His Temporary Assistant

Since my cock was now fully deflated, I turned back and glimpsed the twinkle in Colleen’s green eyes. “You’re not the least bit funny.”

“Sure I am. You’re just too twisted up to appreciate it right now.” Colleen rose and sauntered to the door. “Computer’s fixed by the way. You’d toggled the notifications back on just for mail somehow. Should be good now. Catch you later. And good luck with your hottie.” At least she lowered her voice for the last part.

As soon as she left, I returned to my client notes. It wasn’t long before a knock sounded at the door once more.

Shockingly, Ryan did not wait for my approval to enter.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

Deliberately, I didn’t look up from my notes. Between phone calls and texts and emails—including ones not from Ryan, imagine that—I’d thus far gotten approximately no work done today. This was the last Monday I should be jetting off for lunch with a woman I’d yet to spend more than three minutes with in the flesh. But fuck, I was hungry. The smell of that fritter coming from the bakery bag was making me lightheaded.

Or it was those damn night-blooming florals wafting from Ryan’s skin. Probably both.

Dammit, she was poking at the bag yet again, toying with the fritter she’d purportedly gotten for me.

“Well, you’re not eating it,” she said when I pinned her with a look.

“I’ve been busy. Unlike you. See anything good in Cosmopolitan?”

She gasped. “Why that traitor. She broke the code of the sisterhood.”

I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Then I stuck out my hand. “Give me some of that.”

She held the bag against her chest. I almost warned her about grease transfer before shrugging it off. At least I couldn’t see her cleavage that way. “You don’t really want it.”

I arched a brow. “Do you want me to beg?”

Ryan eased a hip on the corner of my desk, the one with the mile-high slit. “Do you ever? Seems improbable.”

“If I were to start, I doubt it would be over an apple fritter.”

“It’s really good.” Almost gleefully, she took a large bite, and apple filling spilled across her lip. I wanted to lean in and lick it off. See what she tasted like mixed with the fruit. Would she be tart or sweet?

All over.

But I already knew. She would taste like a Granny Smith green apple. A quick tang followed by that delicious finish that made you crave even more.

She was still nibbling and shamelessly licking her fingers, openly enjoying the pastry she’d proffered for me and stolen away. Almost daring me to grab it out of her hand.

Instead, I sat back in my chair and crossed my ankles, watching her without restraint. “Going to leave me a crumb?” The question was lazy, as if I wasn’t the slightest bit invested in the outcome.

“Well, you don’t want to spoil your appetite.”

“No danger of that happening.”

She edged her painted nail over a flaky section of crust. “You never answered. Is she your girlfriend?”

“Who?” I was so consumed with watching her fondle that fritter that I truly had no recollection.

“The pretty brunette. Her hair is a shade away from cinnamon.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Are you blind?”

“No. I see you quite well. Give me that.”

Committing the most unwise act in the history of off-limits office gestures, I rose and leaned forward, planting my hands on the desk. And rather than snagging that purloined bit of pastry with my fingers, I grabbed it with my teeth.