Page 72 of Work: Strictly Professional

“It’s your firing face, and I don’t think it’s what Ron Sheffield needs to see.” He’s right. Ron’s the head of the Building Standards Commission, and I’m calling in a huge favor today. I pull my lips back and show my teeth. “Better?”

He winces, his pretty, perfect little nose scrunching up in a way that almost has me throwing myself over his desk and tackling him to the floor. “God, no. You look like you’re impersonating an attack dog.”

The meeting goes well, but it’s an awful day. I get through it thanks only to a lot of deep breathing and repeated reminders that firing staff only means having to recruit new staff.

Wyn seems flustered when he enters my office. He has his notepad and pen poised—a turquoise blue one and a non-matching pen—and stands a few paces in front of my desk.

“I know I’ve fallen a little behind, Mr. Der-MacAvoy. I haven’t filed your expense report yet, but please don’t worry. I’ll stay late this evening and get it done. It was a, uh, glitch in the matrix. I knew I had to do it. I was planning to get it done on Friday, and then I planned on getting it done this morning, but…”

I tamp down the laugh that threatens.

This adorable little man thinks he’s here for an actual one-to-one meeting. An official performance review. It’s not completely crazy. He’s been here for two months now, and I’ve been so busy sexually harassing him that I’ve totally forgotten to assess his performance.

The tight, pinched look on his face is doing things for me, so I decide to play along.

“So,” I say, motioning for him to sit, “you’ve been here for two months now, Wyn. How would you describe your performance?”

“Very good,” he replies firmly, but the tiny twitch of his bottom lip betrays him. “I mean, I did make a small error on your travel booking for New York last week, but I caught it and managed to talk the agent into dropping the fee for changing the dates, so, you know, no harm done. And yes”—his words are bunching up and running into each other—“I know the expense report is late, but it’s the first time that’s ever happened in my whole life, and I’m going have it done before start of play tomorrow, no matter what, and it won’t happen again. It doesn’t…this type of thing doesn’t…” His voice trails off. “It doesn’t happen to me. I can work on it. I can improve.”

I press my lips together and nod slowly, “I disagree.” His eyes widen in shock, growing bigger and bluer than I’ve ever seen them. I’d love to play more. To toy with him and tease him. To rake him over the coals and maybe even bend him over and discipline him for his tiny, insignificant oversights. I can’t, though, because of those fucking eyes. And the freckles. And the ski-slope nose. “You can’t improve, Wyn. Your performanceis excellent. Above reproach, and if not for the, er, distractions I’ve caused you, it would be faultless.” It feels weird to say it. Uncomfortable but good, so I add, “You’re the best PA I’ve ever had.” It’s the God’s honest truth.

He releases a puff of air through his nose, dipping a shoulder and a hip in my direction. He’s trying not to preen, but he’s not completely successful. “And let’s not forget I planned the wedding of the century in only three weeks.”

“No, let’s not forget that.”

“And let’s not forget the dire conditions I’ve been working in. You were a complete ass before I added caffeine and carbs back into your diet. But also, let’s forget I called you an ass during a performance review.”

The gig is up. I start laughing and can’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry,” I say when I get myself under control. “I shouldn’t have done that. This isn’t a performance review. I only meant to block out some time with you for reprehensible purposes, and I couldn’t think of a title for the meeting that wouldn’t alarm HR.”

“God,” he says, trying to push the corners of his lips down so he doesn’t crack a smile, “my first impression of you was so right.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

That piques his interest. “How?”

“Well, I was thinking we’ve tried almost everything. I’ve had you in every conceivable position. Some more than once, just to be thorough. I’m pretty sure that if I was the one undergoing a performance review right now, you’d be forced to admit that my blowjobs are now well above average. And my rimming skills aren’t bad either.” He opens his mouth and shuts it quickly. “I’m positive I know how to find the prostate, and if the way you shook after you came when I railed you over the sofa on Friday is anything to go by, I’m pretty sure my fucking is up to par.” He rolls his eyes and tosses his notepad onto my desk, all pretenseof this being a work meeting now well and truly gone. “In fact, we’ve done so many things that this weekend, I found myself thinking, gee, what’s left for Wyn to teach me.”

He shifts in his seat and straightens his back. “There’s always something to learn,” he says stiffly. “Thinking you know everything will make you”—his head twitches as he searches for the word—“lazy. And you can’t afford to get lazy. In gay culture, things change fast. It’s important you don’t get complacent, or you’ll be gay dead before you’re even properly gay alive.”

I don’t know about all that gay dead and alive business, but I say, “I agree,” and then I lean back in my chair and let my eyes travel down his chest.

His shirt is neatly tucked in. Bow tie still firmly in place. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand seeing him like this. All neat and perfect. I can’t. I want to see him red-lipped and messed up. I want to see his mouth gaping open. Ass too.

I can’t wait.

I can’t. It’s been so long. So fucking long.

I feel a little bad for scaring him with the performance review, so to make it up to him, I switch things up. As much as I love dictating what we do, I want to give him the chance to ask for what he wants. What he desires. What keeps him up at night and drives him wild.

I want to know, and I want to be the one to give it to him.

“Say you were the one assessing me,” I say, “would you say there are any glaring gaps in my knowledge? Any areas of my portfolio I need to work on?”

32

Wyn

The combination of beingin Derek’s office and the question he just asked me has me feeling some kind of way. Spoiled. I feel spoiled. Spoiled for choice and spoiled in general simply by being in proximity to Derek. My heart is hammering like a drum. All that talk of not needing me to teach him anything else scared the daylights out of me. My heart almost stopped when he said it. It was the very thing I’ve been dreading, but I seem to have received a reprieve.

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