Page 38 of Saved By the CEO

Wait.

Can he read my mind? What if mind-reading is a symptom of the whole biological match thing? I scream in my head, suddenly and loudly.

He doesn’t react.

Mr. Bennett sucks cocks in hell.

Nothing.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

I ignore the question, because saying “Sorry, I was testing if you could read my mind” doesn’t exactly scream mentally stable. Instead, I go back to his earlier request. “Chocolate or strawberry?”

He considers it. “Strawberry.”

I go and get us doughnuts from the café down the street, and we eat them at his desk. After a few bites, Mr. Bennett somehow manages to get strawberry filling on his shirt.

“Fuck,” he says, grabbing a napkin.

He starts attacking the stain. It does not budge.

“Want me to get your spare shirt?”

He looks down at the increasingly pink spot and sighs. “Yeah.”

I stand and walk over to the credenza along the wall. One of the cabinets holds a small collection of emergency supplies: extra ties, spare shirts, a lint roller. I pull out a folded white shirt and turn around.

Then immediately stop.

Mr. Bennett has taken off his shirt.

“Sorry!” I squeak, whipping back around.

Holy hell, what does that man eat?

Usually, he changes in the bathroom. This time, apparently, he’s decided to do it right next to his desk, because he hates me and wants me to suffer.

“It’s all right,” he says. There’s a teasing note in his voice. “I feel like we’re a bit past modesty.”

I take a breath and carefully turn back around.

Big mistake.

I have never seen a more perfectly sculpted chest. He’s defined, but not obnoxiously so. Just the right amount. The kind of chest that makes a person start reconsidering every moral, professional, and HR-related boundary she has ever had.

I can feel my body reacting to his. I want to put my hands on him. Feel his skin beneath my fingertips.

I drag my gaze away before I embarrass myself.

“Here you go,” I say, handing him the shirt.

He slips it on and starts buttoning it. I find myself watching his fingers as they guide each button into place with the absentminded efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.

Then he unfastens his belt to tuck the shirt in.

I immediately become fascinated by a spot on the wall behind him.

Once he’s finished, he glances up at me. “Thanks.”