by Misti Murphy
His hips change rhythm, lose it. His erection is still hard in my mouth. A light rumble comes from deep in his chest. Again. I glance up at him as he relaxes under my hands. Eyes closed, lips parted, he lets out another one of those rumbling breaths. I gape and his still somewhat rigid dick drops with a wet plop against his abs.
“James?”
Nothing.
“James, are you asleep?” I scramble up off my knees. How could he fall asleep while I was giving him a blowjob? Was he asleep this entire time? No, I can’t believe he was, but what if this is because of the painkillers and the wine, and the... I am a terrible person, aren’t I? Taking advantage of him while he is incapacitated. What if he didn’t mean it when he told me not to stop? I quickly tuck him back inside his pants and pull the blanket over him. How embarrassing and awkward.
Especially if he remembers, and “don’t stop, that feels good” was really, Don’t. Stop. You’re skeeving me out. It probably was, wasn’t it? He just offered me a promotion with the company because he’s completely blind to my real motivations for leaving. It’s possible I read into it what I wanted to.
Which means it’s time to consider whether there’s any reason I shouldn’t take the job with Royal Cookie Co. And I better start looking for someone to fill my position with Frost Inc. The sooner the better.
Chapter Eight
JAMES
A bright light hits my eyelids and I squint as my mind clings to the dream that’s trying to fade away with the night. A damned erotic dream, too. Myra, kneeling next to the couch, her hand cupping my balls, gently rolling them between her fingers, her lips wrapped around my length. She was sucking me in so deeply the head must have hit the back of her throat. Her tongue stroked along that ridge underneath, leaving me slick and aching and coated with her saliva.
Something rumbles through my body, like a freight train. Guess I’m hungry. Bacon and eggs does sound good right about now, actually. And coffee. Definitely need an infusion of caffeine this morning. My body wakes and reluctantly, I let the dream go.
When I’m alert enough, I realize there’s a weight on my lap. For a heart-stopping moment, I wonder if Myra isn’t here, actually giving me the greatest blowjob of my life. But no, my cock aches like it desperately needs release, not like it had recently exploded.
Besides, this is Myra I’m thinking about. That’s not our relationship, and I really need to figure out how to convince my body to stop reacting to her. She’s practically my best friend, she’s my greatest ally, and she’s going to make a damn fine partner in my firm. That’s far more than most people get in a partner—business or otherwise.
She did accept my offer, didn’t she? I frown. Actually, several chunks of time from yesterday are hazy. Christ, I didn’t get hit with another bout of amnesia, did I? No, more likely a cocktail of Johnny Walker Blue Label and pain meds. Damn it, my doctor was right about mixing the two.
I remember my sister popping in to check on me, I remember watching Myra grill and then enjoying a lovely dinner, just the two of us, sitting on the patio like…like an old married couple. Okay, maybe not old.
And definitely not married.
I think I got lightheaded at that point. Myra pushed my wheelchair over that annoying hump at the patio door. And then…
The weight on my lap shifts and I become acutely aware that the rumbling is not coming from my stomach, nor has it stopped. What the hell?
Once I’ve pried open eyelids that feel glued together, my vision clears enough for me to notice I’m no longer wearing Garrett’s gaudy clothing, but rather a comfortable and far less neon pair of lounge pants and a white T-shirt.
Must have been Myra. Great, now my dick’s getting hard again. Over the idea of her dressing me? Christ, since I can’t remember, she obviously did it while I was asleep, which shouldn’t be erotic in the least. Except it is, because my mind all of a sudden can’t stop thinking about Myra as something far different than an admin. Like a fuck buddy. That would be nice.
Damned nice.
Holy shit, I’ve got to stop. I’m supposed to be convincing the woman to renege on her resignation, and if she knew I am imagining her in black leather and red heels, well…
My gaze finally focuses on the blob curled up on my groin. It’s about ten different shades of gray with black, pointy ears, whiskers, and slitted, blue-green eyes.
“Myra!” I shriek, not necessarily a scream but certainly far too high-pitched not to wonder for the briefest of moments whether this creature curled up on my lap cut off circulation to my balls.
There’s a thump from above me, and then the pounding of feet on the stairs before Myra rushes into view, still pulling her robe over her shoulders. I’m lucid enough to notice those shoulders were bare before she quickly covered them with pink silk.
Christ, Myra was sleeping naked in my bed. I never asked her if she changed the sheets yesterday. Or did she, like Ronnie suggested, curl up surrounded by my scent, snuggle up with pillows that smell like me? Why am I so damn turned on by that idea? By my admin’s nude body, spread out on my smooth, cotton linens? I am, without a single doubt, the worst kind of boss.
Especially because now I’m recalling every short skirt she’s worn for the past five years—every tight blouse, every glimpse of the swell of her breasts, those long, lean legs, that tight, rounded ass. Every remotely inappropriate thought I’ve ever had in the last five years. Hell, until now, I didn’t realize I’d had so many lewd ideas bouncing around in my head. How the hell was I able to ignore them before? How come I can’t now?
Myra comes to a stuttering halt at the base of the staircase, her gaze glued to my groin.
“There’s a pussy on your lap.”
“It’s a cat,” I snap. “What the hell is it doing in my house?”
Her brow furrows as she walks closer on bare feet. The cat turns its head and watches with what can only be described as dispassionate interest. “It isn’t yours?”
“Of course not. Have you ever known me to have any interest whatsoever in taking care of a pet? My brothers and I are very different in many ways, and having this—” I flap my good hand at the creature—“in my house is definitely one of them.”
Myra steps up to the couch and the cat looks up at me, gives a plaintive meow, and then stretches its neck to accept the scratches Myra’s now giving its ears. “He’s so soft,” she says, stroking her hand over its back.
“How do you know it’s a male?”
“I don’t. But I can peek to confirm—”
“No,” I practically shout, lifting my arm to block her from getting any closer to my dick, on top of which the cat’s backside is nestled.
With a shrug, she continues to pet the animal, cooing at it, practically in its face.
“Can you—I have to piss,” I finally grumble. I really do, but mostly, I’m discombobulated by her closeness. Like we’ve been here before. Like my dream wasn’t really a dream.
“All right,” Myra says and she lifts the cat from my lap. “Come on, Simon. Let’s go get his wheelchair.”
“Simon? Where did you come up with Simon?”
“He’s Siamese. Seems fitting.”
“First, you don’t know if it’s a male—”
In an incredibly un-Myra-like move, she flips the cat over and spreads its legs. “You’re right,” she says after righting it again in her arms. “Simon is a girl. But I still think the name fits her.”
Simon is a–? “Myra, it isn’t my cat. You can’t name someone else’s cat.”
She frowns down at the perfectly content animal. The thing is purring, well, like a freight train. Or maybe a chainsaw. It’s damned loud at any rate.
“You’re probably right,” she says, sounding disappointed. “She looks well taken care of. Probably belongs to one of your neighbors. I bet she wandered in here last night when we had the patio door open.”
Her cheeks go a dusky pink, like they did several times yesterday. She drops the cat into my lounger
and then drags the wheelchair closer to the couch. I don’t particularly want to push the blanket off my lap, because my dick’s excitement is damned obvious in these loose-fitting pants. She takes the decision out of my hands by grasping the beige afghan and tugging it away. Her gaze drops to my tented pants and her cheeks darken further, and I’m vividly reminded of that dream I didn’t get to finish.
Maybe I should. Finish myself off, that is. Maybe that’s what I need to help me finally stop thinking about Myra in ways that are wholly inappropriate for our relationship. I could do it while taking a shower. It’ll be awkward with my left hand, but I’m sure I can figure out a way to get the job done.
“Damn it,” I mutter, because how the hell am I supposed to shower with a bum foot, not to mention my wrist?
“What’s wrong?” Myra’s gaze darts to my face, her forehead creased with worry lines.
I clear my throat. “I need to bathe.”
“Oh. Well, um, I could help you.”
An image pops into my head, of me sitting in a bathtub with Myra seated behind me, her legs wrapped around me while she scrubs my back with a loofah. No, no. Me seated behind Myra, her nestled between my legs, her bare ass pressed against my hard-as-a-rock erection, my soapy hands massaging her breasts…
“Uh…help me?” I can barely formulate the words, let alone push them past the giant lump in my throat.
She nods. “That’s what I’m here for this week. To take care of you. Which includes helping you bathe.”
Christ almighty, the woman is testing every bit of resolve I have. I have never wanted something so inappropriate in all my life. Only two weeks ago, HR had informed me they were letting Larry and Marge from accounting go because of an incongruous relationship. Apparently, they’d been having a secret affair for months, and when Marge refused to leave her husband for him, Larry offered to promote her if she’d change her mind.
And here I am, the boss, practically thinking along the same lines. I’m a very bad boss, because I’ve already offered Myra a promotion to get her to stay, and now I’m dreaming about her blowing my, er, mind, too. I should fire myself.
“Fine,” I grumble. There’s no way out of this situation, now, so I’d best do what I can to make it as innocuous as possible. As innocent as my admin giving me a bath can be, at any rate. “My swim trunks are upstairs, in the top drawer to the right. I’m sure I can manage most of it, though I’ll need you to wash my hair and my back, I think. Do you think you can do that from outside the shower? I doubt you brought your swimsuit.”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t bring my bikini.”
Myra in a bikini. I’d like to see that.
No, no, no.
“Let me help you to the bathroom, and I’ll run upstairs to get your swim trunks.” I know I’m imagining the disappointment in her voice.
“I think I deserve to remember what happened to cause me to trip over that damn goat, after all this.”
Myra’s hand jerks away and she cups her throat while her chest heaves like she’s been running. “Um, here.” She grasps my arm and helps lift me into the wheelchair, and then she pushes me across the room. The cat trots along next to us.
Once we reach the bathroom door, I say, “Why don’t you take that thing outside before it shits somewhere in my house? By the time you’ve done that and retrieved my swimsuit, I’ll be ready for you.”
She glances at the cat now sitting on its haunches next to me, tail steadily swishing back and forth. Almost like it’s waiting for something to happen. I flap my hand and it dances out of reach before resuming the same position. Shaking my head, I take a fortifying breath, shove myself out of the wheeled chair, and hop into the small, three-quarter bathroom, using the sink for balance. Damn, I’ll be glad when my extremities are healed. And I’m going to do everything in my power to avoid all goats in the future.
I reach out to close the door just as the cat darts into the room with me. “Get out,” I say, but the thing trots over and makes itself comfortable on the plush, dark blue mat parked in front of the shower stall. “Seriously?” I look over my shoulder at Myra, who’s trying not to giggle.
“I’m sure she’s housetrained,” she assures me. “I’ll go get your shorts.”
I slam the door and scowl at the feline. “I don’t like anyone looking at me while I pee.”
The cat blinks. I deliberately position myself so it’s behind me. I’m not kidding about the shy bladder.
A few minutes later, Myra’s back. She changed into another one of my white undershirts and a pair of black running shorts with a white stripe down each side. The shorts are made of nylon and accentuate the ridiculous length of her legs. She hands me my swim trunks and then retreats again.
“Give me a shout when you’re ready,” she says through the closed door.
By the time I get the shorts on and the boot and bandages off, I’m sweaty and exhausted and in dire need of that shower I’d originally intended to simply be a cover for relieving the ache in my balls. Which is the one thing I’m now not going to be able to do. I hobble to the shower and twist the spigots while calling out, “I’m ready.” More than she’ll ever know. More than I should be.
She steps back into the room and the cat hops onto the counter, like it’s looking forward to a show or something. I’ll never understand animals. Which is fine, since I don’t really care to.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask while I adjust the water temperature. She doesn’t immediately say anything. “Why don’t you wash my hair first? That way you don’t have to stay in here for my entire shower,” I suggest. And I’ll have some privacy to take care of my own business.
“I don’t mind staying.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I laboriously climb into the shower and let the hot water beat down on me. Lifting my face to the spray, I use my good hand to sluice the wetness through my hair. Turning around, I open my eyes; Myra is standing in front of the shower, staring at me, her mouth lax, her eyes wide and bright. One hand is pressed against her chest above her breasts while the other is bunched around the hem of her—my—shirt. I…
The cat mewls.
Myra clears her throat and rakes a hand through her hair. “I’ll let her out. I’ll-I’ll be right back.” She practically runs from the room.
While she’s gone, I try to soap up as much as I can with one good hand. Which gets the job done well enough, I suppose, but it also gives me serious wood. Probably because that was my intention with this shower, and my body doesn’t quite get the concept of what’s appropriate and what’s not.
When Myra returns sans cat, I twist toward the wall so she won’t notice the erection I can’t seem to control no matter what I try. It’s like my damned body wants her to figure out I’m attracted to her.
“Are you ready?” she asks. I nod, and she opens the shower door and plucks the shampoo bottle from its perch on one of the small nooks built into the ceramic tiles. I lean against the wall and bend forward so she can soap up my hair.
I close my eyes while her fingers stroke through the strands, her nails gently scraping my scalp, creating tingles that shoot to every extremity in my body, including and especially my dick. It’s now at full attention, throbbing, aching for her to shift lower, to take it into hand, or maybe her mouth. Or better yet, between her legs. What would she do if I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her into the shower with me? If I tugged off those shorts, flipped her around, pushed her legs apart, and thrust into her? If I reached around and thrummed her clit while sliding in and out of her hot, wet pussy? Would she cry out? Would she shudder with pleasure while her inner muscles contracted, squeezing me, milking my cock until—
“James? James, are you all right?”
I come out of my lust-clouded haze with my good hand thrust into the waist of my swim trunks and my hips pumping air, mimicking sex. I jerk my hand away and press it against the wall while I lean into the stream of water to rinse shampoo out of my hair.
> “Sorry,” I mumble without looking at her. “It’s just…that felt really good and I, uh…”
“Haven’t had sex in a while?”
I glance up sharply and wince when a drop of soap gets into my eye.
“It’s okay,” she says while I flush out my eyeball. “I’m in the same boat.”
“You are?” Her shirt is damp from the shower spray, rendering it practically see-through. Her nipples are stabbing at the fabric molded to her dainty, feminine torso.
She shrugs, but I know Myra and at the moment, she’s not nonchalant. She’s so rigid her body could compete with my dick in a game of Who’s Hard as a Rock? “I’ve been holding out.”
“For the perfect guy?” That’s something Myra would do. And in truth, she deserves nothing less than perfect. Someone who will treat her like a queen, who will see her for the priceless woman she is.
Nodding, she drops her gaze and licks her lips. What is she looking at? I follow her line of vision…to my dick. At least, it sure looks like that’s what she’s staring at. Snapping my gaze up to her face, I stare as intently as she’s looking at me.
“Are you…?”
She doesn’t say anything as she sucks in a breath and steps into the shower, pulling the glass door closed behind her. She doesn’t look me in the eye, although maybe she’s trying to, but mine are glued to that shirt that’s now completely soaked, outlining small globes with dark points thrusting at me, all but begging me to suckle them.
Her hand crosses into my line of vision, and then the shirt flips over her head. She twists away from me for a moment to drop it into the bottom of the tub, and I’m taken back to when she bent over my desk to fix my email and that heart-shaped ass was practically in my face for a moment. Five years ago, I was able to squash those thoughts before they even truly formed. There’s no way in hell I can now.