Page 43 of The Boss

“I didn’t moan!”

“You totally did. Practically pornographic. Just like when—” He stopped himself there, his eyes boring into mine, but we both knew what he meant.Just like when I’m sucking his cock. And he wasn’t wrong. I was always vocal about my pleasure—food, sex, it was the same.

We kept eating, trading jabs about pop culture—him being personally offended that I thought Daniel Craig was better Bond than Sean Connery, me roasting him for thinkingThe Matrixsequels were good. There were also things we both agreed upon: not being able to choose betweenAlienandAliens, or that thenewStar Warstrilogy was trash. It was easy, effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that made time blur at the edges.

And maybe that was what got me. Not just the banter, or the meal he made like it was second nature, but the way everything about this moment felt… right. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t let myself acknowledge before. Like we’d done this a hundred times already. Like we’d keep doing it.

I glanced at him, watching the way his lips curled around a smirk, the way his biceps flexed as he lifted his glass of wine. And for once, I stopped fighting it. The feeling that had been creeping up on me for weeks, stealing in through the cracks.

I was so fucking gone for this man. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Shit.

18. Zac

The day passed in an effortless haze, the kind of easy rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. Hours melted away between bites of chicken piccata and the low hum of conversation, Chris sitting in his chair with one leg up, one arm resting on his knee, his skin milky in the pale afternoon light. He was unguarded like this, loose-limbed and drowsy with contentment, spinning stories with his hands, teasing me about my taste in movies, rolling his eyes when I scoffed at his pick for the evening:The Mummy.

“You don’t understand,” he said, dropping onto the couch beside me as the movie flared across the big screen, the glow catching in his eyes. “Rick O’Connell was my sexual awakening. Young Brendan Fraser was so hot.”

I smirked. “You have a thing for tall, rugged adventurers?”

He nudged my thigh with his knee, but his grin gave him away.

I pulled him close and let myself enjoy it. The warmth of him beside me, the scent of his skin, the way our laughter filled the room like something solid, something I could reach out and touch. For once, I wasn’t thinking about work, or obligations, or the endless cycle of responsibility that usually dictated my every move. For once, I let myself just be. And before I knew it, night had fallen.

When the movie was over, we were cuddled together on the couch in the near-dark, reality slowly reasserting itself.

“I should get home,” Chris said, stretching, skin rubbing against mine.

I didn’t want him to go.

“You could stay,” I offered. “We’ll go to work together in the morning.”

Chris smiled but rose from the couch. “I need to change. All my stuff’s at my place.”

I let out a deep breath, hauling myself into a sitting position. “Fine. I’ll drive you.”

The look on his face was gentle, but he couldn’t resist arguing. “You do realize I’ve survived on my own foryears, right?”

“Don’t care,” I said as I stood up, and slapped his ass. “Get ready.”

He went to the guest room in search of his clothes, and I padded to my bedroom to find something I could wear. The November nights were getting cold, but I didn’t need many layers for the simple drive from my place to his. So I ditched my shorts and pulled on a pair of track pants and a zip-up hoodie. As I was slipping on my running sneakers, Chris showed up in his clothes from last night, wrinkled but wearable.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Together, we left my penthouse, rode the elevator down, and stepped into the crisp night air.

The drive unspooled in silence—not empty, but weighty, dense with things neither of us said. It sat warm in my chest, thick as honey, an unspoken connection stretching between us like a taut wire. Streetlights flared and faded in streaks of amber, the city slipping past, but my focus was on him. The way his fingers flexed on his knee as he glanced at me. The way his lips parted, like he was on the verge of speaking but thought better of it. The gear shift separated us, but some unseen force held us together, magnetic and inevitable.

When I pulled up in front of his building, he moved to open the door, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I’m coming up with you.”

Chris frowned. “Zac—”

“They had your wallet,” I cut in. “Your driver’s license and ID. They could know where you live. I’m not leaving you alone until I know you’re safe inside.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, but this time he didn’t argue.

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