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I’m on the couch with my takeout when my phone buzzes with a text from Blackthroat.
His texts are as short and concise as his words. This one simply says,Call me.
I’ve worked for him for almost four months, and we’ve rarely spoken on the phone after work hours. He has decent boundaries for a workaholic. I don’t get many calls after hours, nor requests on weekends.
Before I can check myself, I text back,What’s the magic word?
I know I’m poking the bear, but we did just have sex on his desk today. I think I have some wiggle room now.
Blackthroat’s one-word reply:Now.
Okay, yeah. He’s still my boss. My pulse picks up speed as I hit the call button. I’m all fluttery and nervous like I’m sixteen, and he’s the first boy at school to show interest in me–which, for the record–didn’t happen since I was a pariah at my school for being poor. Determined not to show my nerves, I say the moment he picks up, “Don’t worry, I haven’t hired a lawyer yet.”
He makes ahmphsound but says nothing else, which is odd for him. Of course, it’s not like we’ve had any after-hours phone calls before.
“Listen.” The deep timbre of his voice sends thrills straight through my body, reawakening all the parts he pleasured today. “I obviously regret my behavior today…”
I stiffen. Ouch. He regrets it. My heart starts pounding hard against my chest. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
“I crossed all the lines.”
“Yep,” I say with false cheer. “You totally did.”
I’m so glad I walked out of there with the upper hand today.
“I just hope… I wanted to make sure… you weren’t forced into anything. Or coerced. I mean… because I’m your boss. I gave you an out, but I don’t know if it was clear–”
It sinks in that he’s not trying to dump me or offend me. Could Brick Blackthroat actually be second-guessing his behavior? Is he actually worried about me? My feelings? His abuse of power?
He fears I felt forced. That’s…almost sweet.
A slight smile creeps around my mouth. Part of me wants to make him sweat it, but I have mercy. “As tempted as I am to make you suffer on behalf of all the assistants who’ve held this position before me, the answer is no. I didn’t feel forced. I am perfectly capable of sayingnowhen I don’t want sex.”
Hmph.He makes that sound again. “For the record, you are the only assistant I’ve had inthat particularposition.”
I choke out a laugh. My hurt over his expression of regret evaporates into lightness.
“Was it the peek-a-boobs?” I tease.
“Probably,” he grumbles. I hold my breath, waiting for more. Not sure what to say next, and there’s an awkward silence. “All right. Then I won’t apologize.”
Right, because that would probably kill him. He does, on occasion, saythank you, but I have never heard the man apologize.
“Madi.”
My pulse quickens at his use of my shortened name.
“Yes?” I purposely leave off thesirbecause this isn’t really a boss-employee discussion.
“Did you do it to make yourself un-fire-able?”
I hesitate–not because I’m not sure, but I’m debating how much to reveal. There’s something so vulnerable about not having an agenda. About just wanting something for myself. For my own pleasure, not my future or my career. My whole life has been focused on getting ahead. Proving myself. I’m strategic and smart with my choices.
This choice was not strategic, though.
“No,” I admit the truth. “I did it because it was hot.”
“Itwashot,” he agrees, and my heart races. After another pause–this one not as awkward, he says, “Just so we’re clear, I would’ve made your life a living hell if you had.”
