This might be the end of our relationship. I tighten my grip on his base, holding back his release, prolonging this sweet torture. My lips hum and my cheeks ache. Teardrops trickle down my cheeks.
“Trella.” John’s voice stretches with need.
I look upward, my teeth skim against his shaft, and all hell breaks loose. John shoves me off his cock, his roar temporarily deafening me. I shriek, thrashing my arms, airborne for one agonizing second. The sheets tangle around my body, slowing my flight, and I land dangerously close to the edge of the bed, bouncing on the mattress.
John drives his hips upward. Hard spurts of cum arc from his cock head, splattering on his stomach, his upper thighs, wasted.
I fold my fingers into fists, furious. “What did you do?” I fume.
“Protect.” My control freak boss stills, his eyelids lowering.
“I’m clean.” I grab four tissues from the box on the nightstand. “I haven’t had sex in…a while.” Since I started working for him. “And I’ve been tested.”
“I know.” John opens his eyes, his gaze meeting mine.
He knows. He wasn’t protecting himself. He was protecting me. My anger dissipates. “I would have taken that chance.” I dab the tissues over him, cleaning him, caring for him as I always do, with a tenderness no assistant should ever feel for her boss.
“I would never put you at risk.”
This almost sounds like he cares for me but I know my boss. He would never put any of his employees at risk. I toss the tissues into the wastebasket.
John pulls me upward, sliding my body over his, and he pushes my face into his heaving chest, his heat, his scent engulfing me, his palms curving over my ass.
I rest against him, listening to the sound of his breathing and the beating of his heart. A Turner hangs near the bed, the painting depicting a ship at sunset, the colors warm and rich.
“You like antiques,” I comment, wishing to know more about him.
“Are you making small talk, Grant?”
I’m back to being Grant, his androgynous assistant. I sigh. “It was an observation.”
There’s a long pause.
“Antiques hold their value,” John shares. “If I lost everything and needed to sell them tomorrow, they’d be worth something.”
I gaze up at him. “Do you worry about losing everything?” Is this why he works so hard?
“It could happen.” His lips are flat, grim. “Anything is possible.”
Are we possible? I touch the scars around his neck. The grooves are deep. “You’d rebuild.” I would help him, forgoing my salary, investing my own meager savings. He’d need those savings. He’d need me.
John catches my wrist and moves my hand lower. “It wouldn’t be easy but yes, I’d rebuild.”
There’s no doubt in my mind he’d be successful. I swirl my fingertips into his chest, watching his muscles ripple under my palms. My boss is intelligent, driven, the type of man who achieves whatever he wants.
“We should work.” John reaches for the tablet resting on the nightstand, transitioning into business mode, ending our more personal conversation.
“I should take a shower.” I slip out of the bed, not yet ready to resume my duties as his assistant.
* * *
When I exit John’s massive bathroom, he’s gone. The bed is neatly made, my clothes are folded on a Chippendale chair and my overnight bag is placed between the finely carved chair legs. I dress quickly in a black suit, twist my crazy curls into a semblance of order, and forgo the urge to snoop. My boss trusts me in his personal space. I won’t abuse his trust.
I open the door, hear the TV, and follow the noise downstairs, navigating the wide wooden staircase. A huge chandelier sparkles over my head. Every inch of the house is filled with antiques, with warmth, with John’s scent.
I find my boss in the kitchen, his black suit jacket draped over a chair. The décor is French country and the tiled floor is immaculately clean. A TV hangs on the far wall, displaying the business network. Coffee drips into a carafe on the counter.
John, clad in a crisp white shirt, blue tie, and dark dress pants, stands between a center island and a gas range. He dices a green pepper into small precise cubes.
I now understand where the specks of color on his cuffs come from. “You cook?” I move beside him, clasp a block of gruyere cheese and the hand grater.
“It’s a life skill.” His gaze flicks to me and returns to the green pepper. “We need a cup of cheese for our omelets.” Drops of moisture glisten on his brown hair. He must have taken his shower elsewhere.
I grate the cheese into a small white bowl. “Did your mom teach you how to cook?” His mom, a single parent, raised him. I know this from the interviews he’s given.
There’s a long pause. “We didn’t have these fancy ingredients.” John slices an onion. “Toward the end, when she was sick, we’d stretch the eggs with water.”
I wait. He says nothing more. His mom died from cancer when he was sixteen, leaving him alone. I know all about being alone.
“I taught myself how to cook,” I volunteer. “My parents were always working. They didn’t have time to teach me.” They didn’t have time for me. I’d be left to my own devices for hours, locked in our small house, where I’d be safe yet solitary, cut off from everything and everyone.
“My mom had time,” he bluntly states. His mom worked two or three jobs, struggling to support them, and she had time for him. She loved him.
“They didn’t care enough to teach me,” I amend. I suspect my parents had been relieved when I moved out. I hadn’t contributed to the household, hadn’t been needed.
John steps closer to me, his body heat soothing some of the pain inside my soul. I’m not that little girl any more. I’m not alone and I’m not a burden. My boss might not need me but I do help him. I’m helping him right now.
“That’s enough cheese, Grant.” John moves the bowl. “The Pittsburgh deal is going forward.” He reverts back to business, a safe, emotionally neutral topic of conversation, and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk about my painful past. “Read me the specs.”
I unclip the phone from my waistband, search for the information and recite the numbers. John tilts his head as he listens. He then asks questions. I find the answers for him. We do this every morning but today, we’re in the same room. We’re together.
While John cooks, I set the kitchen table, pour the coffee into mugs and address more of his concerns. My mind needs coffee to function. His brain doesn’t, his thinking fast and his attention to details keen.
I sip from my mug as I scan through the files. His management team sends me the information. My job is to find it, my boss not having the time to read each document.
“You don’t know?” John plates the omelets and places one in front of me.
“I’ll ask for the answer, sir.” I set the phone on the table. “You’ll have it by noon.”
He sits beside me, pressing his leg against mine. “I need the answer earlier.” John turns his wrist and gazes at his silver Rolex. “This morning has been surprisingly efficient.”
Is this what I am? An efficiency? Sexual release and business support rolled into one being? “Are you pleased?” Does this arrangement satisfy him?
John frowns. “It isn’t like you to fish for a complement, Grant.”
“It isn’t like me to spend the night with my boss.” I bite into the egg and flavor explodes in my mouth. Hot damn. I moan, my eyelashes fluttering. My billionaire can cook.
John bumps against me and I gaze at him. His eyes are dark with passion. “I’m very pleased.” He doesn’t sound as though he’s talking about business. “I’ve wanted this for years.” My boss reaches over and steals a forkful of my omelet.
I divide the dish into two equal pieces, transfer one half to his plate. “You’ve wanted me for years?” I do the same with his omelet, placing one half on my plate. My boss prefers to share food with me. It is one of his more adorable quirks.