Bewitching the Boss

If I had her phone in my hand right now, I would delete every single one of those pictures. More than half of her followers are men, of course. Probably men who have attended parties she’s planned, lusted after her and hoped to message her later, take her out. Take her to bed. My neck is hot under my collar thinking about it, my back teeth grinding painfully.

No one is supposed to touch her but me.

Logically, I know that isn’t true, but for the first time in my life, my brain isn’t in control of a situation. It’s my gut. My chest. My cock. I’m so mired in need for this girl that I’m unwell and I don’t know what the hell to do about it without breaking my oath.

When I reach the entrance of the coffee shop, I almost wrench the door off its hinges. I’ve never felt like this before in my life. Spiky, scalding jealousy turns end over end in my middle, my tongue thick in my mouth. This coffee shop is familiar to me, it’s only a few blocks from my office, but nothing is recognizable when I walk inside. The air conditioning chills the raindrops on my skin, the tables and chairs looking two-dimensional, voices surrounding me like static—and then I see her.

Jane.

Everything begins to move in slow motion.

She’s smiling warmly, accepting a cup of coffee from the barista. I hear her giggle over the steady thrum of indie rock and my throat closes up, heart pounding wildly. What is she doing here? Her office is over a mile from this shop.

The answer to that question ceases to matter when I see what she’s wearing.

I don’t even know if it can be described as a dress.

With those thin straps and high hemline, it’s more like lingerie. A slip. It’s made of the thinnest lavender silk and it hugs her everywhere, accentuating her perky tits, the garment cutting off abruptly just beneath the swell of her ass. If she bent down or reached for something on a high shelf, her backside would be exposed. And the ice pick heels she’s wearing…Jesus. She’s already a walking jerk-off fantasy, but the shoes make it impossible to think of anything but her bent over my desk. Or a couch. Or getting it doggy style on a bed, the dress flipped up to her waist, those high heels as far apart as possible.

I realize I can hear myself breathing. Hard.

My skin is clammy, pulse racing.

She hasn’t seen me yet. What am I going to say to her when she does?

I think I’ve developed a terrible obsession with you.

I want to fuck you in ways that, in my head, feel degrading. To you. But I sense you need them. Require them. And I’m aching to give you what you need, no matter what it entails.

My feet are moving in her direction, even though I’m still not clear on what I’m going to say. Maybe something along the lines of stop looking so goddamn beautiful in public. Only look like this for me. But I never get the chance to find out what jealous words are going to come out of my mouth, because a man approaches her.

A young man. My age.

An obvious tech bro in his chinos, loafers and polo shirt.

He stops in front of Jane and says something to her. It’s a line. He’s trying to pick her up or get her number. There is no doubt about it. His friends are watching the whole scene play out with rapt glee, waiting with bated breath to see if their pal is successful. And the whole coffee shop starts to pulse ominously around me. Blood roars in my ears. The jealousy I felt before is dwarfed in comparison to this. I am instantly murderous.

I’m weaving through customers with my stomach in a thousand knots, prepared to remove this motherfucker from her vicinity. Now. I don’t like anyone near her.

I don’t like anyone looking at her.

A destructive urge to kick over a table catches me off-guard. The only thing that stops me from doing it is Jane’s reaction to the man. Immediately, she steps back from him, shaking her head. There is no flirtatious smile, no sparkle in her eyes. Not like she gives me. Is it only for me? Please. Please let it only be for me. I’m not sure what I’ll do if it isn’t. One thing is for certain, though. She’s not interested in the tech bro. She almost seems hostile toward him, a flash of something wild dancing across her face. Dangerous.

I don’t have time to explore that expression or if it’s a window into the soul of Jane, the real Jane, because I reach the pair and step between them.

My hands move on their own, landing on his chest and shoving him back several feet. “It’s not happening, asshole,” I growl through my teeth. “Don’t ever talk to her again.”