Page 35 of Technical Advances

CHAPTER 13

BENJI

Isighed into the quick kiss. A kiss he wanted as much as I did. I was sure of it. I’d been brave enough to kiss him the first time, but in the minutes I was working at the desk, I’d come up with a dozen other explanations for interactions I had perceived as heated and a million reasons why kissing him was a bad idea. Then he kissed me, just a simple peck of the lips, but I knew in that moment that I wanted his kisses and his teasing and that laughter in his eyes, I wanted all of it even though all of it would be … messy, complicated, dangerous.

Probably too dangerous for the famous head of a multinational company.

I returned to the desk and sat, needlessly checking the settings on the printer. Anson took his seat opposite me. We both listened as the printer turned our calculations into a tangible thing, staring at each other, neither of us paying any attention to the creation being made. The final product would be waiting for us in the morning.

What felt like an eternity later, but was probably only a few minutes, Anson rounded the desk and held out his hand. I obliged, standing and facing him. He’d not left much room, crowding me in, surrounded by a desk and a chair and the man himself.

“Come back upstairs with me,” Anson spoke, his lips brushing mine as he said it, featherlight but causing an inferno, nonetheless. We hadn’t really embraced each time we kissed, keeping our bodies separate, and I swear, my cock strained in desperation like it could break through my pants, reach out, and touch him on its own. All from whispered kisses and honest, open smiles, and the rolling of his eyes when I couldn’t stop myself from asking him to leave his hair down.

It was still down because I’d asked it of him. I reached up to run my fingers through it but hesitated, pulling my hand back to my side instead.

I wanted to do so much more than run my fingers through that hair. I wanted to get on my knees for him and learn what he liked from the sounds he’d make. I wanted to climb on top of him, our bodies moving with the same kind of connection I felt when we worked. I wanted to make him writhe and scream, and I wanted to lose control with him in a way I’d never trusted myself to do with another man.

None of those thoughts were helping the situation in my pants or the voice of common sense that was niggling in the back of my brain. Because the other thing I had come to want in my time with Anson was to protect him and watch out for him so that he could continue to be his brilliantly distracted self.

I thought about parading back upstairs with him, where we would have few distractions in his cozy, dimly lit office, but where we would also pass Ross’s office and probably run into Beck. Next I thought about dinner with my dad and months, or hopefully years, of working officially for New Day, of working with Anson.

Emotions played over my face, and I watched Anson focus on me, concentrating the same way he did when facing a computer screen. I knew I had to help him understand what I was feeling. It was only fair. And I had to do it more clearly than blurting out, “I want to work here!” in the heat of the moment.

I reached up and did one of the things I really wanted to: I ran my fingers through his soft hair and pulled his head down until our foreheads met. My inhale took in his scent, and it almost took my resolve with it. I forced it out on a sigh.

“We can’t, baby.”

Even though my tone was soft, he stepped away from me quickly, his eyes wide.

“Think about it,” I whispered, wishing for nothing more than to be back in the orbit of his arms, my hands in his hair, my breath dancing with his.

“You're my boss,” I said simply, though it seemed like the most complicated sentence I’d ever uttered.

He nodded. “But …” he started, stopping himself to think it through. I waited and watched. It was my turn to process the emotions kaleidoscoping on his face.

The final one before he spoke could only be interpreted as defeat.

“Okay, yeah. I get it, I suppose. Complicated, right?”

I smiled sadly in agreement.

“But I need to understand something.”

“Understand?” I implored.

“I … don’t always get these things right,” he confessed.

“What things, Anson?”

“I don't always understand cues. Social cues, facial cues.” He trailed off, his tone tugging at my heart. “I thought maybe, with you I did … but … I need to be sure.”

For a moment, in my mind’s eye I was the boy I’d been, the one with his image on my computer. But it wasn’t my icon standing before me, it was a man, an unsure man, hesitant and worried.

I thought about how that man was my very wealthy boss. I thought about how my dad and Anson had known each other as boys. I thought about Beck and how protective he was, how apoplectic he would be if he found out what we were getting up to in the private lab. I thought about Erin in HR, and what she might have to say.

And finally, I thought about the man standing before me, his genius, his reputation, his research grants and government contracts, his huge successes, and those yet to come. The tools he’d created that really helped people improve their lives.

I thought, too, about the awkward man who wasn’t always great at picking up on things, like he’d admitted. I thought about how I needed to be one of the people to protect him.