Page 89 of The Boss Situation

I feel his other hand gripping my hip, holding me in place as he drives me closer to the edge.

Stars explode behind my eyes as the water pulsates against me in a rhythm that matches the fantasy of Asher I’ve conjured.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I fantasize about his hot mouth on my neck, his perfect teeth and plump lips grazing my skin while he whispers filthy promises in my ear.

“I want to feel you come on my cock,” he murmurs in this vision of mine, his voice dripping with need. “I want to fuck you so hard that you actually hate me.”

My thighs tremble as pleasure builds inside me—hot and unrelenting. The second orgasm hits me so fast and hard that I nearly lose my balance. Waves of pleasure crash over me again and again, and my cries echo throughout my bathroom. What I feel is raw and guttural. It’s almost an out-of-body experience.

When I finally come down from my high and regain someamount of consciousness, my legs feel like gelatin. Each ragged breath heaves through my chest as I steady myself.

I place the showerhead in its holster, feeling somewhat satisfied, though I have an itch only one person can scratch. But even as my body relaxes, thoughts of him linger—the memory of his hands, his mouth, his thick cock in his suit pants, pressed against me—leaving me craving more. And deep down, I know this isn’t over. Not even close.

Maybe Josh had a right to be jealous. Tonight, I confirmed Asher is attracted to me. That alone gives me an upper hand, but also changes things.

I dry myself, then go to my bedroom and slide between the sheets. I stare at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing right now. I hope he’s stroking himself to me.

“Whoa,”Harper says as she bursts into my office, her voice echoing in the space.

I snuck in five minutes earlier, not ready to face the day after my night. My throbbing hangover blends with my double shot of espresso that hasn’t magically worked yet. Weeknight drinking isn’t something I usually do, but I needed to ensure Louis and I stayed relevant. Asher fucked that up.

Actually, he’s messed up a lot of things for me.

I didn’t sleep well and tossed and turned in bed over thoughts ofhim. Today, I’m mentally and physically exhausted.

“I have a question for you,” I say to my best friend.

“Sure.”

“Do you think my sculptures look like dicks?” I ask.

She bursts into laughter. “Kinda. But I stilllike them.”

I shake my head. “Bastard.”

Harper’s lips curl into a mischievous smile. “You’re glowing like Edward inTwilight. Spill it.”

I refuse to meet her gaze, my eyes locked on the meeting request blinking on my screen, asking me to accept.

“Not sure what you’re referring to,” I say, my tone as nonchalant as my attempt to ignore the growing chaos swirling inside me.

She approaches my neat desk and slides her phone toward me.

I glance down and see the photo of me and Asher standing in his doorway. His hand is on my hip, and I’m looking up at him like he’severything.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD!” I scream, instantly pissed as I quickly scan over the caption.

This is her definition of hate.

My head pounds harder as I glance over the comments.

Hate? Look how you two look at each other.

Holy shit! I was today years old when I realized Billie Calloway doesn’t always wear black.

THIS is Billie Calloway? Ice Queen? No way. She’s a smokeshow.

You bring out the best in her.

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