Hard For My Boss

While Trevor is busy being awestruck by the place, I slip into the bedroom and find my luggage awaiting me. Unzipping my suitcase, I pull out an outfit and lay it out on the enormous, lush bed, then smile appreciatively down at it. He’s going to look sexy as fuck in this getup. What a cruel thing, to make Trevor dress up in clothes that I’ll want to tear right the fuck off of him.

When I return, I find Trevor at the back window staring out at the sea, his eyes glistening with the light of the sunset.

I come right up behind him, joining him. “Quite a sight, huh?” I murmur into his ear, my chin almost resting on his shoulder with my hands slipped around his waist, squeezing.

“We’re going to be here? In this place … with this view … for the whole weekend?”

“Yep. We fly back late Sunday afternoon.”

Trevor laughs suddenly, like he’s tickled and hysterical. “I feel like I’m never going to want to leave, Ben. This is insane. I have never … ever … ever …” He can’t even finish his sentence.

I smile against the side of his face. “You hungry?”

“Y-Yeah, actually.”

“Unlike me, you’ve had a long day at work,” I point out. “How about you go to the bedroom and freshen up? Then we can go get ourselves something to eat.”

He turns slightly to face me. “I, uh …”

“The bathroom’s got everything you need,” I tell him. “You could even take a shower. I already did before we left.”

“It was pretty muggy back home …”

“And there’s clothes on the bed for you to wear.”

Trevor smirks. “You’re seriously going to dress me this whole weekend like I’m your pretty plaything? Do you even know how objectifying that is?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.” I give his ass a swat and a firm squeeze, causing him to jump, blush, and glare back at me. “Our reservation is in an hour. Go get pretty, birthday boy.”

34

Trevor drowns in succulence.

Can anyone tell me how the hell I woke up this morning in a cramped spare bedroom with Elijah’s snores vibrating the walls, and twelve hours later end up here at an exotic resort sharing dinner with this gorgeous man across from me?

This gorgeous man, who’s also my boss, and maybe my lover.

Lover. I sound so ridiculous. Lover. Just thinking the word makes me giggle. I’m delirious.

“What’s got you so tickled?” asks Ben over his wine glass.

I shrug carelessly. “Oh, I don’t know. Everything. Nothing.” I giggle again. “What’s the name of this restaurant again?”

“Cocina Caribeña,” he says, the Spanish words rolling off his tongue so smoothly, it’s sexy as fuck.

Our table sits at the end of a wooden patio that overlooks a lagoon lined with white sand and beautiful trees. The sun is half-dipped in the horizon like a great glowing cookie made of molten gold, its light catching on every ripple of water.

I just finished the tastiest serving of grilled steak and cilantro-lime-marinated vegetables, and a sweet Mexican bread I’ve never heard of before. I don’t even remember the name. I don’t even remember my own name.

“You look sexy.”

I jerk my eyes back to Ben. “Thanks. I’m guessing you like my outfit. You ought to; it’s yours.”

“It’s yours,” he insists, “and you look damned sexy in it.”

The outfit he got me is sleek, yet casual, and does its job of making me feel pretty sexy. It’s a crisp white short-sleeved dress shirt with a thin grey checkered design down one half of the collar and cutting across the shirt in a thick slanted line—very art deco. With the sleeves folded up a cuff, the underside reveals a sharp black design. My slate-colored shorts, cut off above the knee, feel like they were tailored to my crotch and ass’s every contour. They look skintight, yet feel as comfortable as if I’m wearing nothing at all. I have no idea how Ben got my sizing so perfectly, as if he measured me inch-by-inch himself.

The invasiveness of that possibility has me squeezing my legs together and catching my breath a bit, imagining myself naked on a platform while Benjamin pulls out the measuring tape, strictly instructing me to stand still while he measures every single inch of my body. Blood rushes to my cheeks—and below my waist—as I feel his imaginary fingers all over me, pulling that measuring tape in my most sensitive areas. I’m suddenly twenty times more aware of how snug and perfectly the shorts fit me, as if he’s literally gripping my legs and thighs—and quickly swelling crotch—with a hundred firm, squeezing hands.

Here I am, in a foreign country, far away from home, and my only tether is my beautiful boss Ben, who sits across from me looking smoldering as ever. It’s the perfect recipe for sexiness.

“So for my birthday,” I reply, pushing away my dirty tailor fantasy, “I get a weekend in Cancún … and a new wardrobe.”