Hard For My Boss

“I think that shirt’s f-fine,” I stammer. “White suits you.”

“Wine,” he clarifies, giving the side of a bottle that’s suddenly in his hand a hearty tap. “Unless you’re more of a beer guy …?”

His pecs look so amazing in that shirt that it’s the only place my mind and eyes went to.

“Red or white … or beer?” he asks patiently.

I blink away the image of him that’s scorching me, my face burning red. “Oh. Sorry. Red. White. Beer. Any. I don’t know.”

He lets out one breathy chuckle. “Relax. I’m more of a wine guy, so we’ll go with that. I’ll pick for you.”

“You have a really big—” Ben turns back to the counter to get the wine open. His white shirt is still tucked into his slacks with a belt, which shows off his beautiful tight glutes in all their glory. My eyes instantly flick to them, my heart racing with desire. “B-Big place,” I finish, my eyes glued helplessly to his butt.

I’ve never wanted to grab something more in my life.

Shamelessly. Feverishly. Greedily.

I literally might be salivating.

“It’s comfy,” he replies nonchalantly, his back still turned as he coaxes the cork out of the bottle. I watch the tight shirt revealing all his back muscles going to work as he screws and twists and pulls the corkscrew. His butt does a little wiggle when the cork is finally freed, which is as sexy as it is adorable—and it does nothing to lessen my insane, growing desire to grab that ass. I’m hypnotized.

“So … you live here alone?” I ask, still staring.

He reaches up and fetches two glasses from a shelf—his place is so modern and fancy, his kitchen cabinets don’t have doors—then turns around with the bottle in one hand and the two glasses pinched in the other. I look up just in time to not get caught staring again. “Just Lance and I.”

I blink. “Lance?”

“My dog. Lancelot.”

He sets the glasses on the kitchen island between us and proceeds to pour a little bit of red wine into each glass. He sets the bottle down, then gently starts to roll up his sleeves. Just the act of watching him remove his shiny cufflinks and meticulously fold the sleeves up—as the strong cords of his forearm muscles dance and tighten and flex—makes my breathing shallow with need.

I thought I’d just calmed down. I thought my teenage-caliber boner had finally gone away, allowing me the privilege of being an actual adult tonight. Nope. Ben won’t allow it. It’s returned with a great and throbbing vengeance.

He takes a glass. I peel my eyes off of his muscular forearms and clumsily snatch my own, nearly knocking it off the counter in the process. “Bottoms up,” I mutter for a toast, then belatedly think to add a, “Th-Thank you for the wine,” before bringing it to my lips and chugging.

Yeah, I don’t daintily sip. I don’t taste the wine at all. I don’t appreciate the fine hints of blackberry, grape, or clove.

I treat it like a shot and chug it down frat-boy style.

When I set down my empty glass, Ben is staring at me, still not having taken a sip of his own. His eyes are wide, eyebrows raised.

I frown. “What’re you looking at?”

He chuckles, shakes his head, then takes a little sip of his own glass, not answering.

I don’t know if, due to the limited amount of times I actually partake of alcohol, my head is already spinning from that one big gulp, or if my tipsiness is just a fluke of psychology. No matter the reason, I’m equipped with a sudden stroke of courage. I reach for the bottle. It’s cool to the touch, strong as the man who poured from it.

Ben watches, studying me over the rim of his glass as I refill mine—twice as much as before—while keeping my stony gaze on him. I feel superior suddenly with his attention caught—powerful. When I glance back down, feeling cool as shit, I panic and stop pouring suddenly, wide-eyed; my glass is nearly overflowing.

“Ambitious,” notes Ben when he sets down his glass, which still contains half of his first helping. “Hope you plan to drink all of that. Can’t let this wine go to waste.”

“Oh, this old stuff?” I throw at him, feeling smart, patting the bottle. “You can pick this up for ten dollars at Wal-Mart. Big deal.”

“Ten dollars a bottle … or six hundred and ninety-nine dollars a bottle. Yeah, big deal,” agrees Ben with a shrug and a smirk.

I freeze. I was about to pick up my glass and resume chugging without a care, but suddenly I’m staring at the amount I’ve poured and approximating how much each sip is worth. Is he messing with me? Now I’m wondering how practical it is to pour it all back in.

“Don’t worry,” says Ben. “That bottle was just a gift. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to open and drink the damned thing.”