Hard For My Boss

by Daryl Banner

  I need to help this poor guy chill out.

  When I come down the stairs, his head spins, eyes glued to me in an instant. I see him take one quick glance at my chest before lifting his gaze to mine. His cheeks burn.

  I can’t help but admire him for a handful of minutes. He’s so damned nice to look at, especially all uptight and cute with his tie still on and his slacks bunched up at his crotch.

  Just when I feel my cock stir, I realize with horror that I forgot to put on any underwear.

  If I bone up, it’s going to show like a proud flagpole.

  Fuck. So much for being decent.

  “It’s voice activated,” I blurt out suddenly, distracting myself from my ill-timed discovery. “If … If you want to watch anything.”

  “Voice …?”

  “Yeah. Like this.” I face the flat-screen. “Play some National Geographic.”

  The TV comes on. The sight of two lions fucking fills our eyes.

  Trevor gets out one laugh before slapping a hand over his mouth.

  I cough, my face going red. Nicely played, flat-screen. “Go up a channel,” I command it.

  The volume increases instead.

  The male lion howls its release, its tail thrashing as my whole living room fills with the unapologetic roar of wild life ecstasy. We’re witnessing the circle of life up in here.

  “The male lion is performing his duty with pride,” states the narrator of the show. “The female exudes such impressive regality even during the act. Observe closely as she begins to—”

  The remote is in my hand the next instant. I jam a thumb into it, and then there’s an innocent food traveling show on. A bald guy excitedly slurps down a bowl of noodles with a set of chopsticks pinched between his fingers. “Gelatinous and tasty!” he exclaims with glee to the camera.

  “You can say that again,” murmurs Trevor. Then he looks up at me. “You’re blushing.”

  I toss the remote into his lap. It lands with a distractingly meaty sort of sound, making me instantly think about what he’d look like with those pants off. Stop it. You’re getting hard. “Go to town,” I tell him, my voice strained, “before I … change my mind about inviting you to enjoy my tasty Bistecca Fiorentina.”

  “Still don’t know what it is.”

  “Let’s just call it fancy steak over a bed of thick, hand-rolled pasta.” Not trusting my dick to stay soft, I head off to the kitchen and pull down an extra dish from the cabinet. “I’d ask red or white again, but seeing as you’re likely underage …”

  “I … oh.”

  “Yeah. Kinda figured, since you’re my intern, you can’t be—”

  “Twenty-five,” he finishes in a low, tired voice.

  “I haven’t had time to check your file.” I totally did earlier. He’s a journalism major with a minor in psychology. His name is Trevor Woodard, and he’s just a few weeks short of twenty-one. I just want to hear him admit his age. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Sixteen,” he answers sarcastically in a toying voice.

  I chuckle, then peer over my shoulder. He’s thrown an arm over the back of the couch, his adorable face in view.

  My dick stirs at the sight of him.

  Down, boy.

  Trevor smiles innocently. “I gotta be home before ten or my parents are gonna be so mad at me,” he teases.

  I clear my throat. “Well, damn. I guess I’d better give you some time to finish your homework, too.”

  “It’s the summer,” he reminds me, acting all clever. “We don’t have homework. Are you okay? You look jumpy.”

  “I do? No, I don’t.” I hurry to the table with glasses and silverware, setting his place with my back to him while trying my best to hide my crotch. I have no protection whatsoever from shamelessly revealing my hard-on. It’s maddening, having so little control over it. I’ve never felt so much like a dumb, sex-crazed teenager, not since I—well, since I was a dumb, sex-crazed teenager.

  And he watches me the whole time, his eyes drifting down my body. That does nothing to soften the serious case of wood I’m nursing downstairs. “You know,” I force myself to say, “it was only four years ago that you really were sixteen.”

  He frowns. “Well, if you already knew how old I am, then why’d you ask?”

  “Wanted to hear it from your lips, I guess.”

  “I guess it doesn’t make a difference, does it?” he retorts, then crosses his arms, looking smug and satisfied with himself. “You let me believe you were in your late twenties.”

  Still behind the table, I let out a chuckle. “How’d I do that?”

  “I guessed your age, and you just—” He blinks, remembering. “Oh. You … You just laughed at me then. You didn’t confirm it.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  Trevor’s eyes narrow in that same cute, indignant way they always do. I’m already getting to know him so well. “You’re thirty-three,” he announces unnecessarily. “I know that fact because I know Benjamin Gage, my boss, my employer. But you?” He gives his head one shake. “I don’t know you at all, it seems.”

  “On the contrary, I’m the only one you do know,” I counter, “and for that, I’m thankful.”

  “Why?”

  I meet his bright eyes, finding them genuinely curious for my answer.

  Feeling confident enough that I’m no longer tenting my jeans, I come up toward the back of the couch. He visibly tries not to sink into the cushions as I draw near, holding his posture steady.

  “Because,” I explain, my voice calm and small, “I’m used to guys getting to know the Benjamin Gage. I’m used to people only seeing me for my name, for my influence … my connections … my whatever. It’s refreshing to just be Ben for once.”

  Trevor nods and bites his lip, digesting my words.

  “You know me rather well already,” I point out. “I’m the guy who brought you here to his home. The guy with the dog who hates people. The guy whose six hundred dollar bowl you broke.”

  “I said sorry,” he sasses at me. Then, after a beat, his eyes shrink. “S-Six hundred dollars, you said?”

  When I grin to reveal my cruel humor, Trevor’s cute attitude flashes over his face all over again. This adorable boy is so easy to play with and torment.

  “Let me ask you a question, then,” Trevor starts.

  I come around the couch and take a seat, lifting my eyebrows to listen. He seems to freeze up when I sit, his body turning rigid despite the fact that the couch is extravagant and long with more than enough room for five people. As it is, there’s space for two linebackers to be sitting between us.

  Keep it professional, right?

  “Yes?” I prompt him. “You wanted to ask me something?”

  He swallows, then meets my eyes. “If I … If I wasn’t your intern at all, and we happened to meet at that … that club …”

  “Which is pretty much what happened, if I’m believing that you really didn’t know me, and I really didn’t know you …”

  “My p-point is,” he stammers on, his features hardening, “if things were different, are you saying you would have actually entertained the idea of …” He swallows again, then averts his eyes and finishes, “of doing … things … with me?”

  I prop an elbow on the back of the couch, considering him.

  “What I mean,” he persists, rambling on, “is … is that … Listen, what I’m asking is—”

  I cut him off. “Are you asking if I’m into you?”

  Trevor rolls his eyes and looks away. “Never mind. I’m being dumb. Forget I asked.”

  I bite my lip to stop myself from grinning with amusement. He is a professional squirmer, this poor guy. I wonder if I should do anything to ease his torment or just kick back and enjoy the show he’s putting on.

  Then my eyes drift to his crotch, which I discover to be totally exposed, his legs having opened up as he continues to stare off. He’s likely caught in a storm of self-doubt and insecurity in his mind. His crotch looks so fucking in
viting in those work slacks of his, bunching up in just the right way, fitting his form so perfectly that I could bury my face in there for hours.

  Fuck. There goes my dick again.

  “The answer is yes,” I tell him. “I think you’re attractive.”

  He doesn’t look back, but his eyes flash and his lips part as if to say something, yet he remains silent.

  “Take off your tie,” I say suddenly. “Kick off your shoes.”

  “Wh-What?” he stammers, alarmed.

  “Make yourself at home. You’re not at the office, y’know. You can take off that tie you’ve been strangling yourself with all day.”

  He chuckles at that, desperate to laugh at something, but his face still stiffens with tension. “A-Alright.” He starts loosening his tie, as if my offer for him to relax was an order he needs to follow. His fingers fumble twice as he works it off his neck, like he doesn’t remember how he got it on in the first place.

  It’s so fucking adorable. Even the tiny, subtle movements and second-guessing of his nervous fingers is sexy somehow.

  He licks his lips a lot too when he’s nervous. His eyes look wet, like he’s about to cry or freak out, or like he just downed a gallon of liquor.

  “Yeah,” I answer him again. “I would have spent the whole evening with you, no question. But … we’re being professional,” I remind him. “I’m not gonna pursue anything, since we’re—”

  “But w-would you with someone else?” he cuts me off, half-turning his face toward me as he sets the tie on the coffee table in front of him—coiled up neatly. “Like, if one of the other interns—”

  “Really?”

  The hard, abrupt tone of my voice startles him. He meets my eyes, then his brows pull together.

  “W-Well, I think it’s a good question,” he states defensively.

  “You think I’m that much of a skeeze? To let any guy who hits on me into my life like I’ve let you?”

  “I … well, I don’t know.” He swallows hard. “Are you?”

  I feel my face heating up. Is this really what he thinks? That my employees are just a bunch of treats in a candy bowl that I can sample all summer? Is that how others picture me, too?

  And even while I’m getting all hot and angry, the only thing I’m really thinking about is how far away from him I’m sitting on the couch. Why is my only concern wondering what subtle move I can make to get closer to him? Am I really that pathetic and starved for another guy’s attention?

  Seriously, I just want to put this adorably bumbling guy in my lap and play show-and-tell with his butt so he can know intimately the tent I’m making in my pants for him.

  Fuck. Again?? I cross my legs tightly.

  Really, I’m always the man who takes charge in situations like this. Why am I letting him get to me so easily?

  “You’re surrounded by hot guys all the time,” Trevor pushes on, oblivious (or uncaring) of my quickly angering expression—and tenting jeans. “It was the only thing I noticed my first day. Each intern I saw was hotter than the last. All of them young. All of them college guys. All of them muscled and sexy and clean-cut. I must be blind to not notice that. Is that your type?” he finishes, arriving at his point. “And if so, how the hell do I fit in to that? Why am I the one you’re inviting to your stupid penthouse?”

  My stupid penthouse.

  Humor floods back into me, washing away the anger. Even all riled up as he is, Trevor doesn’t realize how totally irresistible he is—and that makes him so much hotter to me. I have seen a thousand guys pass through the doors of Gage Communications who look like all the other dolled-up, greased-up, starched-up interns—muscular, modelesque, tall and strapping—but no one like Trevor. In a lot of ways, he reminds me of myself when I was his age.

  Y’know. Thirteen years ago.

  Fuck. He’s such a kid. I keep forgetting that.

  “I suppose I don’t really have a type,” I admit to him, “despite the people Rebekah keeps hiring into my office every summer.”

  He bites his bottom lip—his big, plush lip—then looks away.

  I want to be sitting so much closer to him right now. I want to put my arm around him, pull him against me, and resume right where we left off. I want to be the one biting that lip of his, feeling it pressing against mine, soft and wet and sweet.

  You can’t, a stubborn voice reminds me. You’re his boss. You ought to be his mentor, not his sex-thing. You need to behave, because you know damn well that if you don’t, he won’t.

  Yet that last word of warning in my head does more to turn me on than ward me away. I know if I slid over on this couch right now and put my mouth to his, he would not resist.

  It would be so easy.

  So easy.

  “But … I like what I see in you,” I finish, my words slow and certain, my eyes drawing a line up his sexy body. “You’re smart. You’re insightful. And you work. Hard.”

  He lifts his gaze back to mine. His teeth let go of his bottom lip, leaving his mouth parted, ready for a kiss, ready for a word of encouragement, ready for fucking anything.

  Then the door buzzer rings.

  I smile ruefully. “Food’s here.”

  17

  Trevor is craving steak. His steak.

  I stand by the back of the couch, clinging to it like a life raft, watching as Ben sorts through the food in the bags.

  Or, more accurately, watching Ben’s ass as it hypnotically moves in those loose, low-hanging light blue jeans, showing a hint of his ass crack.

  Yes, he’s not wearing underwear. Yes, I noticed the second he came down the stairs and headed to the kitchen. Yes, it’s all that’s been on my mind: sex, butt, and Ben.

  It has to be deliberate. He is trying to drive me crazy, and it is working. Just that little tease of his crack makes my cock swell in my already too-tight underwear.

  This is not a healthy combination to endure if I want to honor my plan of behaving and treating him like my boss, nothing more.

  Not to mention my stupid freak-out about him checking out other guys. Really? I just agreed to be nothing but boss and intern with him, and then I go off like a jealous boyfriend?

  I shake off all of my worries (or pretend to) and decide to play it cool. I think about what an actual, totally-platonic situation with an employee at his boss’s place might be like. With that in mind, I calmly stroll over to the kitchen counter where he sorts the two bags of food the delivery boy dropped off.

  “If you had ordered already before I arrived,” I ask, “then how do you have enough for both of us? I don’t have to stay, really.”

  “I always order too much. You see these two bags?” He lifts his gaze to me, his eyes piercing and bright. “Besides, I can … put down a lot of food.”

  Everything he says bleeds with innuendo. Like, does he mean that he literally eats a lot of food? Or is he actually talking about being able to sexually “take” a lot? And why is either answer as sexy as the other?

  “Sit down,” he tells me, his voice deep. “I set a place for you.”

  Yes, he did. And I had watched with hungry eyes as he set that spot for me, placing the silverware. When he did that, I watched with such focused attunement on his backside, the toned muscles of which showed in excruciating detail through that fitted t-shirt of his. His bulging biceps are seriously torturing those sleeves so badly, I’m surprised they haven’t torn yet.

  And his ass. Oh my God, his ass. The loose, light blue jeans he’s wearing are already hanging low enough to show the top of his firm, pert cheeks—his shirt mercifully cut just above his waist so that his butt is on perfect display for me. But when he had reached over the table to set down a fork and knife, I got such a generous front row seat to his butt as it moved. I mean, I could see the tops of either cheek like two perfect, sculpted humps of smooth, inviting muscle.

  How the hell am I supposed to focus on anything else??

  I’m like a preadolescent all over again, hunting jock butts in the locker ro
om after gym class. I feel so out of control and primal, the way I yearn for him.

  It’s almost too much to take.

  I blink away my dirty thoughts and give a distracted nod at the table. “Who’s the, um … third table setting for?”

  “Lance.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “You’ve already forgotten? My dog. Lancelot. Trouble is,” he goes on, smirking as he nods toward the stairs, “I don’t think he’s going to be up for coming down to eat. He’s not very trusting or social, I think I warned you. Lance!” he calls out, his strong, sexy voice booming. “Food’s here! Your favorite!”

  We both look up at the banister. No dog appears.

  “He eats steak?” I ask incredulously.

  “No. The chef makes him a special plate. I’ll bring it up to him later,” Ben decides with a shrug, then turns halfway toward me. “Go ahead. Either of the other spots are fine.” He turns back to the counter, slowly filling our plates as his sexy wide back faces me. Naturally, I become quickly hypnotized once again, watching him longingly. Ben must sense it because after a moment, he looks over his shoulder, catches me staring slack-jawed, then teasingly adds, “Nothing to be afraid of. My forks don’t bite.”

  It’s not the forks I’m afraid that bite. I keep my thoughts in my head, give him a curt nod, then take a seat at the table. The chair is a ridiculously comfortable improvement from the stiff wooden ones that creak at Elijah’s apartment.

  Seconds later, Ben brings two dishes of the most gorgeously plated pasta and steak I have ever seen. The aroma is intoxicating, rich, and eye-rollingly succulent. Like Pavlov’s dog, I salivate the second the plate is set before me.

  It’s astonishing, how he’s so instantly forced me to trade one appetite for another.

  Of course that appetite is traded right back when he takes his seat and my eyes meet his. There’s nothing decent about his dark, hungry gaze. He undresses me with his eyes, stripping me of everything I have and know. Ben grins crookedly, gripping his fork and knife like he plans to eat me for dinner instead.

  Then, in a voice deep and gravelly, he says, “Bon appétit.”