She lets out a hum as I massage, and I have to shift my growing cock away from her ankle resting on my lap.
“Does that feel good?” I ask, wincing as I hear those words escape my lips. Do I even know how to be non-sexual? Apparently not.
“Yes,” she replies softly.
I watch as she melts into her chair, looking relaxed. When I dig my thumbs gently into her arches, her head hangs back, and I know I’ve won. This was the pleasure I wanted to see, and with nothing in return for myself.
“From now on, take off your shoes when you come into work. Don’t wear these all day. Understand?”
“Okay,” she replies with a sigh.
Moving to the opposite foot, I do the same, and everything is fine…until her right foot inches too far and brushes against the hard length in my pants. She tenses, her eyes finding mine, and in that moment, I feel like the world’s biggest creep. I wasn’t doing this to get off or turned on. I was doing this because I wanted her to feel good, but even now that sounds predatory in my head. I’m an HR nightmare waiting to happen.
The moment stretches on between us while I hold her foot in my hand, waiting for her to erupt from her chair and call me out or leave or slap me…because if anyone else touched her the way I’m touching her now, I’d have their fucking head on a stick.
But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, with her gaze locked on mine, she brushes her foot against my cock again. Or was I imagining that? Nope, she definitely does it again, this time with a little more force, and it feels so fucking good. I resume massaging her foot while the other rests against my aching erection, and this is definitely not so innocent anymore.
“Charlotte,” I whisper, but even I don’t know what I’m about to say. I should tell her to stop and put her foot down.
“Yes?” Her voice is breathy and inviting. The moment is charged and sexual and very, very fucking dangerous.
Before I can say another word, her phone rings on the table next to her. I almost look away, but my eyes dance back to the screen when I recognize the name.
Beau.
She tears her feet away from me and freezes with her hand over the phone. Then she looks at me.
“Answer it,” I command her a bit too enthusiastically.
As she snatches it up and hits the green button, I freeze in my seat. This is because of the message I left him. I knew he’d reach out to her when he found out she’s working for me. So, now what?
“Hey,” she murmurs into the phone, walking across the room but not too far. I can’t hear what he’s saying on the other end, but I watch her body language. Her shoulders tighten closer to her ears and her other hand wraps around her middle as she speaks. “What?”
She peeks back at me at the exact moment I’m sure she realizes I told him.
“Yeah, I am. Why?” She bites her lip and curls in on herself even more. “Because I needed a job and it pays better than the rink.”
A tense pause as I hear his muffled voice rattle on.
“It’s not about you,” she says a bit louder now. “No! I’m not— Beau!”
I stiffen in my seat. She looks noticeably affected and growing more agitated with each second.
“No, I won’t quit. I need this job, and what does it even matter to you?”
Then she gasps before turning toward me. “You’re wrong,” she mumbles quietly, her eyes still on my face. I can’t take another moment as I burst out of my seat. I don’t even know what I’m doing when I snatch the phone away from her and hold it against my ear.
“Beau?”
He stops talking the second he hears my voice. Then, he responds with just two words. “Fuck you.”
And the line goes dead.
RULE #13: ACCEPT CHANGE. CHANGE IS GOOD.
Charlie
He unbuttons his shirt methodically while I wait awkwardly by my car. I can’t take my eyes off his thick, masculine fingers as they slip each tiny button through the hole. Underneath his shirt is a white cotton T-shirt that fits him so snugly, I can make out the contour of his pecs and the protruding shape of his nipples.
Jesus, Charlie. His nipples? You’re staring at the man’s—
“Pop the hood for me,” he says, and my mouth goes dry.
“Huh?”
“The hood, Charlotte. I need to reach the battery.”
“Oh,” I stammer, rushing to the driver’s side to find the latch Sophie showed me last time we had to do this. It pops, and when I look up through the window, I see that Emerson has completely removed his long-sleeve shirt and draped it over the top of his car. I find myself staring at the heavy weight of his shoulders, marveling at how more muscular he looks without the work attire on until he pulls open the hood, obstructing my view.