Page 9 of Groom Gamble
Any capacity to make words is steamrolled by talking to my boss about the size of his dick, after—and don’t quote me on this because I’m still not certain I understood it correctly—he offered to marry me.
“Do I need to prove that?”
“No!”
His lips twitch. “I haven’t checked, but it’s at least seven…”
My brain fills in inches and I almost faint. That’s very large. Very, very big indeed.
How would it fit?
How would it feel stretched so open if it did go in?
“Thousand people,” he finishes smoothly. “I can call HR and check?”
I’m scarlet.
“No,” I whimper. I’m going to need a new job because this is too much. He’s teasing me. Perhaps I should resign right now?
“I suppose you’re worried about theother thing,” he continues.
Oh.
My. God.
Sperm count. It rebounds on me like a hair elastic pinging on your hand when you’re not paying attention doing a ponytail.
“Yes.” Did I just accuse my kingpin boss of having a low sperm count? Crap, no. “I mean, no. I mean…”
“I’ll prove it.”
“A sperm sample?” The image of Mr Streatham with his cock in his hand, jerking off, groaning, the head of his huge cock going purple-red as he spurts white creamy seed into a tub and then hands it over to me, fills my mind.
If he gave it to me, still warm from his body, would I actually send it for sampling? Or would I… Taste it. See how it looked on my skin. My hands, my face, my breasts…
I never knew I had such a vivid imagination.
“Absolutely not,” he says flatly.
No. Right. Obviously.
“But if…” I’m not sure what I’m saying here, since I cannot shake the image of Mr Streatham’s come and what it would feel like smeared over me.
“If my swimmers aren’t up to the job?” He taps his fingers on the desk impatiently. “They are.”
“You have kids already?” My tummy slumps. I really do not like the thought of my boss with another woman, ever.
“No,” he replies firmly. “No. I don’t have any children.”
“But you want kids?”
He leans forwards, suddenly much more intense. I can almost feel the heat from his body, burning me. His gaze strays down to my midriff and lingers there.
Is he imagining me pregnant with his baby?
“Yes, darling. I want children. I’ll give you children.”
Hooded eyes meet mine again and I melt. Darling. He called me darling.