“I’m writing you up,” he snaps.
I freeze and stare at him.
“What the fuck? What did I do?”
“What didn’t you do?” He pulls out a sheet of paper and scribbles on it. “You were working without proper PPE.”
“What the fuck?” I ask, my brows meeting.
“No shirt. I saw it.”
“I was always wearing my shirt, except at lunch.”
“Exactly. Who knows what could happen at lunch? A stray nail, a rogue saw. You could lose an arm.”
I stare at him, perplexed. He’s making my head spin, and my cock hard.
“And don’t even get me started on your unprofessional behavior with your men. I heard you flirting.”
“Arbor—”
“It’s Mr. Wren.”
His pen flicks across the paper, and then he holds it out to me. I can see the tremble in his hand as I near. His scent rolls across me, and I clench my teeth.
My fingers latch on to what he’s handing me, and without a word, I crumple it in my palms.
“You’re not writing me up.”
He stares at the paper in my hand and gasps when I chuck it in the garbage.
“You can’t do that. You can’t!”
He starts to write out another, but before he can, I’m wrenching the pen from his hand and snapping it in half. Ink flies everywhere—on my shirt, his pants. It’s a fucking mess.
He shoves me, but I don’t budge. I just reach down and pick him up, setting him on the desk and spreading his legs.
“You’re just mad because you’re hot with slick, and I haven’t come in and offered to suck your cock.”
“Sexual harassment. I’m adding that,” he breathes, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks pink.
“I’ll prove it to you.”
“You’ll prove nothing.”
I rip his belt from his slacks and toss it aside. It clatters next to the coffee machine as I work on ripping his pants open.
“Anyone could come in.”
“No one’s here.”
“They could come back,” he argues.
“Fuck them. And fuck you.”
“I’m writing you up for insubordination,” he says as he arches into my touch.
“You can try to write me up all you want, Mr. Wren. I’ll destroy them every time.”
