By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

I wanted to say that things changed after our talk and emails. That with the air cleared and her moving back downstairs to the admin pool, I was finally free to concentrate on work. And in a way, things had changed.

I’d shown her my cards.

Admitted my sins.

Confessed my fears.

But none of that stopped me from seeking her out. It didn’t stop me from thinking about her. And it sure as fuck didn’t stop me from wanting her.

My days began to organize themselves around her.

Emailing after hours. Verbally sparring over some bullshit in the office. One of us getting a rise out of the other.

It seemed innocent enough. Except for the undercurrent.

There was something addicting about our interactions now. As if every word had a double meaning. Every glance was a coded message. We were both attracted to each other. However, we were also both adults. It should have been an exercise in self-control.

But then I’d find myself locking the door of my private bathroom and jerking off while fantasizing about her on her knees in front of me, her on my desk with legs spread, demanding that I fuck her with my tongue.

Every. Fucking. Day.

Knowing that Ally was attracted to me made me feel both less guilty about the act and more frustrated by the fact that it was my fist I was fucking and not her.

Basically, I was becoming a complete disaster, and the woman had only been here… God. Less than three full weeks.

Some days I held out until after everyone else had left for the night. Other days I barely made it to lunch.

And then there was today.

At 9:05, she waltzed into my office in a pair of thigh-high boots and a Dolce & Gabbana dress. The dress was a garnet red. The front V wasn’t scandalous by any standards, but to a man on a hair trigger of arousal, the hint of creamy white curves was dangerously seductive. The dress nipped in at the waist and flowed out again, ending just an inch or two above the soft suede boots.

“Sign these,” she said, slapping a file down on my desk, and gave me a cheeky grin.

I dragged my gaze away from that inch of skin to the papers in front of me.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” she continued. “Malina was going to deliver this to you personally. I stole them off her desk.”

“Thanks. What the hell are you wearing?”

She looked down at the dress and back at me. “Why are you so obsessed with my clothes?”

“It’s Wednesday. On Wednesdays, you wear your navy pencil skirt.” The one that hugs her ass. The one that I’d fantasized about shoving up over those smooth, round hips a few hundred times or so. And, dammit, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut when this woman was in the room? Maybe I needed therapy. A 12-step program.

“If I were a man and wore the same thing every Friday, you wouldn’t have a comment. Karen from accounting wears the same black pants and black sweater every other day. Yet you insist on paying special attention to me?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “What did we say about special attention, Dominic?”

She was fucking teasing me, and I loved it. Almost as much as I hated it.

“You’re annoying me. Go away,” I said dismissively.

Instead, she perched on the edge of my desk, kicking her feet as if she had all the time in the world. If I rolled my chair a few inches to the right, I could push her knees apart and bury my face between her legs.

Any blood left circulating my body gave up and headed straight to my cock, which now throbbed like it had a migraine.

“Sign the paperwork, and I’ll be gone from your life for the rest of the morning,” she promised. “And, if you must know, I have a date tonight.”

“A date?” I was surprised the pen didn’t snap in half in my hand. I felt something dark and oily spread through me. “Don’t you have to work?”

I couldn’t identify the feeling that grew inside me.

Rage? Fear? Blinding hate directed at a man I didn’t even know?

“Just because I’m not your type doesn’t mean every other man feels that way,” she teased. “Payday is Friday, so I’m giving myself an actual night off.”

I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I signed the contracts, pen tip scoring the paper. Her dress rode high on the thighs, and I couldn’t help but notice. Inappropriate didn’t even begin to describe the feelings stirring in me.

“You’re wearing that on a date?” I hated myself for wanting her to feel insecure. Wanting her to change her mind so she wouldn’t go.

She looked down, not remotely concerned with my opinion. “What’s wrong with it? Linus approved.”

Everything was wrong with it.

My chest felt tight, and why the hell was it so hot in this damn room?

“Depends. What kind of date is it?” To torture myself, I leaned back, changing the angle of my view. It was just a glimpse, and then I was averting my eyes. But it was long enough for me to know she was wearing underwear that matched that damn dress.

She raised an eyebrow at me. Like a silent challenge. Go ahead and look. Tell me you’re not interested. Lie to my beautiful, cocky face.

Goddammit. I shouldn’t have messed with her by wearing the vest yesterday. She’d outgunned me.

“First date. Drinks,” she said.

“Drinks? That’s it?” I was offended on her behalf. Nothing said “hook-up” like just drinks. Not that I wanted her landing in a long-term relationship with someone. I also didn’t want her enjoying a hook-up.

I was not a good man, but as long as I wasn’t dragging Ally down to the floor and fucking her, I was still better than my father.

“That’s all I’m mentally prepared for at this point. I’m so rusty I feel bad for my next sex partner,” she confessed.

Somewhere along the line, she’d started talking to me like we were friends. As if that moment of honesty in the bar, those emails exchanged, had somehow made us friendly. And while I craved her next confession, I also couldn’t handle the intimacy. I was ripped down the middle. Torn between wanting to know everything there was to know about this woman and wanting to forget she existed.

Something caught her eye, and she slid off my desk, wandering across the room.

I hated it when she walked away from me. It always felt like she took the light and heat with her.

I added that to my Hate List.

Unable to help myself, I got up and followed her to the lightboard, where she studied the series of shots for an inside spread. I’d pulled two that I thought might work with the intent of dragging Linus in here to tell me which one made the most sense to show my mother.

“These are fun. I love that dress,” she mused and pointed to a model in a gold silk gown. “Do you have one with her in motion?”

She scanned the subsequent shots, and I leaned in with her, just wanting to be closer to her. There was something about her that lured me in like a siren yet made me feel… safe. Comfortable. Fucking hard.

I tapped a shot that I’d pulled to the side. It had initially caught my eye, but the point of the shoot had been twofold: To showcase the vibrant red Galliano front and center and to subtly include a transgender model. The woman in gold.

“Oh, now that’s a shot,” she said, plucking it from the board and studying it.

The model in the gold gown twirled off to the side, the breeze from the fan had caught her hair and the skirt, lifting them both. She was the only one in motion. The red was still front and center, the model on the first rung of a ladder. The others were in varying traditional poses that in real life looked painful and contorted but through the lens showcased cuts and fabrics and colors.

“How did you meet?” I asked. Please, for the love of my sanity, say a church group promoting abstinence.

“Who?” she asked, rearranging the photos leading with the twirl.

“Your date.”

“Oh. On a dating app,” she said cheerfully.

Fuck.

“Here. Look at these. Now they tell a story. You’re giving the eye an anchor point with the red. It’ll land there, but it needs a secondary focus. You can’t miss her, gold, twirl, smile. Her red lip plays off the focal dress and makes the whole piece visually satisfying. Headline goes here.”

What she was saying made good sense, and I could have visualized it if I hadn’t been so busy picturing her on some fuck buddy app shopping for a one-night stand.

“What kind of dating app?” I demanded.

She turned away from the lightboard and rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. Gola insisted on setting up a profile for me. By the way, from my sex to yours, a dick pic is not the right way to start a conversation.”

I fantasized about hunting down every fucking weasel who’d sent her a cock and kicking them in the balls.

“Where’s he taking you?” I asked, hating that I couldn’t not ask. Hating that I needed to know.

“I’m meeting him at some bar called The Market. Have you been?”

Nicknamed the Meat Market, the lights were low, the drinks were strong, and there were two hotels on the same damn block. I’d been.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll see you there,” I said, pretending to scan the shots again. I couldn’t forbid her from going. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t make up a fake meeting that required her late-night presence. Not without her knowing it was a sham.

“You’re going?” She sounded happy, and I wanted to ruin it. I wanted to make her feel as twisted up as I did.

“I’m meeting someone there myself. A date,” I lied.

If I had to be tortured by thoughts of her hooking up with some random guy she met on a fucking app, then she could enjoy seeing me out on a date with real potential.

Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she could smell bullshit. “It’s not on your calendar.”

“I don’t put my personal appointments on my work calendar.” Another lie. I had no personal life. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had sex. But I could remember every single fantasy I’d had about Ally.

“Then maybe I’ll see you tonight,” she said, grinning up at me.

I watched her leave.

And the second the door closed, I stalked into the bathroom. All I could see was that flash of red fabric between her legs. All I could think about was someone else getting to take them off her.

It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was fucking my fist wishing it was her sweet, wet pussy clamped around my aching dick.

At this moment, I didn’t like a single thing about Ally Morales.