Page 11 of Bossed

We collapse onto the desk, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and cum. His breath is hot against my neck, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest.

“We’re definitely not pretending this didn’t happen,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

“No,” I agree, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re not.”

* * *

The next two hours are a slow-motion trainwreck as I attempt to put on my “work” face and ignore the electricity pulsing between us. Every time he walks past my cubicle, the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. He barks orders with his usual snarl—“Print those contracts, Hollister,” “Conference room, five,”—and I volley them right back.

By eleven, I’ve edited three decks, fact-checked six pages of legal jargon, and survived two meetings with only minor bloodshed. The city council liaison tries to corner me by the Keurig, his eyes flicking to my blouse, but before he can say a word, Declan appears at my elbow.

“Ms. Hollister,” he says, voice low. “Walk with me.”

The liaison melts away. I walk at his side, my heels echoing his boot steps in perfect counterpoint.

He never looks directly at me, but as we approach the glass-walled conference room, he leans just close enough to say, “You’re good at keeping secrets.” His breath is hot on my ear, and the words slide into me like a knife.

“Part of the job description, I think,” I answer, keeping my tone as cool as possible.

He almost, almost smiles.

We hit the conference room and he’s back to business, bulldozing through the agenda with zero patience for small talk. But I see the way his fingers drum against the table whenever I speak, and how he tracks every motion, every shift in my seat.

Lunch is a bottle of Smart Water and a Luna bar. He skips food altogether, just stands in his office, staring out at the city, fists clenched behind his back. I catch him doing this three times. By two-thirty, I’m convinced he’s going to implode.

* * *

At four, the admin pool starts thinning. By five, it’s just me, Declan, and the ghost of Mrs. Thomas, whose retirement photo still sits at the front desk like a guardian spirit. I begin closing down for the day, double-checking his next-day calendar, when he appears in my doorway. He’s leaning on the frame, arms folded. He’s lost his tie and unhooked the top button of his shirt.

He doesn’t knock. He just says, “You’re staying late.”

I look at the stack of files on my desk. “Is it a problem with the software invoices?”

“No.” He shakes his head, jaw flexing. “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, Declan,” I say, standing up. Since it’s after work hours, I use his first name and hold my breath, waiting to see if he objects. When he lets it slide, I slowly exhale.

“I wanted to set some ground rules between us.” He runs his finger over his bottom lip. “Because you’re the best goddamn PA I’ve had since Margaret retired and I don’t want our sexual relationship to interfere with our work relationship.”

“Okay.”

He seems almost relieved that I didn’t make a joke or blush or flinch. “First rule,” he says, and steps fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, “neither of us brings it into meetings, into email, or anywhere the rest of the company could see it.”

“Fine.” I nod. It’s easier than I thought it would be.

“Second,” he says, searching my face for any sign of rebellion, “if you ever get tired of this, or even think you want to stop, you say so. I’ll listen. No drama, no reprisal.”

That one lands differently. I can’t see ever getting tired of this, but I keep that little tidbit to myself. Instead, I just say, “I agree.”

He nods, silent for a breath or two longer than I expect. There’s a knot in his jaw like he wants to say more, but the words don’t come. I wonder, for a heartbeat, what would happen if I reached out and ran my thumb over the angry curve of his mouth. Instead, I button my jacket and reach for the stack of folders beside the monitor.

He opens the door to see me out, but before I step past him, he catches my wrist gently. “Third rule,” he says, voice pitched so low it’s more vibration than sound, “you can always tell me if I’m being an asshole.”

I grin broadly, unable to suppress the amusement bubbling up inside me. "That will be an ongoing theme, I’m sure," I tease, my voice light and playful.

He’s trying hard not to smile, a subtle twitch at the corners of his mouth betraying his effort. It’s as if he’s forgotten how, like this simple act of smiling is foreign to him. "Maybe," he concedes, his voice low and smooth. His eyes, deep and mysterious, are so dark they nearly swallow all light, rendering them almost black in the dim room.

"Since we've got that all cleared up," I relax a little, "I think we should also agree to keep our hands to ourselves during working hours." I propose the rule, my gaze steady and challenging, like a chess player daring their opponent to make the next move.

"Agreed," he responds promptly, without a flicker of doubt, his tone firm and resolute, like a knight accepting a noble quest.

Over the next week, we slip into a well-worn routine, spending our days side by side, diligently focused on our tasks. It's as if an invisible line separates us, a silent agreement holding us in check. The air around us hums with unspoken tension, yet we move through our work seamlessly, as if nothing is simmering beneath the surface.

Then we spend the evenings upstairs in his penthouse exploring this insane connection between us. Several times, I have to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out my growing feelings for him.