The Boss's Runaway

Daddy, it’s too big.

I jerk back from the monitors, recoiling from my horrible thoughts.

What is wrong with me?

“Holy shit, would you look at that?” Craig is observing me now, instead of the television screen that surveys the waiting area of the executive offices. “A reaction from the priest himself. I was beginning to question if you were a warm-blooded mammal.”

“I’m not a priest,” I say, my voice thicker than molasses.

“Maybe not. But you act like one.” He laughs. “Until now, apparently.”

Unable to help myself, my gaze travels back to the monitor and she’s pacing now, nervous. Scared. I don’t like that. My instincts are railing at me to calm her down. Why? I’ve never met this girl. She is not my responsibility. Yet every fiber of my being is telling me the exact opposite. “I will interview the girl.”

“Nah, I’ll make the time—”

My hand is around his throat before I even know I’ve moved. “Go near her and I’ll throw you from the roof this casino to the pavement below. Do you understand me?” I lean in and speak very close to his whitening face. “Let everyone in this godforsaken place know she’s hands off. As in, touch her and get your hands cut the fuck off. Am I being clear?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, stumbling away when I let go of his throat. “Jesus, man. No need to get angry. There’s plenty of ass to go around. But if you want the starry-eyed, barely legal girl from Nebraska all to yourself? Go nuts.” He licks his lips and gives a revolting smile. “And welcome to Vegas. You’ve finally arrived.”

Have I?

No.

No. I simply feel protective of this girl. For some insane reason.

I’m not going to give into temptation.

Barley legal? I’m thirty-five. I have no business laying a finger on a girl so young—and I won’t. What I am going to do is get her out of the casino life before it sucks her down to its inky black bottom. I’m going to help her. Send her down a better path.

I’m not going to fuck her.

But when I walk into the lobby a few minutes later and say her name—Sissy Laughlin—and she shoots to her feet, the unexpected way she looks at me quakes the ground, makes my heart shoot into my throat. This angel whimpers once and clasps her hands together, mooning at me like I’m her lord and savior.

I’m dreaming.

I have to be dreaming.

But…no.

She walks toward me in her high heels, filling my head with the scent of lemon icing and whispers, “Are you going to take me now?”

My cock reacts at lightning speed, stiffening to full attention in my briefs. “Take you?”

“For my interview,” she says, blinking innocently.

Christ, guide me. Help me make good decisions.

The last thing I should do is close myself into a room with this walking temptation. To be alone with her is asking for trouble. But I find myself ignoring my own warnings in favor of spending a few minutes in her presence. Need to. I swallow hard and nod, sweat coursing down my spine. “Yes,” I rasp, gesturing to the hallway. “Last door on the right, Miss Laughlin.”

Chapter Three

Sissy

I don’t understand why I’m suddenly on fire from head to toe.

This is Craig?

When I pictured the kind of man who would expect a female to remove her dress in order to get a job, I imagined him a lot more…smarmy. Slick.

This man has integrity in every bulging line of his big body.

No, big doesn’t even begin to do him justice. He’s a mountain.

A beautiful, magnificent mountain.

As I follow him down the hallway to the final door, I must squeeze my keys hard enough to hurt the palms of my hand. Otherwise, I fear I’ll reach for him. Run my fingertips along his mammoth shoulders, sink them into his black hair. I have the strangest urge to climb onto his back and be carried. My goodness, that would be the most secure place in the world. On the back of this giant, my legs around his waist.

That last part creates a pulsing sensation between my thighs.

I bite down hard on my bottom lip and consider excusing myself to the bathroom, so I can rub myself through my panties. I know from experience that rubbing only makes the ache worse, but the impulse has never been this bad. Not in all my eighteen, almost nineteen, years.

His scent drifts back toward me in the air conditioning.

Incense. Musk.

My private area is becoming wet.

Why am I reacting to him this way? How will I keep my composure for this interview?

We reach the final door at the end of the hall and he opens it, grunting for me to precede him. Walking past his thick body without touching it is sheer torture. My mouth salivates. My heart bounces wildly in my chest. Is it my imagination or does he inhale raggedly as I pass, too?