Page 25 of Lying to the Boss

His footsteps are soft but sure as they follow behind me. I lift the ridiculous shirt over my head as I step into the room, tossing it onto the bed. I’ll hide it away in the back of my closet when I get home, where it’ll stay for the rest of my life.

“Are you joining me?” I ask, turning to face him.

“That would be weird. You know, since I’m supposed to be watching you and all.”

My brows shoot up, but… if this is how he wants to play it, this is how we can play it. I have no shame in being watched.

“Your loss.”

He mutters something under his breath, but I don’t catch what it is. Maybe something about it not being a loss? I don’t know.

I sit on the end of the bed to take off my shoes and socks, then stand to undo my belt, button, and zipper, before sliding my pants off and laying those on the bed too.

Tage’s gaze goes straight to my dick, which is held comfortably within my boxer briefs. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something. Offer it up to him. Ask him if he likes what he sees. But I keep my mouth shut, because sometimes it’s better that way.

I head into the bathroom to turn on the faucets and plug the tub. It’s spacious enough for me, him, and a few others. But if he insists on watching, he can watch.

Should I be sleeping with my assistant? I mean, I guess not. It could complicate things. Piss him off. He could quit, make my life hell, or who knows what else. But I feel like Tage and I can be adults about this, without having to have the speech about it.

I go about my routine as I normally would if he weren’t here. I brush my teeth, wash my face, pull out a towel to hang on the rack beside the tub. The shower is across the bathroom, beside the vanity and sink. The toilet is in the middle, giving him something to sit on while he watches, if he truly does plan on watching.

Right now, he’s standing in the doorway and I’m pretending I don’t notice him with his eyes glued to me. He’s taking in every inch of me as I’m bent over the sink to brush my teeth.

The tub is halfway full when I’m finished, so I turn to face Tage, hook my thumbs into my briefs, and slowly push them down. His eyes stay on me, but I can see how forced it is. He wants to look, but kudos to him, he doesn’t.

Smiling to myself, I carefully get into the tub, hissing when my foot is fully submerged in the water. It’s hotter than is tolerable, so I take a moment to adjust and change the water setting to slightly cooler before easing the rest of my body down.

I sigh as I settle in, the water coming up to my waist. It’s a deep tub, so it still has a long way to go. When I open my eyes, I find Tage sitting on the toilet—lid closed, of course—watching me with a strange look.

“So,” I say just loud enough for him to hear over the rushing water. “How far into this role playing are we getting?”

He leans back, clasping his hands together. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if asking you to wash me is pushing my luck.”

He blinks slowly but says nothing.

A slow smile forms on my face, and I look away, sinking deeper into the water and closing my eyes.

I should do this more often at home, but I just don’t have the time. My morning routine is strict, and by the time I get home, all I want to do is sleep.

Wake. Repeat.

Traveling is when I pamper myself. It happens often, but not often enough.

I’m not sure how much time passes, the heat of the water encompassing me like a blanket, getting higher and higher until it’s up to my neck. I should turn it off, but I’m just so comfortable.

But then it stops, and it goes quiet.

My eyes open, blurry at first, but I blink a few times and it clears.

Tage is sitting on the edge of the tub with his sleeves rolled up and his hand halfway to the water with a washcloth. I watch as he dunks it, pours body wash on it, then dunks it again. I don’t say a word, and neither does he as he moves closer and gets to his knees. He runs the cloth along my chest and over my shoulder. Then the other. The water is so high that the bodywash won’t stand a chance against it because his hand keeps dipping inside, but this isn’t about being clean.

Clearly.

His gaze stays on his hand and the part of my body he’s washing. My gaze stays on his face, waiting for the briefest change in that stone expression of his.

Every touch is meticulous, as if he’s done this hundreds of times before. It makes me wonder if he has… and why. Does he have a child I don’t know about? Younger siblings? Parents he had to take care of? A washing kink? I want to ask, but it’ll break the moment, so I let it be.