Page 14 of Jealous Boss

I brace a shoulder on the doorframe and cross my leg to hide my growing erection. “And I make you nervous?”

She laughs, a delightful sound I want to drown in. “You make everyone nervous, Mr. Villiers. And I’m sure you know that.”

“Hmm, maybe. And it’s Ethan. Mr. Villiers sounds like I’m old enough to be your father,” I say, a little grumpily. Then mentally kick myself because shedoeshave a father. A very disappointing one. And the last thing I want to do is remind her of it.

But when her eyes move over me in unexpectedly slow and thorough scrutiny, she doesn’t seem unhappy by the reminder. Hell, I don’t think she’s thinking about him at all. “Maybe not my dad exactly. Maybe a verymagnifiquereplica.”

Her eyes grow wide at her own admission and she gives a shocked yelp before she hurriedly shuts the door in my face.

I’m frozen in place and I swear I catch her gasp on the other side as my dick revs to tent my pants.

I don’t recall walking back into my condo. Throwing myself into my chair in front of my desk. I lied about the call to Abu Dhabi. It’s not till midnight.

Three hours away.

But I have more than enough work to keep me occupied. Instead, I glance down at my raging hard-on.

Groan when it jolts.

I reach inside my pants with the ridiculous intention of calming it into deflating.

Instead I stroke it once. Twice.

Then, cursing under my breath, I pull it out.

It’s heavy, full, veined, the crown weeping. Seeking…beggingfor attention. I stroke a few more times, a helpless groan building in my throat, my balls tightening, ready to blow.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.Am I really doing this?

Jacking off to the image of a twenty-year-old intern? Philip’s niece?

Magnifiquereplica.

Magnifique…

Magnifique.

My hand moves faster to the echo of her lips framing the word. Faster. Harder.

In under a minute, my breath catches.

And I nut all over my hand to the image of forbidden lips from the forbidden body that resides one measly floor below mine.

4

Pia

There’s a knock at the door.

Again.

I startle mid-mascara swipe, nearly poking myself in the eye. My heart does a little stutter-step. I don’t have to rush to the door to check the peephole. I already know it’s him.

Ethan.

I’m still in my towel, my hair wrapped in one of the big hotel-grade ones my uncle stocked the condo with, and I’m very much not ready to be seen by a man whose jaw flexed last night when I teased him about being a verymagnifiquereplica of something that definitely wasn’t fatherly.

I’m too shaky to put the wand back into the tube, so I abandon it on my bathroom vanity, walk down the hallway of the apartment—a third the size of his—and open the door just a crack.

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