Page 12 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

I convinced myself it was just a temporary thing. A way to take the edge off, a momentary indulgence to get me through the week. I even tried to justify it as a necessity—better to be satisfied and functional than wound-up and irritable, snapping at my employees and making everyone’s lives a living hell. Chris was helping me out, and I was taking advantage of what he offered. That was all.

But by the time Friday rolled around, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. Because I couldn’t wait to get to work and shove my cock into his hungry mouth. I fucking craved it.

It should’ve been hard to accept that I was getting off with another man every day, but it was even harder to deny how much I enjoyed it. Chris was too damn good at it—better than anyone I’d ever been with. He was eager, confident, completely unashamed of how much he liked doing it. And Christ, did that make a difference.

I used to think the whole guys give better head stereotype was a load of bullshit. A joke people made to get laughs. Now I knew better. Knew firsthand just how much skill and enthusiasm mattered. Chris had both in spades, and every time I leaned back and let him do his thing, I felt the stress melt away, leaving me clearer, sharper, more in control than I had been in years.

And now I was addicted.

I felt it the moment I woke up Friday morning—my last day before Chantelle came back. I was excited, anticipating her return, looking forward to the weekend with her. Still, my thoughts went back to Chris. My body was already primed for it, knowing I’d see him soon, knowing I could call him into my office whenever I wanted and he’d drop to his knees without hesitation.

I ran a hand down my face, exhaling hard. Now that I knew what his mouth could do, how the hell was I supposed to stop?

* * *

That night, I cooked for Chantelle. A welcome-back dinner, something special just for her. I pan-seared salmon, roasted asparagus, and made a lemon-dill sauce from scratch. Poured her favorite wine, set the table with candles. I wanted the evening to be good, to make her feel cherished, to prove to myself that nothing had changed.

Because it hadn’t. I was still Isaac Steele. Still the same man. Still straight. The thing with Chris… it was just about release. About scratching an itch. Nothing more.

I heard the elevator doors slide open, and a few seconds later, the familiar click of heels echoed through the hallway. Then came the sound of a suitcase rolling over the marble floor.

I rushed to the door and opened it just as Chantelle reached it. She stood before me in a crisp navy suit, her hair free yet immaculate, not a strand out of place despite coming here straight from the airport. Her gaze flicked over me, sharp as ever, before she let out a measured breath and dropped her carry-on handle.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, arching a perfectly shaped brow.

“Welcome back,” I said, stepping forward and pulling her into a tight hug. She felt small against me, delicate, but her posture remained poised, her arms resting lightly on my back rather than clinging. Her perfume tickled my nose, heady like a memory of summer. When she tilted her chin up, we kissed—a soft, perfunctory brush of lips that deepened as I took more control.

She pulled away too soon. “You’ll have my lipstick all over your face.”

I didn’t care about the fucking lipstick. But I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and said nothing.

She smoothed a hand over her blazer. “God, I need a drink.”

I stepped aside, letting her roll her suitcase inside. “Long flight?”

“Long week ,” she corrected, already making a beeline for the bar. “Depositions. Meetings. Schmoozing clients. That insane gala on Wednesday. My feet still hurt from those damn Louboutins.” She poured herself a glass of Bordeaux and looked around the kitchen before turning back to me. “The dinner smells delicious.”

“Only the best for you,” I said, coming in for another kiss, but she already moved away, surveying the table. So I poured myself a bourbon, neat, a took a sip.

“And you brought out the candles? I should be going away more often.”

I smiled, eyes cast down on my drink.

“By the way, I heard you’ve been naughty.” This made my gaze snap at her, as she perched on a stool, smirking at me. “Mom said you’ve been avoiding her calls.”

“Er…” I didn’t know how to get out of that one. Because it was true.

Chantelle only laughed. “It’s all right. She’s been driving me insane, too. She’s now convinced we have to have white roses because it’s tradition. I don’t even like white roses.”

I huffed out a laugh. “So tell her no.”

“I did. She called me ungrateful and said I had no taste.” Chantelle exhaled, taking another sip. “I swear, at this point, eloping doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

That made me pause. “Would you?”

She met my gaze, then laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Isaac.”

Of course not. Chantelle was all about the presentation, about the show. Even now, tired after her trip, she looked polished as ever, her hair sleek, her makeup flawless. She never let herself appear anything less than perfect, even in the privacy of our homes. What was the point of getting married if not to throw an extravagant event to dazzle everyone and make them jealous?

She set her glass down and stood. “Anyway, enough about my week. What about you? I assume you survived without me?”

I pulled the chair for her. “Let’s eat and I’ll tell you all about it.”

We sank into a mannered conversation as we ate, talking about mundane stuff with no real depth or meaning. It was almost a kind of rebellion when I decided to put an end to it with my admission. There was no point in hiding it. I valued honesty too much, and in my eyes, cheating was as low as a man could get. I knew firsthand what it could do to a family, and I swore a long time ago not to be the kind of guy my old man was. Let it never be said I was untrue.

So I set down my fork and said, “You know, I took you up on your offer.”

Chantelle blinked, spearing a piece of asparagus. “What offer?”

“The one where you said if I was so damn horny, I should go find someone else to take care of it.”

“Oh?”

I studied her face over the rim of my glass, looking for a reaction, but there was none. Not surprise. Not anger. Not even curiosity—just calm, detached acceptance. I should’ve expected that. After all, this was Chantelle.

She took a sip of her wine, then leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her palm. “Did it help?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “It did.”

“Good.” She smiled, cutting another bite of salmon. “I’m glad you’re not all pent up and irritable. You get impossible when you’re frustrated.”

That was it. No outrage, no jealousy. Just… business as usual. She didn’t even ask who it was. Something about that settled uncomfortably in my chest. If the places were reversed, heads would roll. I could never accept it, never share the person I loved with someone else. The mere thought of it—of someone else being that close to them, touching them, in ways only I should—I couldn’t stand it. Call it possessive, call it old-fashioned, I didn’t care. It was how I felt. Love was mine to protect, and the choice to fully commit yourself to another person was exactly what made it so special.

We moved on to other topics, as if I just told her I switched to another brand of shampoo, and that was that. I nodded at her remarks, spoke when it was my turn, but the unease didn’t fade.

And later, when I took her to bed, it only got worse.

Chantelle lay beneath me, beautiful, willing, her arms looped around my neck. I kissed her, touched her, slid inside her, expecting to feel the usual rush of relief and satisfaction that came with sinking my cock into a tight warm pussy, with finally being with a woman again. But something was missing.

She made all the right noises, moved the way she always did, but there was no heat . No hunger. No urgency. It was routine, a practiced rhythm, something she did because she thought she had to, not because she wanted to.

I moved faster, trying to find the spark, trying to lose myself in her, but all I could think about was how different it felt. How different Chris felt. How eager he was, how readily he dropped to his knees, how his eyes burned with desire every time he looked at me. How he groaned, moaned, devoured me like he couldn’t get enough.

And the worst part? I liked that better.

I finished quickly, rolling off her, staring at the ceiling in silence. Chantelle didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. She murmured something about being tired, kissed my cheek, and turned over to sleep, pulling her sleeping mask over her eyes.

I lay awake for a long time, my mind racing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But it had. And by Monday morning, I had made up my mind.

* * *

Chris was already at his desk when I arrived at the office. I skipped the gym that morning, choosing to run around the block instead and clear my head. But no matter how fast I pushed myself, my mind was coming to the same conclusion: I wanted to keep doing it. Keep getting head from Chris. For as long as I could.

He looked up as I walked past his desk, and something in his gaze—curious, knowing—told me he was waiting to see if our arrangement was over.

“Hi,” I said. “How was your weekend?”

“Good,” he said. “How was yours?”

“Good.” We stared at each other. The silence wasn’t awkward—strange how it never felt that way with him—but it was definitely charged. It was time. I cleared my throat, nodding at my office door. “Can you step inside for a moment?”

He followed me in, closing the door behind him.

I shrugged off my coat, hung it on the hatstand beside the door, then went to my desk and leaned back against it, arms crossed, trying to appear composed. “I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about last week.”

Chris smiled. “Okay.”

I cleared my throat again. “Chantelle’s back.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—disappointment?—but he just nodded. “Right. So… that means… we’re done?”

A smarter, stronger man should’ve said yes. Should’ve thanked him, moved on, put this whole thing behind me. Instead, I heard myself say, “Not necessarily.”

His lips parted slightly, and my heart skipped a beat.

I scratched my beard, exhaling through my nose. “I want to keep going.”

Chris’s slow grin was downright sinful. “You do?” he said, stepping closer. “You sure about that?”

I let my eyes drop to his mouth. “Yeah,” I murmured. “I’m sure. Until the wedding, that is. If you’re okay with that.”

He stood in my personal space, smirking, looking up at me with eyes full of hunger that matched my own. His hand went to my crotch, caressing my cock over my pants. “I’ll take what I can get.”

And with that, he sank to his knees, unzipped my fly, and made good on his word.