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If I didn’t need this damn job, I would have allowed myself more time to gather my wits, too. But I needed this job, and Bastiano Romano was the only man who could give it to me.
And that meant chasing after him like a One Direction groupie hungry for Harry Styles’ drumstick.
I entered his office without knocking. A clever retort rested on the tip of my tongue, but it died at the mere sight of him standing in front of his desk.
His pants were down at his ankles, one palm flat on the desk and the other wrapped around his cock.
His very long, very hard, very pierced cock.
I stuttered to a stop, desperately trying and failing to tear my eyes away from the sight. His eyes had been closed, but when the door slammed open, they shot to mine.
And he didn’t bother stopping.
I watched, mortified and turned on, as he slowly stroked himself, his grip firm and his eyes running down the length of my body.
I meant to take a step back.
Truly.
Which was why I was horrified when I found myself walking forward.
First one step.
Then another.
And another.
Until I stood on the opposite side of the desk, close enough to touch him if I leaned far enough forward.
This was more than inappropriate. The door remained wide open. Anyone could walk by and see us like this, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I was too mesmerized.
By his strokes. By the pre-cum glistening at the very tip of his cock. By the barbell that winked at me from the head of his cock. By the way his tailored shirt hung loosely around his muscled thighs.
I knew I hated his goddamned guts, but at that moment, I couldn’t remember why.
What would Ariana do? my cover asked me.
I didn’t know, so I followed my instincts, but instinct told me to stay.
Stupid, stupid instincts.
Bastian arched his brow, daring me to tell him I didn’t want to see this. Daring me to touch him. To join him.
He was shameless in his actions, taking his time with each stroke even with an audience. His palm swiped over the pre-cum, distributing it past his piercing and down his length with an alluring downward stroke.
I swayed forward, drawn by his erotic magnetism. If anything, his cock got harder the closer I came.
My nipples pebbled under my dress. I knew he was staring at them. That, or the way my breasts heaved with each breath I forced myself to take.
Desire felt heavy on my tongue. I hated him, yes, but I wanted him all the same.
Did that make me weak? Perhaps.
But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the last time I had wanted anything this bad.
“Pull up your dress,” he commanded, still rubbing the erection I had given him.
