Page 255 of Manhattan Bossholes

Trent waltzed toward me, unhurried, with the quiet stealth of a big cat. He was delectable and dark and dangerous. Like a panther.

Yep.

He was a sleek, muscular panther filled with explosive power, and I sure hoped he used it to pounce on me.

God, girl! Get a grip. I backed away from him, inch by inch, until my knees hit the chaise, and I collapsed on top of it.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment we met,” Trent said as he leaned over me, getting his knee between my legs.

My words left me, replaced by a breathy little moan.

He smiled, a wicked finger running along my jaw, down my neck, and disappearing between the valley of my breasts. When the hell had I taken my shirt off?

“I’ve wanted you exactly like this. Splayed out for me on a piece of Saunders Furniture.”

My chest heaved. This couldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t let this happen, but hell if I wanted it to stop. Trent leaned down, his lips like the promise of fire after the cold, and I surged up, wrapping my arms around his neck. I kissed him like he was my one and only lifeline, moaning as he sucked at my tongue.

His hands traveled down my body, his hips grinding against me.

A sudden desperation washed through me, aching between my legs, and I almost bucked him off the chaise as his hand slipped beneath the waistline of my pants. Yes, yes! God, I wanted him to touch me there.

I wanted him to⁠—

I startled from the dream so abruptly that my chest clenched, the ache between my legs throbbing out of control. I squeezed my thighs together.

Holy fuck!

It was a dream. Only a goddamn dream. I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to get control of myself. I was not supposed to be fantasizing about Trent, no matter how sexy he was—and man did dream-Trent really know how to get a girl going. But this coffee-spilling, parents-hating man was my boss. Not someone I was supposed to be almost-kissing in abandoned churches, and certainly not someone I was supposed to be crossing boundaries with.

I couldn’t be drooling over someone who treated his parents like garbage.

Get some damn standards, girl.

I had to admit the chaise had looked really good.

When I hadn’t been able to shake Trent from my thoughts, I’d sat down at my desk at work, headphones in, and let myself get lost in the design—my favorite place to be. If I was going to be plagued by that dream, I might as well get something useful out of it.

And I was clearly not getting off, so I saw no reason to let my subconscious designs go to waste. The line could use a good chaise design. But losing myself in design wasn’t working the way it usually did. I bit my lip, tightening my hold on my drawing pencil as I shaded in dark hair. At some point, I’d veered away from simply drawing the chaise and had added an entwined couple, all bare skin and hands everywhere. It was possibly the filthiest thing I’d ever drawn.

I sort of wanted to frame it.

But that would be ridiculous. I picked up my eraser, hesitating as I took in the sketch. I supposed this couple could be any couple. The fact that the woman had my curls and the man had Trent’s dark hair and athletic build didn’t mean anything.

I nodded, trying to convince myself that this artistic rendering was in no way related to the dream. I held the picture up, letting the light spilling in through the window highlight shaded muscles and one very attractive backside. I hadn’t actually seen dream-Trent’s ass, but I’d seen him around the office enough in those fitted slacks that I could picture it clearly. Very clearly. Maybe a little too clearly. Because even in just a pencil sketch, without defined facial features, it was pretty obvious who the subjects were. I could only hope now that I’d gotten the image down on paper, I could finally get it out of my head and return my focus to the real star of the show.

The chaise.

But before I could crumple the paper and discard it, Trent walked through my open door.

“Have we finalized these desk sets yet?” he said, looking up from a file in his hand. “Because I think they’re ready for production. What’s the holdup?”

I slammed the sketch down on my desk. “Um…which desks?” I said, my voice pitched way too high.

“What do you mean ‘which desks’?” he said, scowling at me. “The ones you designed, obviously.”

“Right, yeah.”

He frowned. “What’s that you’ve got there?”