Page 112 of My Boss

He freezes, the muscles of his face tensing.

I pull him by the hand, put my hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes.

It was so good with him. Sexually, we are a match made in heaven. We just need to work on the compatibility of personalities a little. But, after all, no one is perfect. And all in all, it would be boring if Jan turned out to be a walking ideal. We just need to figure some things out and it will be fine.

“I like you,” I confess.

“I like you too, Maria,” he declares without any hesitation.

“So give me a hug, please.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then reaches for my hand and removes it from his arm. I feel a sting of disappointment. It seems that Jan does not want me to touch him. He, however, brings it closer to his lips, kisses it, and then, without a word, embraces me and presses his face into my hair.

My heart softens and melts like vanilla ice cream in the sun. I press my cheek against his chest, hear the rhythmic beating, and sigh loudly because I feel so good now.

“Why are you sighing?” His muffled voice reverberates right next to my ear.

“Because I feel great. Don’t you?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Gosh, what a flattering thing to say. I feel like clapping my ears with joy.”

“Clapping your ears is physically impossible, Maria. Human anatomy is not designed to…”

“Oh, shut up.” I take his face in my hands and kiss him on the lips.

Jan tenses up. He wasn’t expecting a kiss, and I can see that he doesn’t quite know what to do about it. I brush his lips, bite them lightly, slide my tongue over them, and he does nothing. He stands still.

“Something tells me that your erotic life so far has been devoid of cuddles and sweet kisses, huh?” I smile and pull his lower lip with my teeth.

“I prefer a firm touch. No fondling, no cuddling, no brushing, no stroking.”

“And your wife was never bothered by this?” I ask and momentarily regret it.

Jan immediately withdraws.

“My ex-wife,” he corrects. “And I don’t feel like talking about it now.” He glances at his wristwatch. “You have three hours and forty-seven minutes left of your day. How are you going to use them?” he asks to change the subject.

Well, I’ll not press him for more confessions. If he wants to, he’ll tell me himself. Besides, I’m already looking forward to moving on to the next item this evening. First, however, I need to get an answer to a question that has been bothering me.

“How do you rate my pie?”

“Positive.”

“So it wasn’t ‘awful’,” I quote his earlier word.

“No.”

What an effusive statement.

“I’m not insisting that you award me Michelin stars right away, but you could elaborate more.”

“Hmm.” He is thinking. “I wasn’t expecting a sweet and sour taste. I avoid such mixtures, but in this case, it was an apt combination.”

“From your lips, it sounds like five stars out of five.”

“Michelin awards restaurants a maximum of three. But if you need a rating on a five-point scale on my part, then yes, I would give it five stars out of five.”

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