Page 27 of Bossing My Holiday
“Waverly,” I groan, my lips trickling down her neck only to immediately find her lips again. “So fucking sweet.”
“Braxton,” she whispers against me, her fists clinging to me.
“God, yes. I want you so much.”
She steps into my hand, our kiss turning frantic as we move and pull and touch. I slide?—
“How are we doing in here?” Gerard singsongs a second before he taps noisily on the door of the dressing room. It’s enough of a warning that I jump back, my hands fleeing her body and all the places I never should have touched.
Fuck!
I run my hands over my face and through my hair, trying to calm my ragged breathing and my raging hard-on down.
“She’s stuck,” is my brilliant response. I meet her eyes, step forward, and tuck her tits back into her dress since she seems incapable of moving or doing anything other than staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes. I take her in for a moment, ensure she’s covered, run my hands through my hair so it’s not all over the place, then swing the dressing room door open. “I tried to get her out of it, but I can’t. Do you think you can give it a try?” With that, I leave, storming back to my recliner, my laptop, and my work while ignoring the curious glances from Tristan.
“You’re not going to tell me why you look the way you do right before you come?”
Motherfucker!
“She was stuck in her dress, and we couldn’t get her out of it, but with the struggle, my hand accidentally touched her breast. Then I kissed her.” I close my laptop and turn to him. “I kissed her hard, and I touched her. She has the best fucking tits on the planet in case you’re wondering. And I would have kept going if we hadn’t been interrupted. I don’t regret it, nor do I take it back, because it was the best kiss and boob squeeze I’ve ever had. I don’t know if she feels the same, but that’s where I am.”
There. It’s out there now. He can do what he wants with it.
9
WAVERLY
My boss touched my boob. And then he kissed me like my mouth was air and water and he had been underground and in the desert for a million years. It doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it felt. Like kissing me was relief and euphoria.
I didn’t push him away. I didn’t tell him no or to stop. Ilikedit. I wanted him to continue. I think we possibly would have if Gerard hadn’t returned. Which I can’t even begin to wrap my head around because Braxton is my boss and I need my job, and women who screw the boss don’t end up in a good place.
Tristan notwithstanding, I love my job. I love working for OuestHicks. It’s challenging and exciting, and I love what the company does. It works to save lives. And my nana needs me. She was there for me when I was little, the only person in the world I had left after my parents died in that crash.
So there will be no more boob touching and definitely no more hot, hot kisses.
Ugh. Those kisses…
Sigh.Let it go, Waverly. Let it go.
Gerard takes all of my items to the counter to ring them up.Talk about aPretty Womanmoment. I don’t look at the total. I pull Braxton and Tristan out of their recliners, skirting both of their gazes and evoking all of my magic and willpower not to blush, and hand Braxton back his card. I don’t want to know what all these high-end and designer clothes cost them. It can’t be cheap.
In fact, I’m nowhere near the register when they ring everything up, and I pretend I don’t notice the other items they’re having Gerard get to add to the pile. Instead, I leave them to amble along the first floor to the center atrium, where all the cosmetics and perfumes are so I can stare up at the ceiling, which is just freaking wow. There is a circular tree of lights that spans the upward spiral leading up toward the ceiling.
Paris, right? I mean, I could lie on this floor and stare up for hours and never get bored of all that stunning glass. But since I’m here, I find myself eying the makeup department. I used to love makeup. In high school, I would blow my allowance at the mall on Saturday because that’s what my friends and I did on weekends, and we’d always hit up the makeup shops.
I haven’t worn much other than cheap mascara in so long that I can hardly remember what I look like in it. It was one of the first things to go once I discovered how bad the situation with Nana was. It seemed like a useless frivolity and an unnecessary expense. But after a day spent in couture with my boss—who has hands as masterful as DaVinci—and my other boss, who is temporarily my fake boyfriend and who has been kissing my cheeks and the corner of my lips and sending my heart into a tailspin, I can’t help but long for some of it.
Something that’s for me. Something easy that doesn’t confuse me the way everything else right now does.
“See anything else you want?” Braxton murmurs against my ear from behind, his body close, and how did I not hear him approach?
“Nope. I’m great.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and enticing, sending shivers up my spine. One boob grab, one amazing kiss, and I’m putty in his hands. Pathetic.
“Hey, Gerard?”
“Oui, monsieur?”
