Bewitching the Boss

I want it on me.

I want my attention on her.

Now.

I’m at my desk now. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Words and numbers blur on the screen in front of me. The Halloween party is tonight, so my employees are distracted. I’m pretty sure they’re pretending to work, just waiting for three o’clock to roll around when I’ve given them permission to leave early so they have enough time to get ready.

I’m distracted, too. I can’t think of anything but Jane’s sweet flesh.

My mouth is tasteless because I haven’t licked her in hours.

I need to lick her.

The hunger is a roaring in my ears.

I’m sweating again, my dick rock hard beneath my desk. I give up the pretense of working and open my tracker app, needing to assure myself for the tenth time today that she’s at the venue working on putting final touches on the party. I’ve had to restrain myself several times from physically going down there and confirming she’s all right with my own two eyes.

I’m consumed with her. With all the feelings she’s brought forth in me.

Jealousy is very high on that list.

There are men at the venue moving things around, delivering food and beverages. And I know damn well they’re all looking at my girlfriend. She left the house in a tight leather skirt this morning that made her backside look edible and it has been bothering me ever since. I want to rip her out of that skirt and set it on fire.

My tracker app finishes loading and the little blue dot that represents Jane’s location pops up. An invisible hand clenches around my throat when I see she’s no longer at the venue.

She’s downtown. At a costume shop.

The morning comes back to me. While we were at the breakfast bar drinking coffee, she stood between the V of my thighs playing with the top button of my shirt. And she mentioned picking up our costumes this afternoon. Right before she let her silk robe slither to the ground and every single thought in my head scattered to the wind.

And it’s only hitting me now that I have no idea what her costume is tonight.

Why didn’t I ask?

Nightmare visions of Jane as a sexy nurse or cheerleader tighten my muscles, set off a ticking behind my right eyeball. Yeah, that’s not happening.

I’m already on my feet, snatching up my phone and keys, striding out of the office. People call out to me and I don’t acknowledge them. I can’t. There is blood pounding in my head, the need to be in front of her, to touch her, is so fierce. On the way to my car, I notice there is a vacancy on the ground floor of a commercial building across the street and I memorize the number to the real estate broker. I’ll buy her event planning company and move them into that space, right where I can see her. Having her on the other side of town isn’t going to work for me. At all. My very sanity is at stake.

I’ve become the stalker.

That realization lands as I’m climbing into the driver’s side of my Tesla, pushing a button to start the engine and roaring out of the parking lot.

It’s true. I watched her sleep last night. And the night before. Marveling over every square inch of her body, slowly beating myself off under the comforter. Sometimes when it gets too hard to concentrate at work, I give in and drive past her office, my heartbeat growing erratic while watching her through the window. I’m a mess. I’m a mess that doesn’t want to change. I’m wired. Awake. My sexuality pounds like a drum in my belly all hours of the day, thudding furiously when I’m finally between her legs.

Fuck food or oxygen or shelter.

I just need her.

Jane.

Her smile, the way she butters toast to the very edges, gulps her coffee, giggles during serious moments when we’re watching (or trying to watch) a movie, how her breath catches in her sleep and she seeks refuge in my arms, the way her tongue touches to her incisor tooth when she’s overthinking something, how she always knows where my keys are. The way she kisses the middle of my back when she passes me in the kitchen, her solemn expression when she talks about anything in the past, the way she can make a bad day go away in seconds just by slipping her hand into mine. Her scent, her funny party ideas, her logic.

Her hand jobs.

Her flexibility.

The way she bites when I’m not giving it hard enough.

God, her extremely tight cunt. So tight I can barely last.

She told me she does something called Kegel exercises while sitting at her desk during the day. I had to Google what she was talking about. Now I’ve very intimately acquainted with the art form and the impact they’re having on my life. My undying gratitude to Arnold Kegel.