Page 17 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

Zac stretched on the couch like a big cat, his long legs sprawled in easy dominance. His feet still rested in my lap, too tempting to ignore, and I couldn’t resist brushing my fingers over his soles. He jolted like I’d zapped him, his large body twisting as he yanked his legs away.

“Don’t do that!” he chuckled. “I could’ve kicked you in the face.”

I laughed. “Who knew the stoic Isaac Steele was ticklish?”

“It’s my greatest secret,” he said with a smug grin, arms behind his head, his hairy armpits exposed before me like a challenge.

I didn’t mean to make it sexual when I touched him, I really didn’t. It was just a joke between two buddies hanging out, nothing weird about that. Except, now there was something very weird about it. Something dangerous. Because every shift of his body, every idle flex of muscle, every absentminded stroke of his fingers against his stomach drew my gaze like a goddamn magnet. He wasn’t even trying, yet he had me wound tight, my skin buzzing from his presence like a live wire. The heat of his body seeped into me, making it impossible not to imagine what it would feel like pressed against mine. My eyes darted to his crotch, the thin fabric of his shorts molded to his bulge, leaving little to the imagination.

I needed to get a grip.

Before my thoughts could spiral further into dangerous territory—and before my body betrayed me—I nudged his feet aside and sprang up from the couch. “You’ve got some cool stuff in here,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light as I wandered toward the shelves. “Are you a collector, or do you have an interior designer with an obsession for clutter?”

I could feel Zac’s gaze on my back as I trailed my fingers over the books and small trinkets, taking in the collection of items that made up his world. Anything to keep my mind off the temptation lounging behind me, looking like sin straight out of my dirtiest fantasies. But as my gaze traveled along these mementos, my curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to know more, to learn about his interests and hobbies for real.

Zac’s voice came from behind me. “Every piece here has a story. I don’t do meaningless décor.”

My gaze drifted over the neatly stacked spines of well-worn books. A mix of business, philosophy, and classic literature. The Art of War sat next to a biography of Steve Jobs, which in turn was stacked beside Dune and some old, leather-bound novel whose title had faded with time. I grabbed a small bronze figurine of a dragon and held it up. “All right, so what’s this one’s story?”

He yawned. “Gift from a business partner in Hong Kong. It’s supposed to bring good fortune and protection. Not sure if it works, but I haven’t gone bankrupt yet, so who knows?”

I snorted and kept browsing. There were sculptures, framed certificates, and a collection of old vinyl records ranging from Queen and Pink Floyd to U2 and Bon Jovi. But what really caught my attention sat atop a chest of drawers near the corner of the room—two Japanese swords displayed on top of each other on a black lacquered stand. I noticed them last night when I first entered the room, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind then to pay them closer attention. Now, I stepped nearer, eyeing the swords in admiration. “Are these—?”

“ Daishō ,” Zac supplied, pushing off the couch to join me. “A matched set of original samurai swords from the late Edo period. Katana and wakizashi. I’m told they’re worth a fortune.”

My fingertips traced the smooth curve of the hilts, itching to unsheathe the blade. “That’s insane. How’d you end up with these?”

Zac leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. “A Fujitsu executive gave them to me years ago in Japan, back when I was still proving myself in the industry. He was one of the first major investors to take me seriously. Said he saw something in me—potential, drive. Told me that in another life, I would’ve made a damn good warrior. Then he gifted me these as a sign of respect. I only later learned how great of an honor that was.”

I glanced at him, impressed. “That’s pretty damn incredible.”

Zac grinned, taking the katana from its stand and weighing it in his hand, still sheathed in its gilded scabbard. “Afterward, I took sword-fighting classes to learn how to wield it. I’d show you some moves, but it’s too dangerous to do it here. This thing could slice through bone.”

“Okay, that’s probably the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He took a fighting stance—legs spread, knees slightly bent, the sword raised—and with a perfectly straight face, he said, “ There can be only one. ”

I blinked. “…Huh?”

“It’s from Highlander .” His grin faltered. “Tell me you’ve seen Highlander .”

I shrugged. “Uh, I know of it?”

Zac looked shocked. “ Of it? You mean to tell me you’ve never actually watched it?” His face twisted in exaggerated horror, then he put the sword back in its place and strode toward the TV stand. “No. Absolutely not. This must be rectified immediately.”

I laughed as he pulled out a Blu-ray case and held it up like it was a sacred artifact. “Dude, is this really a must-watch situation?”

“You have some other plans?” he asked. When I just shrugged, he smiled, already queuing up the movie. “Sit. We’re fixing this right now.”

I shook my head but did as told, sinking into the plush couch and watching him. Zac strode over to the windows and drew the curtains, plunging the apartment into a warm twilight. The faint glow of the TV flickered across his face as he dropped onto the couch beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, casual yet electric. Then the screen came alive, with Sean Connery narrating the prologue, and soon the opening notes of Queen’s score rumbled through the room.

“Okay, now I get why you love it,” I said, as Princes of the Universe swelled through the speakers.

“Shut up and watch the movie,” Zac said, smiling, already lost in the film.

Before long, I was just as absorbed, the movie pulling me in so completely that I forgot everything else—where I was, who I was with. That’s why I didn’t notice when his arm curled around me, or when my head fell to his shoulder. Neither of us acknowledged it, but by the time Who Wants to Live Forever started playing, we were practically snuggling, him sprawled over the couch, me draped over him. He’d once mentioned this was his favorite Queen song, back when we were little more than acquaintances. Now, watching him, it made even more sense. The sweeping tragedy of it, the way it showed how immortality wasn’t a gift but a curse.

I turned my head slightly, looking at him in the dim glow of the screen. “You’re a closeted romantic, you know that?”

Zac huffed, but his lips twitched. “Shut up.”

“You totally are. You act all tough, but deep down, you’re just a softie who wants true love to conquer all.”

With a low, dramatic growl, Zac crushed me against him, his arms locking me in like he could squeeze the teasing right out of me. I laughed, breathless. “Do I need to remind you that I’m your boss?” he said.

I could’ve pulled away. I didn’t. The heat of his thigh against my groin sent a wave of arousal through me, and when my hand drifted down—curious, impulsive—I found him hard too. So much for the boss/employee boundaries.

“You’re going to make us miss the ending,” Zac murmured, his lips just above my head. But he didn’t stop me. He never did.

“Pause the move,” I said, my hand slipping under the waistband of his shorts.

“What about our earlier conversation?” He grabbed the remote, his words already breathy, gasping as my fist closed around his shaft, stroking it.

“Don’t care,” I only managed to mutter before I slid down his stomach, pulled his shorts down, and took his cock into my mouth.

“Chris—” he panted, his hand on my head as I started to suck him. He never did that before, never called my name during sex like that. Like he was acknowledging it was me who was giving him pleasure, not some imaginary woman from his fantasy. Me . “You’re trouble, you know that?”

I only hummed around the girth in my mouth, my hands sliding up to his chest, twisting his nipples. My head bobbed faster, my tongue swirling over the silky organ, and I could feel him getting close already. So I pulled back and sank lower to lick his balls. God, how good he smelled there! I nuzzled those big nuts, inhaling the scent of him, letting my tongue draw circles over the smooth sack. That made him squirm, and he wiggled underneath me until he got rid of his shorts completely. I pulled down my trunks too, releasing my throbbing cock from its confinements, never breaking contact between my mouth and his balls.

Zac fisted my hair and guided himself back between my lips, his hips rolling into me, urgent, unrestrained. My hand fell to my dick and I stroked myself in the same rhythm, as I let him use my mouth the way he wanted. His cock pushed past my tonsils and sank deep into my throat just as it started shooting, a flood of cum going straight to my stomach. Hearing him moan in orgasm made me cum too, and I jizzed all over his leg, fighting for breath. He pulled back just enough to let some air into my lungs, but his cock stayed inside my mouth until I licked it clean. Then I crawled lower and licked my own cum from his leg too.

Wordlessly, I settled back on top of him, and with one hand, he found the remote and pressed play . His other arm curled around me, anchoring me against his chest. Neither of us reached for our clothes. We stayed like that, naked, bodies tangled, watching the movie in silence. Even when the credits started rolling, and A Kind of Magic blasted from the speakers, we lay in silence, letting the moment sink in.

“Okay,” I finally admitted. “That was pretty corny—but also kind of great.”

Zac shot me a smug look. “Told you.”

I stretched, feigning nonchalance even as my skin still tingled from being pressed up against him. “All right, my turn. If I had to experience your pop culture blind spot, you have to suffer through one of my picks.”

He gestured toward the shelves filled with Blu-rays. “Knock yourself out.”

Feeling a bit naughty, I went to the TV stand and got on my hands and knees, sticking my ass out as I rifled through his collection. I arched my back just enough to make sure Zac had the perfect view, biting my lip to keep from grinning as I gave a slow, deliberate wiggle. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was staring, his breath coming in irregular huffs behind my back. Good. Let him see what he was missing.

I was hoping he would stand up, come to me, and mount me from behind. Stick his cock inside me and fuck me right there on the rug. The idea was making me hard again, and to provoke him further, I said, “Ugh, The Godfather. So overrated.”

Zac stirred behind me. “I’m sorry, what?”

I smirked. “I mean, I get why people love it, but it just drags. Like, could something actually happen in the first hour?”

“I won’t tolerate such blasphemy in my presence.” He stood up from the couch and reached for his shorts. “Brando is a god !” he said as he pulled them on. “And you—you’re an absolute heathen!”

“Is that right? Maybe you should spank me and teach me a lesson.”

It was the first time I saw Zac speechless, mouth open, his eyes roaming over my ass, his fists flexing. Bullseye . I must’ve hit a nerve. Because he wanted to do it, I could tell. Unfortunately, his self-control was stronger. “I’m going to make us lunch. You got any special requests, or are you one of those ‘just feed me’ types?”

I grinned. “I seem to recall you boasting about your chicken piccata.”

Zac sighed dramatically. “So I did.”

I grabbed my underwear from the floor and put them on, then I followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the island while he got to work.

Zac moved with easy confidence, navigating the space as if he’d done this a thousand times—barefoot, relaxed, every motion efficient yet unhurried. He worked methodically, pounding the chicken cutlets with the flat of a knife, dusting them with flour, then sliding them into the sizzling pan with a practiced ease that had my mouth watering long before the rich aroma filled the air. He wasn’t just tossing things together—he was in his element, moving with the kind of instinct that came from muscle memory. The pan hissed as he swirled the sauce, the flick of his wrist sending up a burst of steam laced with butter, lemon, and wine. It was effortless. Sexy, even.

“Since when do self-made millionaires have time to master the art of cooking?” I asked, my elbows resting on the counter.

Zac smirked without looking up. “Since they figured out cooking is just another skill—learn the technique, refine it, perfect it. I like knowing I can make something exactly the way I want it. And, I don’t know… there’s something about the process. The rhythm, the precision. It clears my head.”

“Mhm. Have you tried meditation?”

He snorted, plating up our food. “Cooking gives better rewards.”

We sat across from each other at his large, dark-wood dining table, forks clinking against the ceramic plates. Annoyingly, the meal was incredible. The first bite melted on my tongue—the chicken tender, the sauce tangy and rich, with just the right balance of lemon and butter.

“Not bad,” I said as I chewed, trying to downplay it, but he saw right through me.

“Not bad?” Zac raised a brow as he cut into his chicken. “Is that why you’re moaning after each bite?”

“I didn’t moan!”

“You totally did. Practically pornographic. Just like when—” He stopped himself there, his eyes boring into mine, but we both knew what he meant. Just like when I’m sucking his cock . And he wasn’t wrong. I was always vocal about my pleasure—food, sex, it was the same.

We kept eating, trading jabs about pop culture—him being personally offended that I thought Daniel Craig was better Bond than Sean Connery, me roasting him for thinking The Matrix sequels were good. There were also things we both agreed upon: not being able to choose between Alien and Aliens , or that the new Star Wars trilogy was trash. It was easy, effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that made time blur at the edges.

And maybe that was what got me. Not just the banter, or the meal he made like it was second nature, but the way everything about this moment felt… right. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t let myself acknowledge before. Like we’d done this a hundred times already. Like we’d keep doing it.

I glanced at him, watching the way his lips curled around a smirk, the way his biceps flexed as he lifted his glass of wine. And for once, I stopped fighting it. The feeling that had been creeping up on me for weeks, stealing in through the cracks.

I was so fucking gone for this man. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Shit.