Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“I have to get back to work,” I tell Callie. “But your technique really has improved.”
She suddenly stops. She looks hurt and confused. It pisses me off. I don’t want to play with her emotions. Her eyes look from side to side as if she’s replaying the last few minutes, wondering if it’s possible it was all about the workout.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Really…” I breathe heavily. “Good. Good, uh, job.” What am I even saying? “I’ll see you later.”
“See you later, Gray.”
I close the feed, standing up, pacing. I grab my phone, go to my videos, and hover my thumb over the delete button. This is what I should do. I know that if I don’t, I’m going to jack myself off to this video at some point. I’m going to tear off my pants and wrap my hand around my throbbing dick, stroke my precome up and down my length, stare at her quivering body, listen to her moans, maybe with headphones on so I can hear better.
Quickly, I delete it. Then, before I can save it, I remove it from the recycling bin. I regret it almost instantly, wishing there was a way to get it back. But I did the right thing. In the end—after initiating steaminess. After letting myself get hard over her. After flirting. After playing games.
Yeah… I should give myself a pat on the back.
Chapter Six
Callie
I’ve never felt like this before. I’m in the shower, water dripping all over my body, but I feel like I’m still in the gym. It was just the camera and his voice, but it was making me crazy. There’s no way that was innocent. No way I was the only one aware of what was happening. Maybe the shirtless thing was borderline, but not this—this was way, way over the line.
“It looks perfect.”
I hear his husky voice in my mind as I grab the showerhead and guide it down my body, the pressure making me tingle and then sizzle like I’m going to burn up. I guide it down toward my sex. My clit throbs as the water pushes against it, but then something ugly flashes into my mind. It’s like the past appears to remind me I don’t deserve pleasure. Then I find myself thinking, What happens if I act on this? Letting myself crush on my boss could mean losing this high-paying, rewarding, steady job.
I shower quickly, resisting the urge, ignoring the impulses in my body. But when he was watching me, it sounded like he wanted me. It sounded like…
“Shut up,” I hiss at myself as I towel off. “It’s over. It’s done. Never think about it again.”
So far, we haven’t crossed any lines. Even if we both know that the workout session was so much more, even if we both know my moans came from desire, not exertion, we can still pretend. We haven’t kissed. We haven’t touched. Maybe he deleted that video… and if he hasn’t, we can pretend he was recording just for technique. We’ve got plausible deniability.
But if I let myself get stirred up over him, if I let my hand guide the showerhead to my sex, I wouldn’t be able to go back. He’d never just be my boss again. He’d be more. I can’t let that happen. Haven’t I learned anything? Men, especially older men with power over me, are not to be trusted. That’s freaking rule number one.
***
“Is your mommy as pretty as you?” Emery asks as she leans over her coloring book.
I’m sitting in the armchair, half reading a book, half watching her. The seriousness on her face each time she changes pens is so cute. Her newly braided hair adds to the cuteness overload. Her question catches me off-guard.
“She looks quite similar to me, yes,” I murmur.
“Do you see your mommy a lot?”
“No,” I tell her honestly.
“Why?” She asks the question with a child’s innocence, without thinking she could be treading on uncomfortable ground.
“When I was a kid, me and my mommy and daddy and I were all part of this big group of people. Sort of like a big camp. We lived in the camp and worked there. But when I turned sixteen, I wanted to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because in the camp, they wouldn’t let me do fun things like coloring or braiding my hair or making up stories.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide in shock. “Whoa!”
“I know, right?” I say. “So, I left and got a job as a nanny with another lady who was once in the camp. A few years later, I managed to get my daddy out. I had to pay a lot of money. That’s why I worked for…” I trail off—I don’t need to go into that with her.
“What sort of camp makes you pay money to get out?”
“A weird one. A silly one.”