Bewitching the Boss by Jessa Kane



I should respect what he’s telling me. I do. I need to back off and accept his wishes.

But I can’t shake the belief that I can help him.

Because of who I really am, we can never have a relationship. It would be based on deception and how long can that really last? But maybe, just maybe, I can leave this man in a healthier place than when I found him?

It won’t make up for my role in what happened.

But it might help me sleep at night.

I haven’t slept well in so, so long, the sound of crunching metal replaying in my head. The smell of motor oil and the sounds of crying.

Screaming.

“One planning session,” I say, trying not to sound desperate. I uncross my thighs, letting my tight, black skirt ride up, up, up, as I slide off the desk. Letting him see that I’ve soaked through my panties since walking into his office. “I won’t lay a finger on you. Promise.”

In response, he makes a choked noise, his hand disappearing from view beneath the desk, his bicep flexing. Flexing. And when he chews on his bottom lip, I know he’s rubbing his erection. I’ve watched him enough at night to know his tells. When he masturbates, he bites that lip so hard, sometimes he leaves blood.

If I stay any longer, I’m going to ask to watch him. Live and in person.

Instead of through my binoculars.

“I’ll schedule a one-on-one with your assistant on the way out,” I say, blowing him a kiss on my through the exit, glancing back once to ascertain that he’s panting at the sway of my ass. It’s yours, baby. You own it. My legs turn more and more rubbery as I stride to my car, collapsing minutes later into the driver’s seat, struggling to breathe. Shaking.

I can’t believe it.

I’m going to see Byron DeWitt again.

This attraction, this connection between us, wasn’t a figment of my imagination. It was real—and there’s nothing I can do about it, because of who I am. But I can help heal him.

I can leave him whole.

Intact.

Able to embrace happiness.

I’ll do this for the man I love or die trying.





Two





Byron





From the second-story window of my home office, I stare down at the driveway and watch the hot brunette climb out of her pink Jeep.

I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my thirty-two years.

Beautiful and young. Carefree. Bubbly. Social.

In other words, my opposite.

Jane.

She’s in icepick heels and a skirt that barely covers her incredible ass. She’s smiling. I recall that smile almost as much as the wicked hard-on she gave me yesterday at work. At work. I couldn’t stand up for three hours after she left, my dick was so stiff. My heart seemed determined to beat out of control long after she’d sashayed through the aisle of ogling coders and out the exit. It’s all starting again and she’s not even in the door.

Now, she leans across the driver’s seat to retrieve a folder from the passenger side, causing her skirt to travel upward and reveal hints of two supple buns. A nude-colored thong. And those thighs. They’re so long and tan—and shiny. How the hell does she get them like that?

I must be out of my goddamn mind having her in my home.

Already, my skin is flushed and clammy, the zipper of my pants having to work too hard to contain what’s inside—a problem that’s only growing by the second. When my assistant asked me where and when I would like to meet with Jane, I panicked at the thought of her making me hard in the office again, so I suggested we have this planning session at my home.

Bad idea.

I’m not sure why this gorgeous girl seems interested in me. I’m a software designer. An awkward geek who likes to talk code. Sure, I’ve got a lot of money, thanks to the transportation app I designed. But this beauty with the billion-dollar smile could date anyone. After all, a lot of men have money in the Valley. Men with social skills and interesting things to talk about. Connections at fancy clubs and restaurants.

My hand tightens on the windowsill, my forearm straining from the force of my grip.

I don’t like the idea of her in another man’s car. Or on his arm.

I don’t like it at all.

Am I jealous? I didn’t even know I was capable of that emotion. Especially when it comes to women. I’m too busy working to pay attention to things like dating or sex.

At least that’s what I’ve always told myself.

The truth is, I don’t know the first thing about the opposite sex and finding out seems daunting. What little I know about women comes from my sister, Nancy, so I know basic things like…they get periods, have more complex emotions and contain memories like encyclopedias. The rest of what I know is only specific to my sister. Nancy is…was the only female I’ve ever been comfortable around and I would give anything to call her right now. Ask her how I’m supposed to deal with the most incredible girl on two legs wanting to…be romantic with me.