Page 8 of Claimed By the Boss

My hips jerk. My fingers move with slow, teasing strokes. I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending it’s his fingers instead of mine. Long, strong, sure. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t have to. He knows exactly what he’s doing, his confidence radiating through every movement.

My breath comes faster.

I arch slightly, the blanket falling away from my shoulders. I press harder, circling my clit, imagining his voice in my ear. It’s low, calm, dangerous. He tells me I’m his. He tells me not to come until he says so.

A strangled whimper escapes me as my free hand fists in the sheets. I can’t stop this even if I wanted to.

I imagine him watching me with those cold eyes. They warm just enough to show approval.

My legs tense. I can feel the pressure building in my core, hot and urgent. I bite my lip again, but this time to keep from moaning too loudly. A sound breaks free anyway, embarrassingly needy. I speed up, chasing it now.

His voice is in my head again.

“The lady said no.”

Except this time I’m saying “yes.”Yes, oh God, yes. Please, yes. Please!

I come with a shudder, clamping my thighs together, gasping his name in the darkness. My breath hitches and stutters,the aftershocks rolling through me until I finally go limp. I’m sweating and shaking. My fingers are wet with the evidence of my arousal.

I yank my hand away as if it’s guilty, and a heavy pressure fills my chest, as if I’m about to cry. My face is hot enough to burn. I stare at the ceiling, my heart hammering, as I try to come down from the best orgasm I’ve ever given myself.

I shouldn’t have done it. Yet even now, the thought of him won’t let go.

I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket back up around me. I place his card on the nightstand carefully, like it’s a precious memento I don’t want to lose. I close my eyes, and sleep takes me at once.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, I fumble for the snooze button before I remember that it’s not an option today. My interview. I can’t be late, and in this industry, even on time is late.

I stretch and feel the slight pull in my lower back where I arched into my hand last night. A wave of guilt washes over me before I force myself to move past it and get up.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately step on the skirt I dropped last night, nearly twisting my ankle. I hop on one foot, cursing under my breath.

I scoop up the clothes and dump them in the hamper before shuffling toward the bathroom. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and cringe. My hair is a wreck, and my eyes are smudged with last night’s mascara. I was too keyed up to even think about taking it off.

After a cool shower to make sure I’m awake, I start the process of taming my curls. It takes longer than usual because my hands are shaking.

I straighten up, rolling my shoulders, trying to look confident even in my underwear. Then I march back to my bedroom and pull my new suit off the hanger. Becca and I spent an entire afternoon shopping for it after I got the call to interview. We went to three different stores. She insisted I try on every color and cut until we found the one that made me look like the kind of woman who deserves it.

It’s slate gray and dark enough to complement my pale features. My hair and eyes stand out wildly against the dark color. The blouse is a simple white, with a slight ruffle at the front that peeks through the blazer.

I slip into it carefully, adjusting the jacket, smoothing the skirt before stepping into the new heels Becca insisted I buy. They’re only an inch and a half, since I’m hopeless in pumps, but they’re comfortable, and they make me feel like a badass boss babe.

My reflection in the mirror is confident and poised. I look like someone who deserves this job. Now I just have to act like it and kill it at the interview.

I’m just double-checking the contents of my purse when I hear the rattle of keys in the front door. Becca stumbles in, dark circles under her eyes, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that’s surrendered to gravity.

“Whoa,” she says, giving me a once-over. “Look at you.”

I smooth my skirt, self-conscious. “This is definitely the look, right?”

She sets her keys in the little dish on the table, shrugs off her jacket, and comes closer, narrowing her eyes as she takes in every detail.

“It’s perfect,” she declares, finally nodding. “You look polished and smart, like you know who you are and what you’re doing. You’re a badass boss bitch.”

“That was my thought exactly!” I say, laughing.

“Good,” she says firmly. “Own it. If you look like you know what you’re doing, they’ll believe you do.”

I grin despite myself. She steps back, eyes twinkling even though she’s clearly dead on her feet.