“I’m guessing you didn’t watch the latest Star Wars,” I said flatly.
“No. Don’t tell me you did?”
“I saw it twice. And I liked it. In fact, I liked all of the Star Wars movies, even the stupid ones that came out when I was little like Phantom Menace.”
“That saddens me,” he said, giving me a look of grave disappointment as if I were his daughter who announced I was leaving college to join a commune or the Nazi party. I tried not to laugh.
As I ate my chicken, he made a speech about the importance of a literate and informed public rather than the reality TV consumers who think everything is a joke—possibly a dig at my sarcasm there. I took out my phone, acted like I was checking my email for work. Instead, I cued up Brent Waltham’s LinkedIn profile and admired the photos. There was Brent, dashing in a tuxedo as he presented a check to a scholarship fund for the children of deceased veterans. Here was a photo of him, solemn in a gray suit and blue tie, giving a speech to the UN about responsible green business practices. I flipped to another picture of him holding up a championship trophy in full hockey gear with the rest of his charity ice hockey team. There was a real man, I thought, giving some side-eye to Blandy across the table.
I could not have a crush on my boss. He was a titan of industry, a billionaire CEO who had built his conglomerate corporation from nothing. He had a wicked sense of humor and a hand that had been firm on mine. I apologized for checking my email and gave Blandy my attention.
This had to stop. I could not keep thinking of the head of the company that employed me in a sexual way. I wondered what he could do with that luscious mouth of his and then blinked too fast in hopes that Blandy didn’t think I looked turned on by him. I told him that I was going to have to make it an early night. I even insisted on paying for my half of dinner and told him I’d call soon if I had a chance. I shook his hand. He stayed to finish his dinner. I felt confident that he was as underwhelmed by me as I was with him.
In the Uber home, I texted my friends that I had a super boring date and had to stop crushing on my boss before I was caught drawing his initials in a heart on my notebook. I resolved to stop thinking of him that way. I had a job to do, and there was hardly a reason for me to run into him, speak with him, or even think of him again.
But twenty minutes later, I was between the sheets and sure as hell wasn’t thinking of Blandy when I reached in the nightstand for my favorite vibrator. I knew what I needed, why I felt so restless. I’d basically had a lady hard-on since my conversation with Brent in his office that morning. So it was time to get this devil off my shoulder and get myself off. I could put the whole sordid fantasy of my boss in the past and turn over a new leaf. A professional leaf. A leaf that didn’t ogle executives at my place of work.
I stripped off my tank top and ran my hands over my bare breasts, stroking and teasing them until my nipples were rock hard. I plucked at them, rubbed them with my thumbs, felt myself breathing harder, the rise and fall of my flushed chest moving faster. I felt chills ripple over my body as my hand slid down my belly and into my panties. The purple lace ones I’d wasted on a date with Blandy. I banished the thought of him instantly since he was the opposite of sexy to me.
Instead, I let my eyes drift shut on the image of Brent Waltham hoisting a championship trophy in hockey gear, followed by Brent reaching for my hand, Brent calling me out about being on my phone in a meeting. Oh, that was the one---to the wicked fantasy that he might have told me to see him in his office after the meeting, like a stern professor who intended to punish me. Punish me by driving me wild and making me wait and wait before he’d let me come. A shiver went through me at the first touch of my fingers to my clit as I spread myself and pressed the humming vibrator right where I liked it. I gritted my teeth, unnerved by how fast I was fully aroused. I was usually a slow burn girl, but I was going full throttle after how keyed up I’d been all day.
It was the thought of our banter, our witty conversation escalating to something more heated. The spark of lust was there, and the stimulating way he talked with me fired up my entire body. As we teased each other, as I met him sarcastic remark for sarcastic remark, we’d step closer to one another. The rippling heat between us drawing us like magnets. Our breath would come harder. I would hold up one hand, press it to his chest and find it firm and muscular as it looked. He would take me by the hips, his hands drawing me against him so our bodies met at full length.
Breathless with desire, with the taste of him hot and sweet as his tongue parted my lips wider so he could slide his tongue in my mouth. I would moan, tilt my head and take the stroke of his tongue gladly, touching the tip of my tongue to his lip, tentative before the urgent mating of our mouths took over. His hands would open my blouse, palms covering my breasts as my nipples pebbled in response. I would reach up for his shoulders and hold on to them like they were my anchor. The heavy, muscular shoulders under my hands would feel like paradise, and he would lift me onto that desk of his and push my skirt up. His fingers would find my lace panties and push them aside, stroking and petting me as I writhed, helpless, and clutched at his shoulders and his neck.
He would pull away from me to put his face between my legs and lick me once in a long, hot stroke with the flat of his tongue that made my core seize and clench. Then he would stand and open his pants, his long cock hard for me. Before I could say a word, he would see me reaching for him, my arms outstretched. He would give me what I wanted, his big cock easing into me inch by thick, mouth-watering inch until he filled me to the hilt and I bowed up off the desk, gasping as I tried to take all of him. My fists would clench uselessly and pound the desktop as he thrust his hips forward and I took the heavy pressure of his cock driving into me. His thumb would flick across my clit like a kiss. I would come hard and tight around him, crying out and surging up into his arms. Brent would hold me and pump into me, his own climax following fast, his powerful body shuddering against me. I would wrap my legs around him, pinning him against me as close as we could be. My legs would be weak and shaky as I tried to slide off the desk.
He would help me straighten my clothing as my pussy clenched with shivering aftershocks from the deep, satisfying orgasm he’d given me. I would have dick withdrawal immediately and want more of it like a junkie. I would be pulling at his shirt, urging him to unbutton it so I could rub my hands on his chest with nothing between us. Then he’d dip his head and kiss me softly and slowly and tell me what a lovely meeting it had been.
I came all over the vibrator and my own probing fingers. I felt wrung out by my orgasm, a little frustrated that it had happened so quickly, but I had lingered there, finished the fantasy I was telling myself in the afterglow. I wanted to go again, that’s how wound up I was over him, but I stopped at one. I had work in the morning and needed my sleep. Even if it was destined to be restless and full of vivid sex dreams about my boss.
This was supposed to get the foolish crush out of my system by entertaining a single detailed fantasy, going to town with my vibrator and considering the entire episode nothing more than an embarrassing infatuation on my first job. Instead, it had sharpened my hunger for him. It had made me realize this was more than a crush. I took out the issue of Forbes I kept in my bedside table—hey, some women have PornHub, I have Forbes—and gazed at the cover. I felt a warm fondness for the man in the photo as well as the familiar, visceral physical reaction to it. I didn’t actually kiss his picture good night because that would’ve been ridiculous.