Page 60 of Work: Strictly Professional

But I’m not proud of myself for it.

My lips quirk at the corners, threatening to break into a smile from how happy I am as I await my scolding.

“Wyn.” Say what you will about Derek MacAvoy, but the man has got my name down to a tee. The soft Y, the breathy exhale, the low, soft voice, it’s all there. All of it. It vibrates through me and makes my thoughts glitch.

“Yes, Mr. MacAvoy.”

“How do you feel about sexual harassment in the workplace?”

Huh?

Wait. What did he just say?

Oh, fuck me, this is so much better than a scolding.

“I, um, oh, it’s bad. It’s very bad. Frowned upon. Illegal, I think. No, yes, definitely illegal, but, but I support it nonetheless,” I splutter.

The parallel furrows between his brows fade and are quickly replaced by fine lines that fan out at the corners of his eyes.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and takes me in. I feel his eyes track down my chest, hovering at my belt buckle and dropping lower. They flick back up again and make my brain matter sizzle.

“It occurs to me that while I have researched the matter at length, I don’t have any hands-on experience finding the prostate.”

My jaw drops. My asshole clenches in anticipation as my entire blood supply flows rapidly downward.

“Meep,” I say, though I’m not proud of that either.

“And it’s occurred to me that, as a gay man, that’s completely unacceptable. It’s as bad as a straight or bi guy who can’t find the clitoris.”

“Bad,” I choke, “very bad.”

He takes his wallet out and flips it open, taking out a wad of bills and counting them out as he lays them on his desk. “Tell me when to stop,” he says as he softly counts.

I watch in removed disbelief as the pile stacks up.

“Stop,” I say when he gets to one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars and the fear that he’ll realize Grindr is teeming with men who’d let him pummel their prostates free of charge becomes too much.

Derek smiles and hands me the money. He reaches for the switch under his desk, changes the window from clear to frosted, and tells me to lock the door. I do as he says and jog back to where I was standing as fast as possible.

“N-now?” I ask dumbly, watching as he pulls a bottle of lube from his top drawer.

“Pants off” is as close as I get to an answer. “Shoes too.”

I drop my pants like they’re hot and wrestle with my new shoes. I tied them in a double bow this morning.

Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me?

Why would I do something like that?

As soon as victory is mine, I fall into a deep pit of doubt about what to do with my socks. I don't know. I can’t fucking catch a thought and follow it from start to end.

Do I take them off? Do I leave them on?

In the end, I leave them on, not because he didn’t expressly tell me to take them off or even because I managed to come to a sensible conclusion about the matter. I do it because Derek is on his feet, lube in hand, and he’s all but marching me to the sofa.

As soon as we get there, I attempt to get on my knees to offer him access to my ass.

“On your back,” he says gruffly. “I want to see your face.” The stupidest, most pathetic part of me hears that and thinks Gah, how romantic. My boyfriend, Derek, a very handsome and important man, wants to look into my eyes as we fool around. “That way, I’ll know when I hit the spot. Need to see so I can learn.”

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