Page 7 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

The days blurred together, each one slotting neatly into the next, a comfortable routine settling between me and Isaac before I had time to question it. I woke up, went to work, sat at my new desk outside his office, and got swept into a whirlwind of emails, meetings, and last-minute requests that would’ve overwhelmed me if Isaac wasn’t—well, Isaac.

If I had any doubts about switching roles, they’d evaporated quickly. We had an easy rhythm, one that bled seamlessly from the office to the gym and back again. I learned to anticipate his needs, learned his quirks—how he liked his coffee strong and unsweetened, how he took exactly three seconds to respond to an email before moving on, how his fingers drummed against the desk when he was deep in thought.

It was in the middle of one of those routines, sitting at my desk with the quiet hum of the office around me, that I heard Isaac’s voice through the intercom.

“Chris, I need that report from Tuesday.”

“Which one?”

“The one I was very specific about needing before lunch.”

I frowned at my screen, scrolling through my emails. “Uh… what’s the subject line?”

“‘ This is the report you need to send Isaac before lunch, dumbass .’”

I snorted. “Oh. That report.”

“Mhm. And?”

“I’ll have it to you in five.”

“You have two.”

“Under pressure,” I muttered.

I could hear the smirk in his voice. “You don’t fool me.”

Apparently, we had inside jokes now. Little things that would make no sense to anyone else. It had started as a one-time thing—a random Queen lyric dropped at just the right moment, a reference that I didn’t even realize I’d made until Isaac responded without missing a beat. After that, it became a game, our own little secret language woven through the monotony of the workday.

At first, I thought I was imagining it, that he was just humoring me. But the more it happened, the more I realized Isaac actually enjoyed our back-and-forth. His usual sharp, businesslike demeanor would slip for a second, revealing something looser, more natural. One time, he’d whispered, “I want to break free,” right before slipping out of a board meeting early. It was stupid. And I loved it.

Yes, he was my boss. Yet I never felt like I was walking on eggshells around him. If anything, I felt freer, looser, the way you do with someone who gets you without needing an explanation. And it wasn’t just at work. Twice more that week, we met at the gym after hours, trading jabs and workouts. When it hit me just how much I enjoyed those sessions, especially our banter in the sauna, I had to admit to myself that I’d developed a little crush on Zac.

I knew he was straight, taken, and soon-to-be-married. It was ridiculous and impossible, not to mention inappropriate. I had to get over it ASAP, so when Darren asked me out that Saturday evening, I accepted. It wasn’t exactly a date—there were a few more people from work there with us, and we all went bowling together.

The place was a little rundown but had its charm, the kind of old-school bowling alley that smelled like greasy fries and beer, with neon lights flickering against the waxed wood floors. The music was loud, the air thick with laughter and the occasional groan as someone missed a strike by an inch.

Darren was already at the bar when I arrived, waving me over with a grin. “Hey, man. Wasn’t sure you’d show.”

I shrugged, grabbing the beer he slid toward me. “Needed a distraction.”

“Oh?” His brows lifted in interest. “Anything—or anyone —in particular?”

I took a sip, forcing a smirk. “Just work. Isaac’s got me running around like an intern on steroids.”

He laughed. “Bet he’s a nightmare to work for.”

I hesitated. Lying would be easier. But instead, I found myself saying, “Nah. He’s actually cool.”

Darren gave me a long look. “Really?”

Before I could answer, our coworker Maya appeared beside us, dragging another girl from accounting with her. “Enough work talk, boys,” she declared, nudging Darren toward the lanes. “We’re here to drink, bowl, and embarrass ourselves.”

I grinned. “In that order?”

She shot me finger guns. “Damn right.”

The night passed in a haze of laughter, terrible bowling scores, and way too many cheap beers. At some point, Maya convinced me to do a tequila shot with her, and Darren got competitive about our scores, demanding a rematch every time he lost.

It was fun. I should’ve been in it, fully present, soaking up the moment. But every so often, my thoughts wandered. Back to work. Back to Zac. Back to the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, how his voice dropped when he was focused, how he smelled after a workout—clean sweat and something expensive underneath, warm and masculine.

I shook it off, shoving those thoughts aside, and focused on the next round.

By the time I stumbled into my apartment later that night, pleasantly buzzed and tired, I felt lighter than I had in days. The night had been exactly what I needed—drinks, bad bowling, and even worse karaoke choices. No Queen songs. No lingering thoughts about a certain someone, no second-guessing my own feelings. Just me, my friends, and a few too many tequila shots.

I kicked off my shoes, collapsed onto my bed, and let out a long sigh. For once, I hadn’t spent the entire night overanalyzing every glance, every joke, every casual touch of my straight, engaged boss. Progress.

* * *

I spent Sunday alone at home, sprawled out on my couch, mindlessly scrolling through Netflix. A half-eaten carton of takeout sat on the coffee table, and the TV cast a soft glow over the dim room. It was one of those nights where I had no real plans, no real thoughts, just me, the sofa, and whatever mediocre series I landed on.

Freshly showered, T-shirt and boxers my chosen attire for the evening, I was debating whether I had the energy to start something new when my phone buzzed. I glanced at it, remote in one hand, the other hand idly resting on my stomach, expecting a text from Darren or Maya with some blurry photos from last night. The moment I saw the name on my screen— Zac —my stomach dipped. The notification said it was a photo message.

I swiped it open without thinking, expecting some random work-related screenshot or a workout meme. But the very second my eyes landed on the image, every coherent thought in my head vanished.

Oh.

My.

God .

It wasn’t just a dick pic. It was Isaac’s dick pic. Thick, hard, heavy in his grip. The head flushed a deep, angry red, veins running down the big, girthy shaft in stark relief, disappearing into his fingers. And below it, a message:

‘Can’t wait to slide it inside you tomorrow .’

My brain short-circuited. My mouth went dry. Heat shot through me, a bolt of electricity straight to my groin. I stared, unblinking, at the screen, pulse hammering, cock swelling, torn between a thousand different reactions. Horror. Amusement. Pure, unfiltered lust.

This was a mistake. Had to be. No way Isaac meant to send this to me. The logical thing to do would’ve been to ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Delete the message, throw my phone out the window, move to another country.

Still, my lips twitched. No way was I letting this golden opportunity slip by. So, I typed out a quick reply:

‘Bold of you to assume I’d bottom .’

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. The read receipt popped up almost immediately. A second later, my phone rang.

I answered with a grin already on my lips. “Yes, boss?”

“Chris. Fuck.” Isaac’s voice came through the speaker, horrified and strangled, like he wanted to die. “I—shit. That wasn’t—Jesus fucking Christ.”

I bit my lip, struggling to hold back laughter. “You all right over there?”

“No. No, I am not all right.” He sounded like he was pacing. There was a clink of ice against the glass. Was he drinking? “I meant to send that to Chantelle. You’re right below her in my contacts, and I—I didn’t check before I hit send. I just typed the first two letters and clicked the first name that popped up.”

I figured as much, but I wasn’t ready to waste the chance to mess with him just yet. “Oh?” I drawled. “And here I thought we were taking our boss/PA relationship to the next level.”

Zac groaned. “I’m so fucking sorry. Just—just delete it. Forget it ever happened.”

I bit my lip, savoring this. “So, you’re saying you don’t want to slide it inside me tomorrow?”

“Chris.” His voice was taut.

I grinned, flipping onto my stomach. “Relax, I’m fucking with you. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. It’s sexual harassment. And I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Debatable.”

“Not debatable.” He blew out a sharp breath, and I could hear him swallow. “I’ve had a few drinks.”

“I can tell,” I chuckled, stretching out on the couch, rubbing my boner against the cushions. “But, seriously, though. I’m not offended. And it’s not like I’m gonna report you to HR or something. It’s fine. In fact… I gotta say, impressive.”

Silence. Then, cautiously, “Impressive?”

“Oh yeah.” I dragged the words out, letting my admiration drip. “You’ve got a very… photogenic asset.”

There was a pause. Then, “Jesus Christ.”

I licked my lips. “I mean it. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s a porn-worthy cock, Zac.”

Another pause. Then he exhaled, and I swore I heard the faintest hint of smugness. “Well. Thanks, I guess.”

Something curled low in my stomach. “You’re welcome.”

He let out a choked laugh. “Now we’re even, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Well, you flashed me your ass the first day you came to work. And now…”

“And now you flashed me your cock.”

A soft breath escaped him. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I should hang up.”

“If you say so.”

A beat passed. He still didn’t hang up.

I flipped onto my back again, massaging my hard-on through my boxers. It had started leaking, leaving stains on the thin fabric. “So, what are you wearing?”

“Really?” he said. But his voice sounded a little looser, a little warmer. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to conjure up a scene. Now answer me.”

“Well, you saw the picture. You know exactly what I’m wearing.”

Meaning nothing. “Mmm,” I made a thoughtful noise, imagining him naked and in need of release. “Are you still hard?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower. “Chantelle is spending the weekend in Boston and I was…”

“Alone and horny,” I finished his sentence. “Too bad I can’t help you with that.”

He let out a small gasp and his breathing became heavier. “Help—how?”

“Well,” I said, my hand slipping inside my underwear, my horniness making me reckless, “if I was your fiancé, I’d go down on you in a second. I’d love to take that big cock into my mouth… To feel it stretch my throat, as it sinks deep down… To have my tongue swirling around it, until my nose is buried in your pubes.”

“Fuck,” he moaned. “This is so fucked up.”

“If you want me to hang up, just say so,” I offered, my pulse pounding with anticipation.

“No,” he said, his voice firm and decisive like we were at work. “Go on.”

Was he jerking off? The thought made me drunk with desire. I pulled my boxers down and grabbed my cock, already aching. A groan slipped from my lips. “Bet I’d suck you so good you’d forget your own name… dragging my tongue up and down your thick shaft, licking, teasing, swallowing you deep… Then I’d take my time on your balls, mouthing them, rolling them on my tongue, until I stretch my lips around your whole sack… And when I go back to your cock, I’d let you grab my head and fuck my throat deep and rough, until I swallow down every last drop of your cum…”

“ Fuck —!” he made a strangled sound, and I knew he was cumming, his breath loud and ragged in my ear.

Fire exploded through my veins, white-hot and unstoppable. The pleasure hit like a tidal wave, dragging me under, pushing me right over the edge. A ragged moan tore from my throat as I shot all over myself, warm streaks coating my T-shirt. His name fell from my lips, breathless, broken, forbidden. My hips thrust into the air, my fist working through the last shudders of release. I came harder than I had in weeks, wrung dry and utterly wrecked.

As I lay there catching my breath, my phone still clutched in my hand, my heart still hammering, it took me a moment to realize that the line had been disconnected.

He had hung up.