His Temporary Assistant

Oh, and my thighs were wet, but not just from my deluge of orgasms. I was pretty sure he’d cleaned me off while I’d been in a fucking coma.

Literally.

I reared up, remembering my sketches. Oh my goddess. Were they all still here? I got on my hands and knees to grab every one of them, tossing the laptop to the side to pluck up the last paper beneath it.

Which was how Preston found me when he entered the room, amiably chatting on the phone.

“I’m so sorry, Mary. I know I agreed to be there to sign the papers this afternoon with my notary. Yes, my assistant was unavoidably called away. Oh, she had a very good reason. A personal emergency, if you will. Surely you understand.”

With my bare ass in the air and my open dress falling forward over my head, I clutched my sketches to my chest and prayed to disappear.

Maybe I’d be beamed up into outer space by a more intelligent life form than a woman who fucked her boss multiple times in one day.

Without a condom, no less. I was practically a walking billboard for questionable decisions.

And PMS was still on the phone, chatting away as if he had all the time in the world.

I glanced over my shoulder, only to discover he was listening to the other end of the line while studying my ass equally intently. His head was even cocked. When he realized I was watching him, he grinned and pretended to look out the window.

He was not cute. I shouldn’t grin at him as if he was. But I couldn’t help myself.

This was probably due to some biological imperative. If a guy made you come enough times in rapid succession, your body figured he was a decent sort so weird things started occurring all on their own. Like my smiling at him dopily while I tried to tuck my papers under my dress as I backed off the bed.

Luckily, he decided to return to the living room, so I shoved my sketches into a drawer and decided I’d take a quick shower.

Escaping into my bathroom also bought me some time to prepare myself to deal with him. Conversations after sex could be a minefield, and we didn’t know each other that well.

Even if certain parts of me were getting very acquainted with parts of him.

I moaned out loud when the cold water hit my oversensitized body. I’d gotten more action in one day than I’d gotten all year.

When I couldn’t stall any longer, I finished up and toweled off before slipping back into my dress sans panties, since they were currently missing. The whisker burn on my chest was still vivid, so I lathered up with some of the honey rose cream I’d picked up from the apothecary in Luna Falls. My bestie liked to claim the town was made for her, so we’d gone a few times.

My fingers lingered on my breast for an extra moment, imagining Preston’s intense dark eyes lasered on mine while he sucked on my nipple. I had to appreciate his dedication in some areas.

And I seriously needed to get a grip. Fawning over PMS’s skills in the sack—even in my own head—was not on the agenda.

I tied my crazy hair on top of my head as I walked into my bedroom, coming to a halt at the sight of my boss stretched out on my bed.

He was still on the phone. What the heck could Mary Donnelly have to say?

“She just covered herself in some kind of witchy potion that smells like a bakery. Do you women all just know what to mix up to make men beg?”

I blinked as he laughed, sounding far more cheerful than I was used to. Then again, great sex had that effect on most males.

“Right. I know. Actually, there’s something else in it too.” Eyes closed, he lifted his face as if he was scenting the air. “Floral. Usually, she smells like a garden blooming at night. This is fresher, sweeter. Almost innocent.”

“Who is that?” I hissed.

If he was talking about my scents with a client, I was probably going to kill him. And he’d thank me tomorrow once the afterglow faded and he came to his senses.

Why hadn’t it faded yet anyway? I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept, but the shadows in the room were longer and sunset wasn’t far away.

“Hang on. She’s annoyed again.” He laughed at whatever the person on the other end of the line said, then held out the phone to me. “It’s your best bish, as she called herself.”

As a rule, I wasn’t someone who blushed. My coloring made that more difficult, for one, and I also didn’t get embarrassed that easily.

Score one for PMS that he managed to make me flush from my hairline to my coral-painted toes with one sentence.