, heart-shaped lips that I had just one little taste of.

  And I’m imagining those lips on mine again.

  I feel my own lips everywhere on Ben’s body—from the nape of his wide, strong neck, to the peak of either of his big, firm pecs where a sensitive, pebbled nipple awaits on each, to the ridges of his six-pack abs, down to the base of his quickly swelling cock, where I’ll be sure to stay for hours and hours and hours, working him to the edge.

  Suddenly, I have a totally different situation to handle, which inspires me to quickly—and tightly—cross my legs.

  Fuck.

  “N-No, sir,” I manage to reply, despite my “situation”. I can’t believe this is happening. “I’m not just … any intern.”

  “No, you’re not. You were picked to take notes for Emilio. And you have a voice, we’ve discovered.” He gives me a curt nod. “So use that voice, and don’t you ever let me catch some other guy speaking on your behalf again. Got it?”

  I choke on whatever words I could possibly say. Brandon has frozen at my side, every part of him turning to ice under the cold words of Mr. Gage.

  My face sets, my jaw tightening. “Got it. Sir.”

  “Very well.” He swiftly turns back to the dry erase board. “Let us focus on the living hell that is our favorite boy band renegade from New Jersey, shall we?”

  His question is returned with a grunt of agreement from the non-interns at the table, and then the imaginary spotlight that just inspired a nervous sheen of sweat on my forehead mercifully wrenches away from us, and he begins talking.

  I should be taking notes now. The pressure is off and all of the attention is on Benjamin Gage as he talks about his plans.

  But I’m not listening; I’m watching. Benjamin’s writing hand moves with quick, sensual finesse as he draws charts on the board. It’s hypnotizing, the sexy, muscular way in which his body moves. All of his back muscles dance tauntingly as he writes, revealing themselves to me through his tight shirt as intimately as if he wasn’t wearing a shirt at all.

  Oh great. Now I’m imagining him not wearing anything.

  Get yourself together, Trevor. Take some damned notes. It’s literally the only reason you’re in this room.

  But then I notice even his meaty butt wiggles as he covers the board with squeaky ink. That is the sexiest, squeakiest ink I have ever heard to accompany the show that is his sweet, sculpted ass.

  Today is torture Trevor day.

  Yeah, that ass is a whole other act of hypnosis I have to suffer. I’m fixated instantly on that shelf—that fucking shelf—of muscle in those fitted pants. His ass cheeks sing sweet symphonies of desire to me. I catch my mouth parting, as if I’m literally deciding whether he’s got an ass in those pants, or two juicy humps of meat I want to chomp my teeth into.

  Great. Cannibalism. My horniness has led to cannibalism.

  Before I completely lose my mind, I should probably, really, seriously, actually jot down a note or two. Emilio is going to need to be filled in on something from this damned meeting—whoever the fuck Emilio is.

  “We got him to take down his incendiary post and issue a kind apology in its place,” Ben is explaining, waving his marker in the air as he talks. “An apology that we worded. But let’s discuss—”

  Ben’s marker swings around like a conductor’s baton, guiding the music of his sexy, silky voice as he addresses the room—you know, saying whatever really super important thing he’s saying. My eyes drink in the sight of his biceps as they flex and bulge with his movements, pulling on the thin fabric of his tight white pinstriped dress shirt. When it returns to the board, the marker squeaks as he makes circles, draws arrows, and dots every “i”.

  Yes, pretty man is still talking. “… putting good stories out in the fray to combat the negative …” I take notes, sneaking glances up at him every second—up at his ass, more like. “… and taking control of the conversation. What I need from you is …”

  Tell me, Ben. Tell me what you need from me. I start taking notes in such mind-numbing autopilot, I’m not really paying much attention to precisely what I’m writing down. I doubt it’s coherent. Might even just be the alphabet over and over for all I know.

  And yes, my legs are still crossed tightly. And I’m not going to uncross them until this totally-out-of-control cock of mine learns to behave professionally during a business meeting, damn it.

  “Commit the interviewers to certain questions only,” throws in a guy at the other end of the table. “Control the questions, you control the interview.”

  “Obviously. That’s politics 101,” Ben states. “Think bigger.”

  Think bigger? If I think any bigger, my dick’s gonna turn into an eggplant.

  A woman, freckled and mousy, throws in her two shiny cents. “Deflect, deflect, deflect. Why not put out news about one of our other clients? Someone lateral? Frank Tank, maybe. Doesn’t he have a tour coming up?”

  “Hmm, yeah,” chimes in the guy, wrinkling his blunt nose upon which his bifocals rest. “Give some other newer story a chance to trend on Twitter, filling up those column inches. Oh, that’s also politics 101, huh?” he adds sheepishly, biting his lip.

  Everyone second guesses themselves in front of Benjamin Gage. Everyone cowers beneath his know-all and his piercing gaze, even when they suggest to fill up columnist’s inches.

  And here I am, writing nonsense notes so fast and sneaking so many glances at Ben that all I’m thinking of are my own inches.

  The ones growing in my pants from all of this staring.

  “Good points, but that’s elementary stuff,” states Ben. He fists his marker tightly. “I have some more permanent fixes in mind. Pay attention and learn, boys and girls.”

  And of course the only thing I pay attention to is his body as it sings a totally different song than the one coming from his mouth. My mind and soul are on fire, pleading and begging for that man to pay me a speck of attention.

  I clench shut my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I’m so pathetic.

  It’s only a brisk twenty minutes later that a course of action is settled on and the team disperses before I even realize we’ve been dismissed. My daydream is broken when Brandon rises from his seat abruptly and beelines for Mr. Gage to shake his hand. A whole slew of words of admiration spill from his lips as he plays every card in his deck to the boss. Speaking of pathetic.

  But I won’t stoop to that level. I simply gather my notebook and tuck it under an arm before heading toward the door, refusing to drown myself in any more of Benjamin Gage’s hotness.

  Despite my efforts, I succumb to a moment of weakness, lingering at the door for just a second too long. In that second, Mr. Gage’s gaze detaches from the intern in front of him and connects with mine, potently and deliberately. The deep, bleeding urgency within that scalding stare of his makes all of my insides come apart. My heart rate, which I had just managed to return to normal, flings itself right back into the race in one instant.

  And this instant is all I need to remember—vividly—what it felt like to be in Ben’s home drinking his wine, staring into his eyes expectantly, and wondering what in the hell was about to
happen. The excitement, the anticipation, the terror …

  He’s your boss, whispers a voice. He’s untouchable. Turn away.

  Turn away.

  That’s precisely what I do. The eye contact breaks, though I can’t say whether it’s me who looks away first or him. I’m out of the conference room and crossing the office space. Every person I pass is a blur. Every face is every other face. Every tie is every other tie. Despite trying to push away thoughts of Ben, he’s the only damned thing I’m thinking about. I’m stony-eyed and lost in so many thoughts, I stumble twice on my way, almost walk into an opened filing cabinet, and literally forget where I am.

  What a crap-tastic situation.

  I finally make it back to the round table where the others are sitting. Elijah’s lit-up face sobers me. “Dude! How was it?”

  I blink, completely lost. “H-How was what?”

  “Getting to sit in a meeting with the man himself,” he answers, like it’s the most obvious thing. He wears a permanent smile of excitement that bunches up his cheeks. “You gotta tell me. What was it like, seeing him work his brilliance in the flesh?”

  When I let my bewildered eyes drift from Elijah’s, I realize three of the other interns are also paying attention to me, having stopped their tasks to hear my answer. I haven’t quite had the pleasure to meet these three yet—including a pretty girl with short curly black hair, cute dorky glasses, smooth rich russet skin, and bright green eyes that seem to drink in everything. I notice her especially, since she’s standing right next to Elijah.

  I shrug. “It … was interesting, I guess.”

  “Don’t hold out,” teases Elijah, nudging me.

  “I was just sent in there to take notes for Emilio, since he’s not here. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  Elijah gapes at me. “Dude, that’s not even the point. You do realize everything has an ulterior motive, right? Rebekah chose you and Brandon to go in there and absorb. You weren’t supposed to just take notes, dummy. You’re learning the business! You’re picking up on his technique, watching the master at work!”

  The other interns are still staring at me. I press my lips together and shuffle uncomfortably, not liking all the attention.