Maybe I’ll just… take care of it before every meeting with Jamie Torres. Prevention strategy or professional courtesy? Perhaps both.
5
HEAD OVER HORNS
MAGNUS
Well,I jerked off twice before 9:00 a.m. That’s the kind of dedication nobody talks about at the shareholder meeting, but it’s the only way I can function. Especially when the most delicious junior strategist I’ve ever seen is sitting across from me in a button-down that should require a warning label.
He’s talking. I’m listening. Or I’m trying to. The Community Outreach Initiative campaign we’re proposing sprawls across my desk in neat, color-coded binders. Judy would probably get a gold star from NASA if they ever needed project materials organized by the colors of the rainbow. Gosh, I hope they don’t, because I don't want to think about losing Judy to the space program.
My focus keeps slipping. His eyes crinkle behind his lenses when he smiles, and his voice has this steady warmth that makes the word “synergy” sound less like a corporate curse and more like something you actually might want to buy.
“You see,” Jamie says, leaning forward, hands moving in quick arcs, “people don’t just engage with messages—they connect with them. Stories about teamwork, shared wins, and what everyone brings to the table are what stick.”
I nod. I know this. Of course I know this. I’ve spent nearly twenty years building Labyrinth Solutions on exactly that idea. And yet, watching Jamie lay it out like he’s showing me a secret I’ve somehow forgotten—I want to hear it all again. From him. Only him.
I clear my throat, dragging my attention back to the numbers. “So we pivot from ‘everyone has gifts’ to ‘celebrating what makes us unique—tentacles and all’?”
Jamie grins, and there it is: that spark in his eyes that makes my chest—and my cock—ache. “Exactly,” he says. “And don’t forget horns. Horns are sexy.” He glances up at mine, a quick, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “I mean, generally speaking. Horns. Horny. It’s all there.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Fuck, he’s adorable when he’s embarrassed.
“I mean,” he continues, “we should probably leave out the horns. Unless you want to launch a hair accessories line. Headbands? Horn bands? Are those a thing?”
I chuckle, caught off guard. Me—Magnus Trainor, CEO, seven-foot-two wall of muscle, chuckling like a teenager at a school dance because the new junior strategist cracked a joke about headbands.
By the time noon rolls around, I have another meeting breathing down my neck. “Torres,” I say, reluctantly, “I have to step out for a few hours. But—” I pause then let myself smile. “Do you mind working on this on your own for a bit? Maybe we can regroup after my meetings. I know, meetings on top of meetings. Welcome to corporate life.”
He’s nodding, gathering the binder he’s been highlighting. “Meetings are my jam. I mean, of course. Yes. I’d like that.”
For a split second, I almost ask him to stay put—stay here, have him waiting in my office when I return. But then reality kicks in: the whole me-needing-to-duck-into-the-bathroom-for-a-quick-release issue, multiple times a day. So I bite my tongue, let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary, and watch his fine ass head back to Vanessa’s office. But his words roll around in my head.
I’d like that.
The rest of the day moves in fits and starts. Meetings. Calls. Reports. I pretend to be focused, but every time I see his notes waiting on my desk, or the coffee cup he left on the coaster, my pulse picks up. Hours later, after jerking off two more times in my private bathroom, the office is quieter. Most of the building has emptied, but my lights are still on when Jamie knocks at my office door.
He’s back.
We dive in again. It’s easier now, smoother, the kindof rhythm you dream of in a partnership. His ideas flow like water. And he’s so damn smart. There’s nothing pretentious about him. I counter, refine, toss back thoughts that send him scribbling in margins. It’s intoxicating, this give and take. Not just brains, but something deeper—a sense that we fit.
When my stomach growls loud enough to echo against the office windows, Jamie laughs. “I was going to suggest a break before you devour the fake fruit in the bowl over there.”
“I’ll order in,” I say, grabbing my phone. “Any preferences?”
“I’m easy.”
The words hang there.I’m easy.I take a slow breath, dialing the number for my usual bistro. “Italian okay?”
“Perfect.”
By the time Judy appears with the bags, muttering about “young people and their workaholic bosses,” I suspect she’s the last person here besides us. She leaves me with a pointed glance that says,Don’t make me clean up a late-night mess tomorrow.
“Wine?” I offer, lifting a bottle of Scotch from my cabinet instead.
Jamie raises his brows. “That’s… not wine.”
“Exactly.” I pour two fingers into each glass, sliding one toward him. “I keep this for special meetings.” His eyebrows scamper up his forehead. “And after-hours work sessions. Trust me.”
