Page 97 of My Favorite Boss

“Yes.”

“How the hell did you get stuck?”

“I think one of my sleeve buttons is caught on something. When I tried to fix it, my hair got trapped somewhere. I can’t seem to get either loose.”

It was all I could do not to laugh. How she did these things was beyond me.

She wiggled again. “Help, please?”

Unable to resist, I swatted her butt. “Never-ending trouble,” I chastised her. I added another swat for good measure, then rubbed the cheek. That part was for me.

“Coming in,” I told her, ducking under the desk, turning on my flashlight. Given the angle of her body, it was tight and I couldn’t help at all.

“Lie down.”

She grunted and moved, and I slid over her as best I could, first locating the trapped hair. Her clip was lodged between the drawer and the edge, and I managed to tug it off, but it broke as I did.

“Oops, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I moved my fingers along her arm, finding her hand and feeling for the snag. “Wow, you got this in the carpet good.” I tugged on it, hearing her fast intake of breath.

“Please don’t tear it,” she pleaded. “It’s my favorite.”

I inhaled a deep breath, praying for patience. That was my second mistake. I should have backed out and dragged her out by the feet, torn blouse or not. Inside, trapped in the confines of the small space and pressing into her, I could smell her perfume. Feel her curves under me. My cock liked being this close to her. She moved and I groaned. “Stop.”

I shifted and tugged on the sleeve as gently as I could. It didn’t budge.

“Sorry, Myers. I tried.” I grabbed her wrist and tugged. Hard. I heard the rending of material, and her hand smacked the wood. She cried out, I grunted, and a horrified voice behind me gasped.

“Alexander Donovan Bane. What is going on here?”

“Shit,” I muttered, moving backward as fast as I could. I hit my head, cursing again, crouching, and turning to see my mother standing, her mouth agape, her normally sallow skin flushed a dark red.

“What—what are you doing?” she cried.

I tugged on Myers’s feet, dragging her out. I helped her stand, taking in her disheveled appearance. Her blouse was torn, pulled out from her skirt. Her hair was tumbling over her shoulders, looking as if she’d been in a hurricane. She was flushed, her lipstick smeared. Her breathing was fast.

She looked as if she’d been fucked hard.

I had a feeling I did as well, especially given the fact that I still had an erection, although in the face of my appalled mother, it was rapidly deflating.

She looked between Myers and me, her eyes filled with shock.

“Were you—were you rutting her?” she asked. “Your secretary? Under your desk?”

I opened my mouth to tell her no such thing had occurred. But Myers spoke up, slipping an arm around my waist.

“Yes, he was. He ruts very well.”

The flush left my mother’s face, and she became pale.

“Alexander, explain yourself.”

Suddenly, I was tired of explaining myself. Defending everything I did, every decision I made, to my mother. Nothing was ever going to be right in her eyes. No doubt she had shown up to discuss her latest idea that a wife would help me see reason.

I decided to give her what she wanted.