Home > Sexting The Boss(8)

Sexting The Boss(8)
Author: K.C. Wells

I had to admit, it really suited him.

“Hey, come on in.”

Chandler stepped inside, and I closed and locked the door. He waited for me to lead the way, and I went into the living room. “You’re okay with Scotch, right?”

“Scotch is good. With ice, please.” He glanced around the room, saying nothing more.

I gestured to the couch. “Take a seat.” Then I went over to the bar and poured two drinks, adding ice to his. When I turned, he’d sat at one end of the couch, his jacket draped over the arm, his body language a little stiff. I got that. This had to be totally out of his comfort zone. Drinks at the boss’s house?

I handed him a glass, before taking the other end of the couch.

Chandler did another slow perusal of the room. “So, have you recently moved in?”

I took it the way it was intended, a comment on the lack of accessories on view. I knew how the apartment looked. No photos, no prints, no paintings. Not much in the way of furniture. What can I say? I like minimalism.

“That’s your opening foray into conversation? We’re going to discuss décor?”

Chandler’s eyes sparkled. “I’d rather discuss you. Specifically, that accent.”

“Ah, so you noticed that?” I smirked. “I always had you down as observant.”

“How long have you lived in the States? Because I’m assuming you weren’t born here, talking like that.”

I sipped my Scotch, relishing its warmth. “We moved here from the UK when I was eleven.”

“We?”

“My parents, my nine-year-old sister, and me. We went to live in Florida, because my parents started a business there. They still live there.”

“But you don’t.” Chandler relaxed a little against the seat cushions. “Florida is a long way from Boston. Why here?”

“I went to college here. Once I graduated, I went into business. I saw no reason to move back.”

Chandler smiled. “Well, you certainly haven’t lost the accent. Don’t you miss the weather? I should think it’s a damn sight warmer in Florida.”

It was my turn to smile. “Says the man who turned up in a shirt.”

Chandler grinned. “Yeah, but I wore the jacket in the taxi. Shirt looks better, and you know how important it is to make a good first impression.”

I couldn’t help myself. “That cologne of yours says more than your clothes.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. Anyone would think you like the way I smell.”

Parts of my anatomy definitely did.

I steered the conversation back to safer ground. “Actually? This is closer to the weather I remember as a kid, before we moved over here.” I drank a little, feeling more at ease. This was going better than I’d expected—except I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. I didn’t mind the small talk.

“Did you mean what you said? About being afraid to meet guys online or via apps?”

And there it was, the shift I’d anticipated, only later than I’d thought.

“I wouldn’t say afraid, exactly,” I said slowly. “But even you must admit there are some horror stories out there. What you see on the screen isn’t always what you get in real life, right?”

Chandler studied me so intently for a moment that I was taken aback by his focus. “Sounds like you’ve been burned a couple times.”

That was the understatement of the year, but no way was I about to share.

“You could say that,” I added in as nonchalant a tone as I could manage. Inside, I was anything but. I couldn’t allow the conversation to continue along that path. Too much pain there. Humiliation. Heartache.

I propped my feet up on the coffee table and locked gazes with him. “So… tell me. What really happened? How did I end up with a photo of your dick on my phone?”

Chandler rolled his eyes. “Oh God. That was totally unplanned. I sent it to a guy I know. I was trying to tempt him away from football, except I got one letter wrong, and sent it to you by mistake.”

I chuckled. “Well, it certainly tempted me.” I cocked my head to one side. “You seem to have a lot of dates, judging by the snippets of conversation that I’ve heard.”

He snorted. “Dates? Hookups is a more accurate description.” His eyes gleamed. “Although a lot of sex would be nearer the truth.”

“And is that enough for you? Keeping things that casual?” I genuinely wanted to know.

“You take what you can get, right?”

There was an almost wistful edge to his words that revealed much.

In that moment, it hit me. Chandler and I were more alike than I thought. And what followed was a burst of longing that flooded through me. Could we be more than just sex? Would he want that?

Then I pushed it aside. Such an outcome seemed unlikely, given the way our unorthodox… relationship had begun. And it didn’t matter how appealing the idea of more was. I knew why Chandler had gone along with my proposal. One, he was a slut, and two, he wanted to keep his job.

Except there was this small voice at the back of my mind that said maybe my first assumption wasn’t totally correct. There was more to Chandler than I’d previously thought, and this new glimpse sent a shiver of anticipation through me.

It was then that I realized I wanted to be wrong.

“Can I ask you something?”

I dropped back into the moment, to find Chandler regarding me with a speculative glance. “You can ask, sure,” I replied with a slight smile.

“Are you happy with the way this has gone so far?”

Okay, I hadn’t expected that.

“Define ‘happy’.” I knew I was hedging, but I wanted to see where this was going.

“Well, you’ve gotten your dick sucked, and you’ve fingered me. Is that how you want it to continue? We proceed to the fucking, and just carry on like that?”

To the point, just like I’d expected, but I was intrigued by the question. “You have some ideas on the subject?”

He didn’t reply, but took a drink from his glass. It took me a moment to see the action for what it was—Chandler was nervous.

Okay, this was definitely new territory. Chandler, unsure of himself? He always came across as confident, cocksure, bold even.

I made a decision and shifted closer on the couch, wanting to see how he reacted. There was only a hand’s width between us. “What did you have in mind?” I kept my voice low. Then I put down my glass and stroked a single finger along his thigh, starting at the knee and moving higher, stopping just short of the crease in his jeans where the beginnings of an erection were visible.

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