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Kyler
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Nine months. I've kept my shit together for nine months, and in the span of a few short hours, I’ve completely unraveled in front of Mr. Hu—Miles.
Referring to him by his first name feels so foreign. Even in my fantasies—especially in the extra naughty ones—I've always called him Mr. Huntington. It reminded me of how forbidden my obsession with the man is.
I stare at my boss as he considers my unusual request. Apart from blinking slightly faster than normal, there's no other visible sign of surprise on Miles's handsome face. Makes sense. He's an incredible businessman, adept at handling whatever gets thrown his way.
Even though I meant sleep as in sleep, and not anything else, it's still completely inappropriate. And unfair to put him in such an awkward situation. He's a nice guy so of course he's being kind to me as I lose my shit.
But this is asking too much. I see that now.
I'm about to walk back my stupid request when he tilts his head to the side. "You need comfort?"
He may have phrased it as a question, but it's clear he's picking up on my I-need-cuddles vibes.
I drop my head, my shoulders sagging. "Yeah. I do."
God, what must he think of me? Probably that I'm a twenty-three-year-old baby. One who'll need to start searching for a new job the second we touch down back in LA.
I normally sleep with a body pillow but obviously I couldn't fit one into my luggage, so I've been having the worst sleep ever on this trip.
"That's totally understandable," Miles replies.
It takes me a few seconds to realize I've just blurted that admission out loud. To my boss. I let out a groan.
Kill. Me. Now.
Miles gets up, mentioning something about needing to get changed for bed, leaving me to wallow in my mortification.
What am I doing?
I've only shared the story of the accident that killed my family with my two closest friends. Yet for some reason, telling Miles felt like the right thing to do.
But still…not even my closest friends know about my body pillow.
He steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed in a deep-slate pajama set. My eyes roam over the way his thick body fills out the silky fabric, the monogram print stretched across his bulky chest.
My cock hardens as I imagine all the different paths I could take kissing, nibbling, licking every square inch of his wonderland of a body.
What is wrong with me? The panic attack has left me emotionally seesawing, swinging wildly from mortification to hornification, making my head spin.
I jump into the bathroom and take another shower. A cold one, this time. I need to snap out of whatever haze I'm in.
I pride myself on my professionalism, and I need to regain some of it. Stat.
Some people might consider being a personal assistant a low job. For me, it isn't. It's my dream career. It plays into all my natural strengths. I love organization, finding efficient ways to do things, solving problems on the fly, and thinking outside the box.
I also love helping people. Contributing to someone else's success is satisfying. Thrilling, even. I don't need the glory, I'm happy being the man behind the man.
That also totally feeds into my sexually submissive side, even though there's no way Miles and I would ever venture there.
Why would a successful, wealthy, powerful dreamboat of a man settle for me when he can have whoever he wants?
That's why I've always focused on doing the best job I can for him and keeping things all-business, suppressing my desires, and only ever indulging them in my imagination… And my red sketchbook.
