Damn Blake for putting the thought in my head. Hamish isn’t a Dom. I was imagining it.
“Kneel.”
But if he ever did say that, I know I’d go crashing to my knees. I’d tilt my face up and stare at him.
“What do you want me to do, Sir?”
In my fantasy, he undoes his chinos, pulls the zip down, and frees his cock from his underwear. According to my imagination, he wears white Y-fronts. Not normally what I'd find sexy, but right now, it's turning me on. I slip my hand under the waistband of my boxer shorts and stroke my length as I let the scenario play out in my head. Maybe if I get my lust out of my system now, I'll be able to be professional tomorrow.
“Suck my cock.”
My lower lip quivers, and I groan. He’ll never actually order me to do it, but it sounds so right in my head. I stroke my cock, just like I’d do to his, cradling it in my palm. I imagine his cock would be thick, just like the rest of his body. Would I be able to touch my fingers together as I wrap them around his length? I stroke up and down. I’m starting to get hard, and so is he. In my fantasy, I begin to tease the head of his cock with my tongue. As beads of milky pre-cum form, I lap them up greedily. How salty would he taste? I lick my lips and apply more pressure to my cock, using my pre-cum to make my length slick.
Fantasy Hamish grasps my hair and forces me to stare up into his eyes.
“Do you like swallowing dick?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then do it.”
I twist my free hand into my hair, feeling the tug for real. How would his cock feel inside my mouth? Would I have to stretch my lips wide? How deep would I be able to take him? I let go of my cock long enough to push my covers aside so I won’t make too much of a mess. I grasp hold of my length again, groaning as I thrust hard into my hand.
“That’s it,”fantasy Hamish croons.“That feels so good.”
Warmth blossoms in the pit of my stomach, and at the same time, pressure builds in my groin. My balls draw up tight as I lap up the imaginary praise. In my head, Hamish is fucking my mouth, and oh god, I'm taking every last inch of him. My cock jerks, and cum drips over my hand and onto my stomach. I gasp, almost able to taste Hamish's salty cum dripping down the back of my throat.
I let go of my cock and my hair and flop my hands onto my stomach. Damn, that was good. What I don’t know is whether or not I’ll be able to look my new boss in the eyes tomorrow.
4
Hamish
I’ve been writing for an hour when Archie arrives at ten to nine. Or rather, I've been staring at my monitor for an hour without producing more than a dozen words. I let my new PA in through the main entrance rather than the patio door. I note that he doesn't make eye contact with me as I try hard not to notice he's wearing a pale blue shirt and a navy tie that's wide enough to double as a blindfold. He's carrying one of those reusable brown paper bags. For some reason, I find it adorable that he's brought a packed lunch.
"You know where the kitchen is," I say, gesturing to the oak doors that lead into the multipurpose living area. "Help yourself to a coffee whenever you want. I work through here."
I trudge into my office. “That’s your desk.” I turn my back on him so I don’t end up staring at the way his pressed trousers hug his arse as he goes to investigate. “You don’t need to dress so smartly.” I sit at my desk. “Smart casual is fine.”
“Smasual?” he asks.
I glower at the monitor. “That’s a fuckin’ stupid word. Go get me some coffee.”
I wait for him to refuse, or, as one previous young woman did, demand I say ‘please’, but he slips out of the office without a word.
I try to concentrate on my words. My deadline is one day closer, and I’ve got no more words written on this stupid book. Can I kill Orion King off at the end of my book, or will my publishers force me to resurrect him? It happened to Arthur Conan Doyle. No one would let him kill Sherlock Holmes.
“Coffee,” Archie says, putting a mug down on the coaster with a picture of Edinburgh Castle on it.
It smells great, and he's remembered that I take it black.
“Are you working on the next Orion King novel?”
“Aye.”
I wonder if he’s a genuine fan or if he spent the evening researching me and my books. Not that it matters to me.
"I love those books." Archie's voice is light and raspy like he's trying not to soundtooexcited. He’s a fan, then.
