Page 6 of Older Hotter Grumpier
Her glance over her shoulder is wary, like I could withdraw my offer. No chance. I might never let her out of my sight.
“Don’t you want to finish reading your book?”
3
ELLA
It’s a trick question. That’s my first thought. If this were anyone else—like my mother—I’d assume it was a game and they were about to laugh at me if I say, yes, I do want to read my book.
After all, it was at a really good bit.
But Mr Blackwood doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile or make snide comments. He’s a grump, and while he’s dangerous and powerful, I’ve never seen him be less than straightforward. I’m honest with him, and he’s honest with me. I reckon that’s how I’m still here when usually his assistants last about two months. So either this is far more cruel than I expect from him, or…
“Don’t you want to know how it ends?” he adds.
“Yes,” I admit. “But I’ll read it tonight. I’m supposed to be working now.”
“You’ll bebusylater,” he replies smoothly.
When did the word busy become so utterly filthy? It must be just in my head. My boss has already been beyond generous. He hasn’t sacked me, when literally anyone would have done.
He caught me touching mypussyat work. At my desk.
“You don’t want me to read the rest of my book on work time.” It’s not exactly a question, but neither is it a statement.
“Isn’t that what you were going to do if I wasn’t here?” he replies dryly.
I wince. “Maybe?”
“Well.” He gestures to the couch across from him in the spacious office. “Far be it from me to prevent you from finishing.”
There’s an emphasis on that last word that makes my cheeks heat. Honestly, I’ve blushed so much this afternoon I must have a lack of blood anywhere else in my body. Specifically, my brain and my knees. And that’s how I account for the fact that I don’t protest about being a professional, or say I don’t want to read my book.
Nope. With a feeling of weightlessness, like I might drift into space any second, I go to the leather sofa he has indicated, and sit.
I slipped my phone into the pocket of my work dress as I followed Mr Blackwood into his office—didn’t want anyone else seeing it—and I pull it out.
Under his watchful gaze, the device pings right back to the page I was reading when I open it.
The words that just seemed sexy and fun earlier have suddenly taken on new significance when reading them in my boss’ office.
I’m nervous, tingling all over from how naughty this is—reading porn in front of my silver fox older boss—even as I do as I’m told, and read to the bottom of the page, barely taking in the meaning.
“Good girl.”
I glance up, but Mr Blackwood doesn’t acknowledge that he’s said that to me—was it even to me?—he’s concentrating on his computer.
Good girl. I really, really want that. To behisgood girl. He’s called me that only once before. When I first arrived as his assistant, and I defended his closed door as ferociously as a puppy with a forbidden sock.
Good girl. It melts me.
So I return to reading, as he instructed. And it takes a few minutes, but the story ensnares me, drawing me back in. It’s smutty and soft and intimate, keeping me turning the pages even as I continue to glance up at Mr Blackwood every minute, like my mind wants to check this is really happening.
The hero caresses the heroine everywhere. Lays her down and licks her. Makes her come on his tongue. And then finally, finally, she crawls onto his lap and asks him to breed her.
It’s so hot I can barely breathe. I press my thighs together. Subtly. It sends a tiny bolt of pleasure through my body, so small as to be unsatisfying but better than nothing, so I do it again. A little movement. And again.
Mr Blackwood isn’t looking at me. There’s just the slight clicks of his mouse and the swoosh of his arm in that white shirt.
