I find a giant roaster in one of the cupboards. I have to stretch the tap over to fill it because it’s not even close to fitting in thesink. I’m extra careful carrying it across the house so that I don’t slop the steaming water over the side. It tries its best, becoming a violent roaster sea, but I manage to set it down in front of Warrick without incident.
He eyes it. Then he eyes me and scowls into his scowl lines that have scowl lines with scowl lines of their own.
I don’t even think. I drop down to my knees, take one foot, and slip it into the pan. I tested the water right before I brought it in here to make sure it wasn’t too hot. I don’t need any skeleton feet or burns on my watch. The shower incident, followed by the meatball crisping death, was bad enough, thank you very much.
I reach for his other foot, pausing when I realize what I’m doing. I’ve got my boss’ foot in my hands, and far from it being gross or weird, it’s strangely vulnerable. He has nice feet. They’re not all rough, and the nails aren’t doing weird things. Not even the one on the baby toe, which is usually notoriously out of control. Believe me, I’m speaking from experience.
I definitely don’t have a foot fetish, but the room seems to shrink around me, and my chest gets tight with sudden tension. A foot isn’t a weapon. Okay, I suppose, in some circumstances, it could be. But it doesn’t have to be. It just feels dangerous without being deadly.
I should just get the darned foot in the water and rush away like a scalded bunny, but instead, my hands do something of their own accord. My brain isn’t on board with this. My brain checked out the second my ovaries threatened to explode.
My thumb moves over his heel, tracing bones and muscles to the sensitive middle. I press in lightly. He tenses but then emits a small groan that hits me straight between the legs, and not in a non-sexual way. Right. Not sure how anything could hit between the legs and not be a turn on.
It doesn’t stop my fingers from trying to work magic along his arch, up to the ball of his foot, and back down to the heel. Iknead gently, then get bold enough to look up at him. His eyes are closed, and his head is resting on the back of the couch. The frown lines aren’t gone, but some of them have been erased. Something warm and completely non-sexual flutters around in my belly. It feels good to do this for him.
I lower his foot slowly into the water and lift up the other one. I must have been massaging for longer than I thought because this one has started to prune up. It’s almost adorable. I want to trace those little lines before I knead into the arch and rub the ball and heel. My index finger brushes over the soft, soaked skin, hot from the water.
“Mmmm,” Warrick murmurs.
I close my eyes too. I tell myself on repeat that this is okay. He’s not himself right now. And I’m not me either. This is in no way sexual. It’s in no way going to cause a boss and employee nightmare. HR? Do you have HR when you’re a housekeeper, employed solely by one person, or is it worse because he’s the HR too?
Except, he makes that noise under his breath again, and it hits me right in the lady bits. My va-jay practically lets out a cheer of excitement and runs around the room, threatening to burn her bra and not follow any further rules. Also? I’m probably wetter than that roasting pan at the moment.
Does that cause me to stop?
No. No, it does not.
I run my thumb along the wall of his foot, moving down to the arch. I’m careful since the skin feels tender like this.
The doorbell rings, the sound bouncing off my ribs like someone just pressed it inside me.
I let go of Warrick’s foot so fast that it splashes into the water. His eyes fly open, and his whole body jerks forward. He groans, thrusting his head into his hands.
“Sorry!” I gulp. “I’m just going to answer that. I…should I answer it?”
“I suppose so,” he grunts.
“Just stay there. Keep soaking.”
I rush off before I can humiliate myself further. Maybe it’s someone from work or the clinic coming to check up on Warrick. Even a salesperson would be preferrable to who I find on the doorstep. I’m completely unequipped to come face-to-face with Reginald.
“Oh!” I step back, swallowing far too loudly. I would love to be one of those people who could magically compose myself within a few seconds, but alas, I’m more of theblessed to always be a messvariety. “I…Reginald. What are you doing here?”
He tries to take a peek into the house around me. He won’t see much of anything because the hall has enough of a defined space that, if anything, all he’ll catch is the side profile of where the kitchen starts. He won’t be able to see into the living room.
I have no doubt Warrick can hear everything I’m saying.
Reg scans my face like a machine. If he’s here, it’s because his mom must have said something. Or maybe my family. Or has Warrick told him that I’m working here?
I’m ruffled, discomfited, and sure that my face is doing all sorts of wonky things. For example, loudly and clearly projecting the employee and boss feelings that I certainly don’t have. Not at all. Not ex-boyfriend feelings, not ex-boyfriend’s dad feelings. No feelings. None at all.
It doesn’t help that I realize my mouth is open.
I quickly rearrange my jaw and hope the rest of my face follows.
Reginald has known me for too long, and his scanning eyes send messages to his brain far too damn fast. He frowns, but slowly, that deepens until he looks almost furious.
Instead of digging deep inside to find my lady balls, all I can do is go straight to the panicked place ofoh, shit, I’ve seen your dad wet in a pool and totally naked and wet in a shower. I’ve hugged him, looked after him, massaged his feet, and made him soup. I’ve thought the most indecent thoughts, subbing him into my smut books and having heart-stopping, panty-melting dreams.
