Alex strolls down the hall. Tucking the folder into my bag, I race out of Mr. Carlson’s office. “Alex.”
He stops and turns, his smile growing when he sees me. “What can I do for you, Paige?”
“Do you know where Mr. Carlson is?”
“He said he had a few things to take care of at home before the function tonight.”
And he didn’t consider signing documents I’d busted my ass to get ready as something that should have been taken care of also? “Thanks.”
I walk toward the elevator, smack the down button, and frown at my reflection. I feel restless as I exit the elevator, step onto the street, and make the short walk to his apartment building. It’s pretty clear that the no-fraternization policy isn’t the reason Mr. Carlson never made a move. I’m just the stand-in assistant whose time and dedication mean nothing.
Once Jessica gets back, he won’t even miss me. Things will go on as though I were never here.
I hate how my chest tightens at the thought of Mr. Carlson forgetting about me.
I force a smile for the doorman and make my way to Mr. Carlson’s floor.
A few minutes later, I’m knocking on his door, waiting.
And waiting.
Shuffling through my bag, I find the emergency key Jessica gave me.
“Mr. Carlson?” I call as I open the door and cautiously walk down the carpeted hallway toward the main living area. My heart thumps a nervous beat. I’ve never been to his home before.
I want to take my time to look around and see if it’s as sterile as his personality, but then the open-plan living room comes into view.
I immediately notice his open laptop on the kitchen counter and Mr. Carlson standing in front of it. He’s watching the screen, his tie tossed over his shoulder, one hand clamped around the edge of the counter, the other…
Oh…
A soft grunt escapes his lips, and the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh makes my blood turn molten.
My heart races as I watch him, his hand between the edges of his open zipper, squeezing and sliding up and down, periodically exposing the fat, glistening tip of his arousal.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
I’m watching the man who inspired all of my orgasms since I met him jerk off to a video of… “Is that me?”
I slap a hand over my mouth.Oh shit.
He straightens and snaps his gaze to me, his usual scowl replaced by surprise. “What are you doing?”
What am I doing?
I look between him and the computer. There’s nothing overly provocative about the video he’s watching. I’m wearing my hair up in a messy bun and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder. But I am fawning over an explicit blow-job scene between a grumpy boss and his assistant in one of my favorite smutty books.
My tongue feels foreign, and I am unable to form a coherent sentence.
His thumb moves, stealing my attention as it strokes along the ridge of his cock head.
“I… um…” I pull the folder from my bag and hold it out to him with a stiff arm. “You didn’t sign the Johnson paperwork.”
He looks at the folder and then back to me.
Seconds feel like hours as oxygen seems to seep from the room, replaced by hot, pulsing attraction.
