Page 27 of The Boss

I pulled the chair for her. “Let’s eat and I’ll tell you all about it.”

We sank into a mannered conversation as we ate, talking about mundane stuff with no real depth or meaning. It was almost a kind of rebellion when I decided to put an end to it with my admission. There was no point in hiding it. I valued honesty too much, and in my eyes, cheating was as low as a man could get. I knew firsthand what it could do to a family, and I swore a long time ago not to be the kind of guy my old man was. Let it never be said I was untrue.

So I set down my fork and said, “You know, I took you up on your offer.”

Chantelle blinked, spearing a piece of asparagus. “What offer?”

“The one where you said if I was so damn horny, I should go find someone else to take care of it.”

“Oh?”

I studied her face over the rim of my glass, looking for a reaction, but there was none. Not surprise. Not anger. Not even curiosity—just calm, detached acceptance. I should’ve expected that. After all, this was Chantelle.

She took a sip of her wine, then leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm. “Did it help?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “It did.”

“Good.” She smiled, cutting another bite of salmon. “I’m glad you’re not all pent up and irritable. You get impossible when you’re frustrated.”

That was it. No outrage, no jealousy. Just… business as usual. She didn’t even ask who it was. Something about that settled uncomfortably in my chest. If the places were reversed, heads would roll. I could never accept it, never share the person I loved with someone else. The mere thought of it—of someone else being that close to them, touching them, in ways only I should—I couldn’t stand it. Call it possessive, call it old-fashioned, I didn’t care. It was how I felt. Love was mine to protect, and the choice to fully commit yourself to another person was exactly what made it so special.

We moved on to other topics, as if I just told her I switched to another brand of shampoo, and that was that. I nodded at her remarks, spoke when it was my turn, but the unease didn’t fade.

And later, when I took her to bed, it only got worse.

Chantelle lay beneath me, beautiful, willing, her arms looped around my neck. I kissed her, touched her, slid inside her, expecting to feel the usual rush of relief and satisfaction that came with sinking my cock into a tight warm pussy, with finally being with a woman again. But something was missing.

She made all the right noises, moved the way she always did, but there was noheat. No hunger. No urgency. It was routine, a practiced rhythm, something she did because she thought she had to, not because shewantedto.

I moved faster, trying to find the spark, trying to lose myself in her, but all I could think about was how different it felt. How differentChrisfelt. How eager he was, how readily he dropped to his knees, how his eyes burned with desire every time he looked at me. How he groaned, moaned,devouredme like he couldn’t get enough.

And the worst part?I liked that better.

I finished quickly, rolling off her, staring at the ceiling in silence. Chantelle didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. She murmured something about being tired, kissed my cheek, and turned over to sleep, pulling her sleeping mask over her eyes.

I lay awake for a long time, my mind racing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But it had. And by Monday morning, I had made up my mind.

* * *

Chris was already at his desk when I arrived at the office. I skipped the gym that morning, choosing to run around the block instead and clear my head. But no matter how fast I pushed myself, my mind was coming to the same conclusion: I wanted to keep doing it. Keep getting head from Chris. For as long as I could.

He looked up as I walked past his desk, and something in his gaze—curious, knowing—told me he was waiting to see if our arrangement was over.

“Hi,” I said. “How was your weekend?”

“Good,” he said. “How was yours?”

“Good.” We stared at each other. The silence wasn’t awkward—strange how it never felt that way with him—but it was definitely charged. It was time. I cleared my throat, nodding at my office door. “Can you step inside for a moment?”

He followed me in, closing the door behind him.

I shrugged off my coat, hung it on the hatstand beside the door, then went to my desk and leaned back against it, arms crossed, trying to appear composed. “I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about last week.”

Chris smiled. “Okay.”

I cleared my throat again. “Chantelle’s back.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—disappointment?—but he just nodded. “Right. So… that means… we’re done?”

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