“Okay, cradle robber,” Tom teases. His wedding band glints on his finger. One of the few men I know who is happily married. It gives me hope when it’s not driving me crazy.
“We’re some sad, grumpy old men.” I snort.
“What do you have up your ass today anyway?” Dave asks me seriously.
“Nothing.”
“Come on. We’ll find out in a drink or two anyway,” Tom agrees. “What’s with the hostility? You pissed about a work thing?”
“Or you just need to get laid. Maybe it’s what you don’t have up your ass that’s a problem.” Tom and Dave laugh as I take another drink.
It’s been a while, that’s for sure. But I push those thoughts away. I focus on the mundane conversation around me instead—how Tom and Dave are doing, reminiscing over the good old days, and winding down on a Friday.
Then I see her at the bar with another girl. Unlike at the interview, Claire is skittish and clearly flustered. It’s adorable. I smirk to myself and finish my drink.
My eyes keep going to her, eager to make the most of the view of her in a strikingly sexy dress and bright red lips. Despite my best effort against it, my mind focused on tearing her flimsy straps off with my teeth. There’s an alley outside, nice and secluded. Not as good as my office, but…
“Ooh. They got the game on.” Tom motions me to the TV. “Don’t you have money on it, Jim?”
I agree, checking the score, noting the time, and finishing my drink. “You guys need refills?”
“Yeah.”
“Whiskey for me. Gotta make me into a less grumpy old man,” Dave grumbles before flashing a boyish smile. “Can’t kill your fun.”
I make my way to the bar, but don’t let myself get too close to Claire. I don’t know if I can handle the temptation and I refuse to chase sex. Without question, I don’t chase secretaries, especially my own. Such a low, tacky thing to do. As much as I’d like to catch her, pin her down, then spank her for being so naughty. Slide my fingers into her pussy and… No, I really have to stop thinking about her this way. I’ll have to see her every day in the office. Too many potential problems.
I nod to her and raise my glass of bourbon. She pretends she doesn’t see me, instead focusing on a girl next to her.
Smart girl.
* * *
The first week working with her is a hell I’m not ready for. Her desk is just outside my office, so I didn’t think the temptation would overwhelm me the way it has. Except she wears outfits that make me want to corrupt her. Always work appropriate, but always something I want to rip off her. Oh, and the looks she gives me when she catches me enjoying the view—her eyebrow would arch, and she’d give me a knowing smile, then a “thank you for the compliment, sir.” So sarcastic and teasing. I love it and hate it. I love it because she’s mine to enjoy. I get to look at her anytime I want and that she banters with me so easily. I hate it because I can’t do anything about her sass, not in the way I want to.
I swear she knows that I’m crazy for her. She bends over, showing her ass, adjusts her neckline, wears necklaces that lead right to her cleavage. It’s like she’s playing a game with me. Testing to see if I’ll cave, but in ways so subtle that I’d still be the creepy old guy if I make a move.
She’s too young, I can practically hear my friends singing about cradle robbing, but her curves, her sharp tongue, and her determination at work are addictive. I can’t quite condemn myself enough to stop wanting her.
At least I have an excuse to get her alone and out of the office—an email invitation that I couldn’t turn down appears on my computer. It’s for a formal event that will be attended by a high-brow crowd.
I catch her before she can leave the office for her lunch break.
“Claire.”
“Mr. Douglass.” She addresses me the same way each time I speak with her—by my last name or “sir” and never with a wayward glance.
“I need a date for an event coming up.”
She adjusts her dress as if it will hide her body. A body I don’t want hidden anymore. I lean back in my chair, watching her carefully. She never blushes when I look at her. And I look often.
“Only, you’re going to have to be more than my date.”
She manages the shock well. She clears her throat. “Will you explain, please?”
“I need you to pretend to be my fiancée.” My finger circles on the table, tighter and tighter as I look her over. I wonder for a second if she’s wearing a bra.
“That’s hardly appropriate or necessary for a work event.”