Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I stop writing as heat flows from my fingertips to my toes, turning into an ache as it fills my breasts and then an inch as it settles between my legs. I can't ignore it.
I put my pen and my journal down. Then I close my eyes and lie back.
I lift the hem of my oversize shirt all the way to my armpits. I trap it between my teeth before pushing the waistband of my underwear down to my knees.
I raise my knees and slip my hand between my legs. My fingers search for my nub and find it in seconds. As I stroke it, I touch my breast with my other hand. I pinch the nipple gently, then start to rub it.
My hands in place, I let my imagination wander. I've never had sex before. Never had time for romance except for the one I had in high school which, thankfully, didn't get physical, because that guy was a jerk. So I simply conjure the sex acts from the memories of the books I've read, pretending I'm the heroine. I think about the book I just read, about that scene in the orchard. I pretend I'm lying on top of my cloak on the grass, the hero above me with his ebony eyes gazing into mine.
He's supposed to have red hair like every member of his family and a scar on his cheek, and yet I can't seem to picture his face. I can feel my desire ebbing away.
No. Think of a man. Any man. Any man with piercing eyes and a facial structure any artist would love to capture. A man with a perfectly fit body wrapped in a suit, who exudes testosterone and power.
Suddenly, Ethan comes to mind. His coal black eyes. His raven hair. His jawline that never gets covered in hair and looks especially defined when you look at him from the side or when he's thinking and his hands are tucked beneath his chin. His thin lips that barely smile but bring out the adorable lines at the corners of his eyes when they do.
He kisses me with those lips. I place my hands on his cheeks and pull his face down. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head as his tongue subdues mine. His fingers tease my nipple and my nub at the same time and moans leave my throat, only to be muffled by his skillful mouth.
That mouth descends on my breast and heat spreads across my back. His hand moves faster, strumming me like a guitarist working magic on his strings. I'm soaking wet. My breath comes in gasps. My hips rise off the bed and my toes curl into the mattress.
The wave of pleasure comes. It sends me shaking all over and knocks the breath from my lungs. I throw my head back and let out a cry as I savor the height of that wave. After it passes, I drop my hips and straighten my legs. I take a moment to catch my breath before pulling my clothes back into place. Then I rest my hands on my chest as I stare at the ceiling.
As my mind clears, dismay and remorse welcome me back to reality.
What the hell, Stella? Masturbating to your boss? Not cool.
I slap my forehead. I know I was feeling lonely, but that's no excuse for doing what I just did. Ethan is my boss. Sure, he may well be the hottest boss in the world, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't find him attractive. I've actually had a crush on him for the past two years, since the moment I saw his picture on the company website right after I was hired. And when we first met by the pool at his father's house? My knees got so weak I nearly fell into the water.
But he's my boss. He's the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and one of the richest men in the country, and I'm just an assistant who can't even afford to travel. I may be always by his side but we're worlds apart. Then there are the rules, of course. As boss and employee, there's a line between us that absolutely cannot be crossed. There's no way we're ever going to have sex.
I'll just have to settle for bringing him coffee, answering his calls and putting papers on his desk. And the chats that we sometimes have after work.
I look forward to those, actually. They're my favorite part of the week, the reason why I usually stay in the office even after the others have gone home. The conversations never last for more than five minutes and we never talk about anything important, but in those five minutes, we seem like friends instead of boss and assistant.