Page 17 of Property of my Boss

Something isn’t right.

I sit in the small office tucked into the back of the cabin and exhale loudly, my heart slamming against my chest as I try to figure out what I’m doing. It’s wrong that I’m snooping, I’m well aware of that, but seduction was only turning me on, and that’s the last thing I need.

I want answers. Real answers. Answers that man is never going to give me on his own. He knows something about what happened to Wren, and I’m going to figure it out.

I pull open the top drawer of his desk and then another, but they’re practically empty except for a few sticky pads and some pens, all of which are also organized by size and color.

Dear Lord, this man is worse than I thought. This is serial killer level organization. I swear I’ve seen at least two documentaries about this type of behavior. A killer’s house is always very clean.

Outside of the desk and a bookshelf on the back wall with stacks of cowboy movies on DVD, the office is empty.

Why would it be empty? He runs a business. You’d think this would be the busiest room in the house.

Frustrated with the empty office, I head to the back of the cabin toward his bedroom. Maybe I’m approaching this all wrong. I need to think like one of the detectives in the cozy mysteries I like so much. The clues are never where you think they’ll be. They’re always hidden in plain sight. The answer is usually staring the detective right in the face.

I scan the bedroom for anything out of the ordinary, but it’s so bare. There’s nothing here but a bed, a simple nightstand, and a closet. A closet which he keeps empty except for a few T-shirts and a couple pairs of jeans.

The only thing that’s different about the bedroom than the other rooms in the house is that this room smells just like Tucker. Pine and cedar enmeshed with some other kind of musk I can’t describe. All I know is that it’s spicy, warm, and masculine. That, and it takes me right back to the moment earlier where he had me bent over his desk.

Why?

Why am I going back there?

I got the keys to his cabin. I’m here, so I need to focus on the job at hand. I should be committed to finding answers that will lead me to my friend. Rationally, I know this, but the more I tell myself I need to stop thinking about his big rough hands all over me, the harder my clit throbs. The harder my clit throbs, the more soaked my panties become. The more soaked my panties are, the more my thighs squeeze together. It’s a cycle and I’m not sure how to rectify any of it… outside of laying in his bed, breathing him in, and letting myself come.

No!

No? Are you sure?

I didn’t fake terrible exhaustion to get his keys just to flake on my objective now. An objective I’m not going to accomplish because all I want to do is climb into his bed and come on his sheets while I imagine his hands all over me.

That’s insane, girl!

Sucking in a deep breath, I crawl down on the floor and reach under the bed, looking for a hidden box or a secret spot in the floorboards the way the detectives in my books do. Trouble is… the detectives in the books I read aren’t dealing with the same urges I’m dealing with. Probably because they’re normal human beings with attention spans that last longer than five minutes.

Take this moment for instance. I’m crawling around on the floor with my ass in the air, and instead of focusing on looking for a secret hiding spot, my brain is filling in the quiet with thoughts of Tucker sneaking in behind me, smacking my ass, tearing my jeans down, and fucking me hard like an animal.

Like a wild, heaving, starving animal.

I stand from the floor and tug down my jeans before pulling back the covers and slipping under his sheets, the scent of his body sweeping upward as I snuggle into the plush blankets that he wraps around him every night.

God, this is so wrong. I’m all over the map. One second, I’m letting the man spank my ass, the next I’m accusing him of murder. Now, I’m lying in his bed half naked about to get myself off to the scent of his body.

Maybe it’s me who’s the weirdo here.

Lost to the moment, I tuck my hand into my panties and sink a finger against my clit with a sigh so loud that it turns me on. I could scream out in pleasure in Tucker’s house, and he could walk in any moment and hear me. He could listen to me touching myself. He could see me sliding my finger in circles around my swollen clit. He could watch me touch my tits and pinch my nipples as I moan loudly. He could see the whole damn thing… and then what?

I scrub my clit faster, clutching the pillow he lays his head on every night. Would he demand to watch me? Would he be so frustrated that he flipped me over and fucked me hard? Would he spank my ass and punish me for pleasuring myself in his bed, for taking advantage of his kindness?

God, yes! I want him to punish me! I want him to tell me what to do! I want him to take the burden of decisions away from me and take control!

I scrub my clit faster, my eyes squeezing shut as tingling pleasure works its way up my spine and down again, blooming in my groin.

His blanket brushes against my thigh, and for a second, I imagine it’s his big, rough hand sweeping against me. I imagine his gruff tone in my ear, his big hand swatting my little pussy until it’s dark red, juicy, and dripping. I imagine him tugging my hips up onto his shoulders to lick me clean.

Oh God!

I scrub faster and harder, my eyes squeezing shut, my thighs tightening around my hand, my heart pounding, until suddenly, my fantasy comes true and I hear Tucker’s deep voice echo through the room.