Page 20 of Sexy Bad Boss

Chapter Six

JAMES

Did she really just say she wants in my pants? Because apparently, she already is. The same cotton that normally cups my balls is rubbing between her legs right now.

How am I supposed to react to this? How am I not supposed to be bowled over by the idea of her wanting in my pants? Or the fact that she’s wearing my Jockeys right now?

My body refuses to behave, latching onto the conundrum like a drowning man. Why can I not seem to get a handle on things since she walked through the door this morning? It’s Myra, for God’s sake.

I try to chase after her, but it’s hard maneuvering this stupid wheelchair with only one hand. As hard as the erection tenting my pants. Rather, my brother’s pants. I want out of his, Myra wants into mine.

That is what she said, isn’t it? I didn’t imagine those words coming from her mouth?

The wheeled chair slams into the cabinet, jarring my broken ankle. “Goddamn it!” Gritting my teeth, I surge forward until the narrow rubber wheels bump into the raised threshold of the doorway leading out onto the patio.

She’s left the screen open, so while I can’t get outside without her help, I can at least watch while she familiarizes herself with the grill. She’s dancing while she turns on the gas, humming to a song in her head. While her breasts are small, they still move slightly as she bounces, and the nipples are so hard they stab at the shirt, creating an outline that’s almost as clear as staring at the real thing.

My shirt. She’s wearing my undershirt and boxers. Not exactly the image her words conjure in my mind. I’d rather her hand be in those boxers while they’re on my body.

No, I wouldn’t. Okay, yes, I would, but I shouldn’t want that. Not from Myra.

“What do you mean, you need to get into my pants?” Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey have nothing on the moves my mind is conjuring at the moment.

No, that can’t be what she means. That’s not who we are. “Are you sure that’s what you meant to say?”

“Oh.” She glances up from where she’s laying out skewered meat and vegetables on the cast iron grates. Her cheeks flame, red splotches that she probably thinks make her look terrible, but are damned endearing. “With Chloe on her honeymoon and you indisposed, I assume you expect me to run the business for the next two weeks. Which means I need to get into your…”

“Head?” That doesn’t help. Not when the one in my pants is throbbing.

“I need to get into your head. Yes, that’s the proper phrase.”

“Yeah, that’s the proper phrase.” I clear my throat. Head. Head. Head. I close my eyes and try not to picture her moving closer, dropping to her knees... “I don’t think you’ll have a difficult time of it. You know me better than anyone else. Better than I know myself.”

She snorts and returns her focus to grilling our dinner. “If that were the case…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” she mutters while closing the lid on the grill. “Do you need a refill?”

I left my glass in the kitchen since I can’t roll around in this chair while holding it. Somebody needs to invent cup holders for these things.

Christ, I need to get back on track here. “Going to get me to reveal all my secrets so you can take over my business while I’m incapacitated?”

She rolls her eyes as she slips past me, her leg brushing against mine. I almost reach out with my good hand, let my fingers trail along her calf below the hemline of her capris.

“Right,” she says, “That’s exactly my plan.”

***

Between the two of us, we manage to get my wheelchair outside onto the patio, where we eat dinner at the tiny bistro table that’s usually reserved for drinking coffee while I’m taking meetings with business associates located on the other side of the globe, before heading into the office each morning. Realistically, I’ll be able to perform most of the functions of my job from home while my various cracked and bruised bones heal.

“You aren’t planning to go into the office this week, are you?” I ask before biting down on a perfectly marinated and grilled chunk of chicken and tugging it off the stick.

Myra daintily slices her meat before popping a small piece into her mouth. She doesn’t answer me until she’s swallowed and chased the morsel with a slug of wine. Which is a perfectly acceptable way to eat, yet it makes me shift in my seat as I imagine her throat working like that while she swallows me down.

I grab my wine. I should push it away because it’s probably at least partially to blame for my recent inability to keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow, but screw it. I need something to wet my suddenly parched throat.