Bewitching the Boss by Jessa Kane
Eight
Byron
Being Jane’s boyfriend has come with a lot of problems—and I don’t want any of them solved. In the week since I’ve moved her into my house, I’ve developed a serious issue concentrating. This morning, I was in a meeting about a new software design launch and I couldn’t hear a word my chief financial officer was saying. Her moans rang in my head until I had to mop the sweat off my forehead. I can look one of my employees in the eye and not even see them. It’s just her beautiful face. Her writhing body. She’s everywhere.
And that’s exactly where I want her.
Jane living in my house has turned it into a paradise of intensity. Our conversations are heavy, breathless races through likes and dislikes, favorites, stories from our past, and we kiss our way through them, unable to stop touching. Aching.
We fuck like animals. There are nail tracks all over my body, whisker burn all over hers. Sometimes she gets overwhelmed having me up close after watching me from a distance for so long. She reverts to her old habits of stalking. While I’m showering or swimming laps in the pool, I feel her eyes on me and I’ve started to crave that sensation of being observed. So much that I hate not having it. I hate the moments in between us being together when Jane’s attention is elsewhere.
I want it on me.
I want my attention on her.
Now.
I’m at my desk now. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Words and numbers blur on the screen in front of me. The Halloween party is tonight, so my employees are distracted. I’m pretty sure they’re pretending to work, just waiting for three o’clock to roll around when I’ve given them permission to leave early so they have enough time to get ready.
I’m distracted, too. I can’t think of anything but Jane’s sweet flesh.
My mouth is tasteless because I haven’t licked her in hours.
I need to lick her.
The hunger is a roaring in my ears.
I’m sweating again, my dick rock hard beneath my desk. I give up the pretense of working and open my tracker app, needing to assure myself for the tenth time today that she’s at the venue working on putting final touches on the party. I’ve had to restrain myself several times from physically going down there and confirming she’s all right with my own two eyes.
I’m consumed with her. With all the feelings she’s brought forth in me.
Jealousy is very high on that list.
There are men at the venue moving things around, delivering food and beverages. And I know damn well they’re all looking at my girlfriend. She left the house in a tight leather skirt this morning that made her backside look edible and it has been bothering me ever since. I want to rip her out of that skirt and set it on fire.
My tracker app finishes loading and the little blue dot that represents Jane’s location pops up. An invisible hand clenches around my throat when I see she’s no longer at the venue.
She’s downtown. At a costume shop.
The morning comes back to me. While we were at the breakfast bar drinking coffee, she stood between the V of my thighs playing with the top button of my shirt. And she mentioned picking up our costumes this afternoon. Right before she let her silk robe slither to the ground and every single thought in my head scattered to the wind.
And it’s only hitting me now that I have no idea what her costume is tonight.
Why didn’t I ask?
Nightmare visions of Jane as a sexy nurse or cheerleader tighten my muscles, set off a ticking behind my right eyeball. Yeah, that’s not happening.
I’m already on my feet, snatching up my phone and keys, striding out of the office. People call out to me and I don’t acknowledge them. I can’t. There is blood pounding in my head, the need to be in front of her, to touch her, is so fierce. On the way to my car, I notice there is a vacancy on the ground floor of a commercial building across the street and I memorize the number to the real estate broker. I’ll buy her event planning company and move them into that space, right where I can see her. Having her on the other side of town isn’t going to work for me. At all. My very sanity is at stake.
I’ve become the stalker.
That realization lands as I’m climbing into the driver’s side of my Tesla, pushing a button to start the engine and roaring out of the parking lot.
It’s true. I watched her sleep last night. And the night before. Marveling over every square inch of her body, slowly beating myself off under the comforter. Sometimes when it gets too hard to concentrate at work, I give in and drive past her office, my heartbeat growing erratic while watching her through the window. I’m a mess. I’m a mess that doesn’t want to change. I’m wired. Awake. My sexuality pounds like a drum in my belly all hours of the day, thudding furiously when I’m finally between her legs.
Fuck food or oxygen or shelter.
I just need her.
Jane.
Her smile, the way she butters toast to the very edges, gulps her coffee, giggles during serious moments when we’re watching (or trying to watch) a movie, how her breath catches in her sleep and she seeks refuge in my arms, the way her tongue touches to her incisor tooth when she’s overthinking something, how she always knows where my keys are. The way she kisses the middle of my back when she passes me in the kitchen, her solemn expression when she talks about anything in the past, the way she can make a bad day go away in seconds just by slipping her hand into mine. Her scent, her funny party ideas, her logic.
Her hand jobs.
Her flexibility.
The way she bites when I’m not giving it hard enough.
God, her extremely tight cunt. So tight I can barely last.
She told me she does something called Kegel exercises while sitting at her desk during the day. I had to Google what she was talking about. Now I’ve very intimately acquainted with the art form and the impact they’re having on my life. My undying gratitude to Arnold Kegel.
The costume shop comes into view on the right and I pull into a parking space outside, using an app on my phone to buy meter time. Jane’s car is parked in front of me and I glance into the backseat as I pass, finding a collection of belongings I thought I’d misplaced. A blue necktie, a comb, one of my dress shirts. I’m not jarred or surprised. Why would I be? I’m living with my stalker. She’s my girlfriend. And I fucking love it.
I wonder what she’ll steal next.
As a matter of fact, it’s time I start bringing some of her things to the office with me. I’ll start with her loofah. That white silky thing she rubs all over her beautiful body, leaving it scented with lavender. Or maybe that red pair of panties I stuffed in her mouth last night while calling her a horny little—
“Byron?”
Until I hear Jane’s voice, I don’t even realize I’ve entered the costume shop. The air conditioning is frigid and it makes me realize how fevered my skin has turned just thinking about. All of her qualities. And one of my favorites is on display right now.
Jane is standing in one of the aisles of the costume shop, her entire body shuddering at the sight of me. Jesus, how did I become the luckiest man on earth? This incredible girl literally starts shaking at my approach, her nipples hardening at the front of her white blouse.
The white blouse which is tucked into that tight, black leather skirt.
“Hi, Jane,” I say, sounding damn near feral.
“Hi,” she whispers, swallowing. Shifting in her heels. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.” I close the distance between us, continuing until she has to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. Until her nipples brush my chest every time one of us breathes. “That depends what costume you’re picking out for tonight.”
“Oh.” A flush rises on her cheeks. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I don’t want to be surprised about this.”
Does she know it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to…to manhandle her? It’s a constant struggle to stop myself from picking her up, rip those sexy clothes off, shove her legs where I need them. It’s constant.
“Fine.” A lump rises and falls in her throat. Her gaze travels past me, avoiding my eyes. “I’m leaning towards a Vivian Ward costume.”
Confusion draws my brows together. “Who is Vivian Ward?”
She hesitates. “The character played by Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”
Fire ants crawl over every inch of my body. “You’re going to dress like a sex worker,” I say flatly. But my pulse is anything but flat. It’s reading like a seismograph during an earthquake. “Over my dead body, Jane.”
Her shoulder lifts and falls jerkily. “Girls dress sexy on Halloween. It’s not a big deal.”
“You dressing like someone who gets paid for sex is a big deal to us and you know it.” I take her face in my hands and press our foreheads together, her jagged exhale bathing my mouth. “You haven’t needed it as much lately. Me to…demean you. When we make love. If I thought it was just some kink, I wouldn’t have an issue. But you told me to my face there is a reason you need to be shamed by me. You told me it isn’t healthy. And you won’t tell me why. Why, Jane?”
“Did you think I’d just bare all of my secrets if you moved me into your perfect house? If you gave me the best days and nights of my life?” Moisture crowds into her eyes. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me.”
Her breath leaves her in a rush, as if she’s been hit in the stomach. “Oh, Byron…”
I gather her up close to my chest, lifting her feet straight off the ground. “You’re going to tell me everything when you’re ready. But in the meantime, you’re not going to dress like Vivian whatever in an attempt to push me away.”
She’s shaking her head, eyes brimming with emotion. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just reminding you who I am. That I’m not going to change because we sleep in the same bed.”
“I don’t need you to remind me of a single thing about you, Jane. I think about you every waking second of the fucking day.” I back her up against the wall of costumes, knocking a plastic bag onto the floor. Plastering our bodies together. “I tracked you here. I’m making plans to steal your panties so I don’t have to be without the roses and sugar scent of that pussy for a goddamn minute. I’m out of my mind over you,” I growl against her mouth. “And you’re dressing like a princess tonight.”
One second, her eyes are growing heavy with need. The next, they are flying open and she’s sputtering, trying to push me away. “No, I am not.”
“Oh yes, you are.” I look to my left and find a nervous store clerk spying on us from behind the counter. “Hunt down the most expensive princess costume you have in her size and bring it to the dressing room, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
I bend my knees, bracing myself against Jane’s waist and throw her up over my shoulder, carrying her like a caveman to the dressing room at the rear of the shop.
“You aren’t going to win this battle, Byron,” she says, struggling to get down.
“Watch me.”
Her frustrated laugh releases in a burst. “When did you get so arrogant?”
“When the most incredible girl in the universe became my girlfriend,” I respond without hesitation.
She stops fighting me. Just goes limp.
We reach the dressing room and I gently lift her off my shoulder, sliding the front of her body down mine, catching her a few inches off the floor when our mouths are level. “Are you going to make me strip you down? Or are you going to cooperate?”
“Let’s forget about the costumes for now.” She bites her lip and rubs side to side against my erection. “Take me home, baby,” she whispers. “I miss your tongue on me. In me.”
With a groan, I cup her taut backside through the leather of her skirt, massaging roughly. “Don’t do that. Don’t exploit my weakness.”
“Just returning the favor,” she singsongs, leaning in close, whining a little against my mouth. “You’ve gotten so good at eating me out. You made me come so hard last night with your tongue, I couldn’t breathe.” I don’t realize there are slits in the sides of her leather skirt until she wraps her thighs around me, riding up and down on the bulge in my pants. “Take me home and do it again.”
Oh God.
If there was one thing that could make me cave and sidestep this complicated moment we’re having, it’s the offer to go down on Jane. There is nothing like it in the world. She’s so wet and tiny and bare down there. The way she cries out when I sink two fingers in deep and bat her clit with the tip of my tongue? It’s better than any song. Any chorus of angels. And it makes my cock so stiff that I basically attack her afterward. Insane with lust, I call her whatever she wants. Last night, I even spit on her. Right between her legs. I hate how rigid it makes my cock to think about it. How slippery it made her. How horny she got. Gasping and clutching and straining. Calling me her lord and savior while I fucked her in a fury on the hallway floor.
But this is important.
She’s scared of something. Something from the past is haunting her.
And it’s going to come between us unless I fight for ground.
“There’s a time for this, Jane,” I say hoarsely, urging her to stand even though it causes me physical pain to bring any kind of intimacy with her to a halt. “But right now, you’re trying on a princess costume.” Before she can speak, I press a finger to her lips. “And just so you know, this has nothing to do with you dressing provocatively on a regular basis. I’m a jealous man, but I don’t want to change you. I just want you to feel the way I see you. Okay? Will you try that for me?”
Her chin quivers. “Fine.”
Hating the sight of her upset, I reach for her, but she spins out of my reach—just as the clerk returns with a plastic garment bag. The clerk splits an apprehensive glance between us and hangs up the costume just inside the door. “This is our most expensive princess costume. It was actually worn by an extra in Knight in Shining Armor. Remember that movie? Anyway, if you don’t like it or you need any help, let me know.”
“Thank you,” I say, waiting for the clerk to leave before tugging down the zipper of the garment bag. “Would you mind taking your clothes off, Jane?”
“Fine,” she answers stiffly, unbuttoning her blouse. She’s the picture of annoyance. Unless someone knows how to read her more closely. Which I do. And I can see she’s feeling vulnerable, too. It’s right there in her shallowing breathing, the tremor in her fingers. But because she’s Jane and she’s beautifully complicated, she overcompensates with a strip tease. A torturous one. She hangs up her blouse and turns, giving me her back, making me pant as she slowly, slowly, lowers the back zipper of her leather skirt to reveal two high buns, black material running down the center.
The skirt drops.
Now she’s in nothing but a thong, a strapless bra and high heels.
She turns, tucks a finger into the front of her panties and drags them down, giving me a peek at her wet slit, making me groan. Making me want to drop to my knees and feast. My cock and balls seem to weigh a thousand pounds each, my zipper stretching mightily to accommodate my thrumming arousal. Not now. Don’t give in now.
“Put it on,” I manage, my voice sounding like rusted metal.
Her pout is like a stroke to my dick. “You’re the one who is insisting. Put it on me yourself.”
There is a siren wailing in my head signaling danger ahead. Having no choice, though, I take the elaborate dress off the hanger, unfasten the buttons and stoop down, holding it open for her to step into. And while she does step into the pooled silk, one high heel at a time, she does it slowly, bringing her nearly naked ass an inch from my face and lingering, running her hands up the sides of her ribcage, humming in her throat as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. As if she isn’t tempting me within an inch of my life.
I can’t resist pressing my open mouth to the swell of her left ass cheek, dragging my tongue over the lithe curve, moaning as I go. But I’m only given a quick taste when she inches away, wagging her finger at me in the mirror. “You had your chance.”
Gritting my teeth hard, I stand, bringing the dress up her body, helping put her arms into the sleeves and doing up the buttons on her back. I’m trying so hard to overcome the need to fuck her silly that I don’t look at her reflection in the mirror until she’s outfitted completely in floor-length silk, her torso hugged by a boned corset, pushing her tits up like ripe nectarines.
“Jesus.” The wind goes straight out of me. “My God, Jane, you steal my fucking breath.”
She’s staring at herself in the mirror with a sense of wonder, but it fades in degrees until she’s wringing her hands. “This isn’t me.” Her eyes find mine, no longer trying to mask her vulnerability. Giving me every insecurity inside of her. “Is it, Byron?”
“You can be more than one thing, Jane,” I respond, sounding as if something is caught in my throat. “You can be sexy. You can be royalty. You can change the packaging and you’ll still be the girl I’m in love with. But yeah…yeah, this is how I think of you. Like a princess. My princess.”
Jane turns to face me, her expression a mixture of dumbfounded and hopeful. “Did you just say you love me?”
Her voice cracks on the final word and my heart lurches up into my throat. “Sorry, I guess I’ve only been saying it to you when you’re asleep.” I let out a ragged breath. “Of course I love you, Jane. I love everything about you.”
“You don’t know everything about me,” she whispers.
“I know enough to be sure I want you for my wife.” The words come out without a conscious thought. They’re just there, coming out of my mouth, feeling like the most important, most right thing I’ve ever said. And I’m lunging, catching her up against me and pressing her tight to the wall of the dressing room. “Be my wife or I’ll die. Say you’ll marry me.”
“Byron—” She’s panicking, her hands dancing on my shoulders. “Y-you need to think about this. You’re being impulsive.”
No, I’m not.
I’m not.
I’m going to be obsessed with her forever. It’s not going away. I need to lock her down. Need to make sure she’s in my world, every single day. Non-stop. Always.
“I know exactly what I’m going,” I rasp, gathering the silk hem of her dress in my hands, bringing it all the way up to her waist, trapping the material between our bodies and delving my fingers into the front of her thong, my middle finger sliding home into the drenched groove of her pussy, her little clit pulsing against the pad of my digit, begging to be loved. Attended. “If I could rip my heart out and show you how hard it beats for you, I would do that. But I only have this,” I say, drawing down the zipper of my pants and freeing my cock. One nudge of her panties to the side and I seat myself inside of her snug channel, rocking her against the wall and watching her eyes glaze over. “I’m going to track you and eat you and worship you and fuck you for the rest of my life. Marrying me just makes it legal. Say yes.”
Without waiting for an answer, I grind down on her clit and listen to her whimper.
Yeah, I’ve learned what she likes. What makes her wet, makes her come.
I’m a Jane expert and I’ll be using that to my advantage now.
“You love me,” I pant against her mouth. “You burn for me.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“You’ll sit outside in the rain to stalk me. Now you’ll damn well walk down an aisle for me. You’ll wear my ring on your finger and never take it off.”
I’m pounding into her vigorously now, her cunt hot and tight and welcoming. Mine.
And my heavy-lidded beauty can’t do anything but nod. “Yes. I’ll wear your ring.”
“And be my wife.”
“And be your wife.” The dam breaks when she’s about to come, her little heels digging restlessly into my lower back. “I’ll make you so happy. I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll never leave your side. Never. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Her confession spurs my climax and I grit my teeth, smacking into her, rubbing the base of my shaft on her clit in fast, fast strokes, bringing us both off in a shaking rush of groans, grasping hands and hot plumes of liquid. I look her right in the eyes as we go through the storm together and she stares back into mine. And I vow in that moment that nothing, nothing will ever separate me from Jane, this girl who has brought me out of a numb existence. Made me enjoy life again. Gave me love. Gave me a home.
Her.
She’s my home. My world.
A world that nothing can bring crashing down.
