Page 26 of Sexy Bad Boss

With a shrug, she continues to pet the animal, cooing at it, practically in its face.

“Can you—I have to piss,” I finally grumble. I really do, but mostly, I’m discombobulated by her closeness. Like we’ve been here before. Like my dream wasn’t really a dream.

“All right,” Myra says and she lifts the cat from my lap. “Come on, Simon. Let’s go get his wheelchair.”

“Simon? Where did you come up with Simon?”

“He’s Siamese. Seems fitting.”

“First, you don’t know if it’s a male—”

In an incredibly un-Myra-like move, she flips the cat over and spreads its legs. “You’re right,” she says after righting it again in her arms. “Simon is a girl. But I still think the name fits her.”

Simon is a–? “Myra, it isn’t my cat. You can’t name someone else’s cat.”

She frowns down at the perfectly content animal. The thing is purring, well, like a freight train. Or maybe a chainsaw. It’s damned loud at any rate.

“You’re probably right,” she says, sounding disappointed. “She looks well taken care of. Probably belongs to one of your neighbors. I bet she wandered in here last night when we had the patio door open.”

Her cheeks go a dusky pink, like they did several times yesterday. She drops the cat into my lounger and then drags the wheelchair closer to the couch. I don’t particularly want to push the blanket off my lap, because my dick’s excitement is damned obvious in these loose-fitting pants. She takes the decision out of my hands by grasping the beige afghan and tugging it away. Her gaze drops to my tented pants and her cheeks darken further, and I’m vividly reminded of that dream I didn’t get to finish.

Maybe I should. Finish myself off, that is. Maybe that’s what I need to help me finally stop thinking about Myra in ways that are wholly inappropriate for our relationship. I could do it while taking a shower. It’ll be awkward with my left hand, but I’m sure I can figure out a way to get the job done.

“Damn it,” I mutter, because how the hell am I supposed to shower with a bum foot, not to mention my wrist?

“What’s wrong?” Myra’s gaze darts to my face, her forehead creased with worry lines.

I clear my throat. “I need to bathe.”

“Oh. Well, um, I could help you.”

An image pops into my head, of me sitting in a bathtub with Myra seated behind me, her legs wrapped around me while she scrubs my back with a loofah. No, no. Me seated behind Myra, her nestled between my legs, her bare ass pressed against my hard-as-a-rock erection, my soapy hands massaging her breasts…

“Uh…help me?” I can barely formulate the words, let alone push them past the giant lump in my throat.

She nods. “That’s what I’m here for this week. To take care of you. Which includes helping you bathe.”

Christ almighty, the woman is testing every bit of resolve I have. I have never wanted something so inappropriate in all my life. Only two weeks ago, HR had informed me they were letting Larry and Marge from accounting go because of an incongruous relationship. Apparently, they’d been having a secret affair for months, and when Marge refused to leave her husband for him, Larry offered to promote her if she’d change her mind.

And here I am, the boss, practically thinking along the same lines. I’m a very bad boss, because I’ve already offered Myra a promotion to get her to stay, and now I’m dreaming about her blowing my, er, mind, too. I should fire myself.

“Fine,” I grumble. There’s no way out of this situation, now, so I’d best do what I can to make it as innocuous as possible. As innocent as my admin giving me a bath can be, at any rate. “My swim trunks are upstairs, in the top drawer to the right. I’m sure I can manage most of it, though I’ll need you to wash my hair and my back, I think. Do you think you can do that from outside the shower? I doubt you brought your swimsuit.”

She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t bring my bikini.”

Myra in a bikini. I’d like to see that.

No, no, no.

“Let me help you to the bathroom, and I’ll run upstairs to get your swim trunks.” I know I’m imagining the disappointment in her voice.

“I think I deserve to remember what happened to cause me to trip over that damn goat, after all this.”

Myra’s hand jerks away and she cups her throat while her chest heaves like she’s been running. “Um, here.” She grasps my arm and helps lift me into the wheelchair, and then she pushes me across the room. The cat trots along next to us.

Once we reach the bathroom door, I say, “Why don’t you take that thing outside before it shits somewhere in my house? By the time you’ve done that and retrieved my swimsuit, I’ll be ready for you.”

She glances at the cat now sitting on its haunches next to me, tail steadily swishing back and forth. Almost like it’s waiting for something to happen. I flap my hand and it dances out of reach before resuming the same position. Shaking my head, I take a fortifying breath, shove myself out of the wheeled chair, and hop into the small, three-quarter bathroom, using the sink for balance. Damn, I’ll be glad when my extremities are healed. And I’m going to do everything in my power to avoid all goats in the future.