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And somehow, it was driving me slowly insane.

“My God,” I started in on her for the sport of it. “Those little knotted blouses… what’s wrong with you? Do I need to implement a dress code? You’re not eighty-five, and this isn’t a fucking funeral.”

“Coming up with a dress code would involve you doing something besides procrastinating or doing pull-ups and looking at your own abs,” she began dryly, “but hey, maybe something that superficial and shallow will keep you entertained long enough for you to actually finish a task today.”

I blinked at her little tirade. It took me a solid minute to muster up a response. “I like your sass. You know this, but for future reference, you shouldn’t talk to any boss you ever have that isn’t me like that.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I wouldn’t talk to anyone but you, boss or not, like this, trust me.”

That appeased me a little. “Once you start handing out sass, it’s hard to change your ways.”

“Don’t I know it,” she shot back, turning to leave.

“I’m not shallow. Can we agree on that, at least?” I called to her retreating back.

“You’re so deep, I can see Adele rolling in it,” she called back, deadpan.

I was dying. This girl entertained the hell out of me.

CHAPTER SIX

EVERYTHING WAS GOING just great until a problem arose around week two. A very big problem.

I discovered her phone voice.

I didn’t realize it was her speaking at first. I heard the voice from a few rooms away, pitched just so, and thought it might be a stranger in Ro’s office. I went to investigate. Maybe we had company. Company I could fuck. I was going through a very rare and inexplicable spell of abstinence recently.

But no, it was her. My wholesome Ro. Everything she was saying was perfectly innocent. But the strangest thing happened when she spoke into a phone. Her voice was pitched softer, lower, more airy. She was full-on sex kitten seductress. And those things added to her normal, familiar voice were a recipe for destruction. Namely, mine.

The sound of it was like velvet running along the nape of my neck.

I practically ran away.

In bed (by myself) that night, I tossed and turned all night, the sound of her phone voice keeping me up, my mind racing, my body aching.

Eventually I took a cold shower. It was miserable.

And worse, it didn’t help.

It was the first night I jacked off thinking about her.

Not the first time I thought about it.

The first time I couldn’t stop myself from doing it.

Three times.

The first time: Her voice, in phone sex mode, telling me to touch her, to feel her, every filthy detail of what she wanted from me, which in my egocentric fantasies, just happened to be exactly what I wanted to do to her.

The second time: She wasn’t talking. Her mouth was busy. It was a visceral image, what her soft lips felt like. How they tasted. I could almost feel her obstinate jaw cupped in my hands as I devoured her mouth. Eventually the fantasy had me pushing her head down, lower, lower.

I didn’t last long in my own hand after that.

The third time: I dozed a bit and woke up humping my randy cock against my mattress. I’d been dreaming she was moaning underneath me, and I was fucking her good, pounding mindlessly away, stroking, fondling, groping at those curves she was hiding under those hideous clothes. My face was buried in her hair. Her soft, silky hair that smelled completely randomly like a tropical breeze.

I came on my twelve hundred thread count Italian sheets with a frustrated groan.

It didn’t help. None of it helped.