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I let out a low groan, placing my hand against the wall for support, stroking my rock-hard cock with the other. I pick up my pace as visions of Presley crying out in ecstasy as she chases euphoria flash through my mind. My release hits me like a freight train, ropes of cum spurting to the ground.
Fuck.
I just crossed a line. I quickly rinse myself off, anxious to remove all evidence that I just jerked off ten feet away from Presley, in her parents’ house, to images of their daughter coming on my face.
I’m relieved when I finish getting ready and find Presley still fast asleep. I head down to Mike’s office, figuring I might as well get some work done before she wakes up and wants to do something festive.
The truth is, I actually had fun ice skating yesterday. It was nice to have an excuse to spend time with Presley outside the office, and I couldn’t get enough of watching her infectious smile while she was skating with her family.
It’s barely six a.m. on a weekend, so I’m surprised when I walk into the kitchen to find Johanna making blueberry muffins.
“Good morning, dear.” She greets me with a warm smile.
“Morning. I didn’t think anyone would be up this early.”
“I figured I’d get a head start with such a busy weekend ahead. Those boys of mine are bottomless pits, so I like to have a few things on hand for them to snack on when they come over,” she says fondly. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a cup of coffee while we wait for a fresh batch of muffins to come out of the oven?”
“Oh, um… I can get my own.” I start toward the cabinet, but she holds out her hand.
“Don’t be silly; I’ve got it. You sit,” she orders.
I’ve already learned that it’s pointless to argue with a Stafford, so I do as she said, taking a seat at the counter.
I watch with amusement as Johanna takes a Santa Claus mug from the cupboard and peppermint creamer from the fridge, not bothering to ask how I take my coffee. At least now, I know where Presley gets her affinity for seasonal creamers. Once Johanna’s finished, she slides the piping hot cup of coffee in my direction.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I take a small sip and let out a satisfied sigh. Like her daughter, Johanna has a gift for making the perfect cup of coffee.
“This is really good,” I tell her.
I’m not used to having people do nice things for me, simply because they want to. Most of my time is spent with my employees who do things out of mere obligation, not because they have a choice.
“I’m happy you like it,” Johanna says. “And I’m glad Presley brought you home.”
“You are?”
“Of course. You seem like a nice guy, and it’s about time she had a life outside the office. That damn boss of hers works her to the bone and never shows her any appreciation for all she does. She tries to downplay her stress, but I can hear the exhaustion in her voice every time she calls home.” She pauses when the timer goes off and pulls out a batch of muffins that smell heavenly. “What kind of man makes his assistant work the week before Christmas when they asked for the time off a year in advance?”
A fucking asshole—that’s who.
A twinge of guilt passes through me, knowing I’m the cause of Presley’s undue stress. Instead of getting a much-needed break from work, she’s been stuck with me twenty-four/seven for the past several days.
“If she’s unhappy, why doesn’t she quit? Couldn’t she work for Stafford Holdings?”
“It’s not from a lack of trying on her brothers’ part. When she graduated high school, they begged her to join the team, but she insisted on venturing out on her own,” Johanna tells me. “When she was six, we took her to visit New York City for the first time, and she’s wanted to live in the Big Apple ever since.” She laughs at the memory. “When Presley announced she was moving away, there wasn’t anything we could do to convince her to stay. I don’t care what she does as long as she feels fulfilled. All I’ve ever wanted is for my kids to be happy.”
I can hear the genuine love in her voice, and it hurts to know that I haven’t experienced that kind of devotion from my own mother and I probably never will.
“They’re lucky to have you,” I say with sincerity.
“You should tell them that.” She spreads butter on a muffin—without asking, again—and sets it on a plate in front of me. “What about you? How many siblings do you have?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Oh, I see. What about your parents? I’m sure they’re disappointed that you’re not home for the holidays.”
