Mr. Grumpy Boss

by Lindsey Hart

Once upon a time, I wasn’t always such a ball bag. True story.

His smile turns absolutely predatory. My belly does something strange. It’s half fear, half something else going on in there. Something female. Something dark. Something wild. The same kind of something that did a little happy dance when I thought about Philippe tying me up with his tie.

This is not my boss. Philippe Wilson is not nice. He does not give second chances. He breathes fire and shoots lightning bolts out of his ass (thank god I didn’t write that in my journal of sin). He does not give out propositions.

Mom-tears are enough to bring any man to his knees.

Who needs a kitchen this big? The fridge could probably fit at least five bodies if Philippe were so inclined. I really hope he’s not, though. Because I’m here alone.

He’s my boss, and he’s kind of a jerk, so why does none of it matter right now? It’s his abs. They’re luring me in like a black hole to a galaxy of bad decisions.

There’s more than a tingle in my lady dingle now.

I freeze. If I was in a forest and had just accidentally lodged my foot up a sleeping bear’s ass and had it turn around on me with its bear jaws bared and its huge, gleaming fangs aimed at me, I don’t think I could be more alarmed.

Those cheekbones could cut something. So could my nipples at the moment. Damn.

She keeps her hand clenched tightly around mine, a silent gesture of support I appreciate the hell out of. Only Sutton wouldn’t ask me why I wasn’t in the wedding party. Why I didn’t walk my sister down the aisle. Only Sutton wouldn’t dig and dig and dig into the parts I’m not ready to talk about with anyone.

I know important details, like how she lives with her grandmother and is willing to lick the cheese off someone else’s pizza. I also know what her pussy tastes like…

I LOVE how the taste of her pussy is considered an "important thing to know"💀

It’s not like I can just tell them what happened. By the way, I popped a boner in line thinking about my fake girlfriend’s box, which is absolutely terrific in every way in case you were wondering, and I had to hide out here for a bit. Sorry I missed out on giving you a hug. Sorry I’m a huge, epic failure as a son. Sorry. Just…sorry.

I’m really hoping the blood will start flowing there instead of my aching dick. “Jesus, Philippe.” “Nope. Just Philippe. Not even close to saintly, never mind godly.”

“Well? What are we going to do?” “Wait.” “Wait? I could try saying something mean to you.” “Trust me, that’s not going to work.” “What else can we do?” “I don’t know. Cut it off and throw the damn thing in a bucket of ice water.”

“Stay. Please.” “You said the magic word. Did it hurt?” “Like I swallowed bits of broken glasses.”

Sometimes, remembering is more painful than forgetting, even though I know it isn’t really possible. Forgetting, I mean.

If I have to admit how I feel, I’ll gladly do it. Even if I put it all out there and she still tells me to take a hike, I guess I can live with it as long as I know she’s going to be okay. I can’t live with not knowing. The damage. The pain. The ache. The hurt. The grief. I can’t take knowing I put scars on her perfect, wonderful, and beautiful heart.