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Oh great. Now I’m imagining him not wearing anything.
Get yourself together, Trevor. Take some damned notes. It’s literally the only reason you’re in this room.
But then I notice even his meaty butt wiggles as he covers the board with squeaky ink. That is the sexiest, squeakiest ink I have ever heard to accompany the show that is his sweet, sculpted ass.
Today is torture Trevor day.
Yeah, that ass is a whole other act of hypnosis I have to suffer. I’m fixated instantly on that shelf—that fucking shelf—of muscle in those fitted pants. His ass cheeks sing sweet symphonies of desire to me. I catch my mouth parting, as if I’m literally deciding whether he’s got an ass in those pants, or two juicy humps of meat I want to chomp my teeth into.
Great. Cannibalism. My horniness has led to cannibalism.
Before I completely lose my mind, I should probably, really, seriously, actually jot down a note or two. Emilio is going to need to be filled in on something from this damned meeting—whoever the fuck Emilio is.
“We got him to take down his incendiary post and issue a kind apology in its place,” Ben is explaining, waving his marker in the air as he talks. “An apology that we worded. But let’s discuss—”
Ben’s marker swings around like a conductor’s baton, guiding the music of his sexy, silky voice as he addresses the room—you know, saying whatever really super important thing he’s saying. My eyes drink in the sight of his biceps as they flex and bulge with his movements, pulling on the thin fabric of his tight white pinstriped dress shirt. When it returns to the board, the marker squeaks as he makes circles, draws arrows, and dots every “i”.
Yes, pretty man is still talking. “… putting good stories out in the fray to combat the negative …” I take notes, sneaking glances up at him every second—up at his ass, more like. “… and taking control of the conversation. What I need from you is …”
Tell me, Ben. Tell me what you need from me. I start taking notes in such mind-numbing autopilot, I’m not really paying much attention to precisely what I’m writing down. I doubt it’s coherent. Might even just be the alphabet over and over for all I know.
And yes, my legs are still crossed tightly. And I’m not going to uncross them until this totally-out-of-control cock of mine learns to behave professionally during a business meeting, damn it.
“Commit the interviewers to certain questions only,” throws in a guy at the other end of the table. “Control the questions, you control the interview.”
“Obviously. That’s politics 101,” Ben states. “Think bigger.”
Think bigger? If I think any bigger, my dick’s gonna turn into an eggplant.
A woman, freckled and mousy, throws in her two shiny cents. “Deflect, deflect, deflect. Why not put out news about one of our other clients? Someone lateral? Frank Tank, maybe. Doesn’t he have a tour coming up?”
“Hmm, yeah,” chimes in the guy, wrinkling his blunt nose upon which his bifocals rest. “Give some other newer story a chance to trend on Twitter, filling up those column inches. Oh, that’s also politics 101, huh?” he adds sheepishly, biting his lip.
Everyone second guesses themselves in front of Benjamin Gage. Everyone cowers beneath his know-all and his piercing gaze, even when they suggest to fill up columnist’s inches.
And here I am, writing nonsense notes so fast and sneaking so many glances at Ben that all I’m thinking of are my own inches.
The ones growing in my pants from all of this staring.
“Good points, but that’s elementary stuff,” states Ben. He fists his marker tightly. “I have some more permanent fixes in mind. Pay attention and learn, boys and girls.”
And of course the only thing I pay attention to is his body as it sings a totally different song than the one coming from his mouth. My mind and soul are on fire, pleading and begging for that man to pay me a speck of attention.
I clench shut my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m so pathetic.
It’s only a brisk twenty minutes later that a course of action is settled on and the team disperses before I even realize we’ve been dismissed. My daydream is broken when Brandon rises from his seat abruptly and beelines for Mr. Gage to shake his hand. A whole slew of words of admiration spill from his lips as he plays every card in his deck to the boss. Speaking of pathetic.
But I won’t stoop to that level. I simply gather my notebook and tuck it under an arm before heading toward the door, refusing to drown myself in any more of Benjamin Gage’s hotness.
Despite my efforts, I succumb to a moment of weakness, lingering at the door for just a second too long. In that second, Mr. Gage’s gaze detaches from the intern in front of him and connects with mine, potently and deliberately. The deep, bleeding urgency within that scalding stare of his makes all of my insides come apart. My heart rate, which I had just managed to return to normal, flings itself right back into the race in one instant.
