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“Don’t worry. Have I ever done anything illegal?”

He presses his lips together."Well, no, but you’ve definitely walked close to the line.”

“But that’s because I’m like Johnny Cash.”

“What?” He stares at me blankly.

“Come on now, you know the song.”

“Um, what song?”

“Think about it,” I say, grinning. “Anyway, let me get back to the office and see if Elisabetta is here.”

“Okay,” he says. “I hope you know what you’re doing,”

“So do I,” I say as I walk away with a hot cup of dark coffee. I’m really not sure that I’m doing the right thing. Ethically, I know that I’m not. Ethically, I know that I shouldn’t have hired Elisabetta. She will be trash as an assistant. I know that. She knows that. I also know she will be dynamite in bed, but I have to resist. I can't complicate the situation even more.

I smell her perfume before I see her. It’s a subtle, rosy smell that delights my senses. I head into the office. “What time do you call this?” I say sharply, wanting her to know that I’m going to be a no-nonsense boss.

“I call it the time that I get to work,” she says, turning to look at me, a defiant expression on her face. She’s beautiful, even more beautiful than when I last saw her, which is pretty amazing because every time I’ve seen her, she’s looked stunning. She’s wearing an inappropriate outfit, a very short navy blue skirt and a tight white shirt. I lick my lips. She’s not going to make this easy on me.

She plays with her hair idly and gives me a winning smile. “So, how are we starting this morning?” She sits at the edge of my desk and crosses her legs. I stare at her heels and then her long, slender legs. I try not to picture them wrapped around my face or my cock. “Hello, Liam? I’m here at the time you asked me to be, so what are we working on?”

“Well, I figure you could start with a typing test.” I try to hide my smirk as her face reddens and she shifts in discomfort.

“What?” She blinks at me slowly. I know I’ve taken her aback.

“I think we should start with a typing test,” I say. “I want to ensure that you’re a fast typer before I take you to any meetings with me.”

“A typing test? Like, a typewriting test?”

“You know, a keyboard-type writing test? If you’d ever had a job before, especially as an assistant, you would know it matters how many words per minute you can get.”

“Oh, I mean I can get loads of words per minute.”

“You think you can get one hundred?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can get two hundred. I’m fast.”

“Really?” I try not to laugh. I’d bet a million dollars that she couldn’t even get fifty words per minute. “You can get over two hundred words per minute and a hundred percent accuracy?” I ask her. Moving closer to her, I can see that she’s slightly nervous as she licks her lips.

“What do you mean by a hundred percent accuracy?”

“I mean that every single word you type will be correct and so will the grammar.”

“Well, of course, I do have a bachelor's degree.”

“That has nothing to do with your typing speed, my dear, or how well you transcribe.”

“Well, I'm telling you now that?—”

“Why don’t you get off my desk and take a seat there”—I nod toward the seat—“and I’ll give you a test right now.”

“Fine,” she says. “I’m ready and willing.” She blinks as I sit behind my desk. “Wait, what am I going to type on?”

“Yes, I forgot we have to get you a laptop.”

“And where am I going to be sitting? I can’t type with the laptop on my lap.”