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I bite my lower lip and grab some paper towels, wiping down the counter where I splashed water by accident.
A bead of sweat trickles between my breasts as I push past the shock from the depth of my desire for Mr. Ettin.
I’ve always fancied him—secretly—but today’s display just catapulted my furtive lust to new echelons of yearning.
Finally, I get a grip and exit the bathroom to walk back to my office.
I pass my colleagues with a forced calmness, every step as measured as I attempt to regain control over my thoughts.
The damned images of Mr. Ettin jerking off just won’t leave me alone.
His sexy moan echoes in my head, the sound of my name on his tongue nearly my undoing.
Enough!
I can’t let this incident consume me because I am professional, even if my body wants something more.
So my boss sparks forbidden longing deep inside of me—no big deal.
I’ve handled much more complicated situations before with rational detachment, and this time will be no different.
Holding myself ramrod straight, I stride into my office, hellbent on acting like absolutely nothing happened.
I can do this—no one else controls me or my reactions—and today is just another day.
But my gaze, traitorous thing that it is, drifts upward, reminding me of where Mr. Ettin’s office is and all the naughty, delicious moments that took place in there.
Growling, I plunge myself into a whirlwind of activity, intent on never thinking about my boss inappropriately ever again.
For the most part, I succeed, and when the clock hits four, I rush home faster than I ever have before.
I thank my neighbor for picking up and watching over Jake, and then I make dinner while keeping up a stream of constant chatter with my son.
We laugh, play some board games, and eat way too much ice cream, but when I tuck him into bed with a smile, I decide it was worth it.
Not once this evening did I think of Mr. Ettin, and as far as I’m concerned, today’s events are nothing but the past.
Tomorrow will be a new day where we both forget what happened and move on like the adults we both are.
Satisfied with this, I get ready for bed. But as the hours stretch on, my mind returns to what I saw.
Even now, I swear I can hear my boss groan my name.
It sends a shiver down my spine, and to my shame, I touch myself.
When I come, it’s my turn to cry out his name.
“Bash!” echoes into the shadowed corners of my room, and tears fill my eyes.
Silently, I sob at my own foolish weakness and promise myself that never again will I let this happen.
That’s how I eventually fall into a fitful sleep.
Lying to myself.
CHAPTER SIX
BASH
