Bewitching the Boss by Jessa Kane



I didn’t make that up, right?

The fact that Jane seemed to…extend an invitation to me yesterday makes my balls so tight, I can feel them in my fucking throat.

Now she’s walking up the pathway to my front door. From the second story, I watch her tits bounce around in her silk tank top and release a shaky groan. God above. How is this girl a party planner? She is the party. She’s the main attraction everywhere she goes, I’m sure. If I walked into a restaurant with her, people would assume she’s with me for my money—and hell, they would probably be right. That’s why she’s attracted—or pretending to be attracted—to me, might as well admit it. My dick truly doesn’t seem to care about the details. It just wants.

It’s ironic that I’ve sworn off gratification when I’m being offered the finest pleasure this world has to offer, right?

The doorbell rings downstairs and I blow out a breath, adjusting my erection so it’s no longer tenting the front of my slacks. I make my way down the curving staircase to the front door, hesitating with my hand on the brass knob for a centering moment. No matter what Jane offers me today, in a personal sense, the answer has to be no. I’m keeping this relationship strictly professional. I could say yes to what she’s tempting me with, but I would be sick with guilt afterwards. Nancy is gone. And I refuse to indulge myself so blatantly when she’s six feet underground. It’s not fair.

Resolved, I open the door.

Gorgeous as sin in the sunlight, Jane smiles and bites her lip. “Hello again.”

And Jesus, my abdomen twists with such intensity, I can almost hear the muscles constricting. “Hello, Jane.” When did my voice get so scratchy? “Uh. Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

She pauses on the threshold to kiss me on the cheek and I inhale her scent greedily. What is that? Lemons and flowers and freshly laundered bedsheets. Damn, if I could bottle that up and sell it, the money I’d make would put the profit from my transportation app to shame.

I wouldn’t sell her scent, though.

I’d keep all the bottles locked up. All for me.

Shocked by a second wave of jealousy, I close the door behind Jane and lead her into the kitchen. Safest room in the house, right? No soft surfaces. Only cold white marble and sharp edges. Plus I’ll have the advantage of the big, granite island to hide what she does to my cock.

Oh my God, even the sound of her heels clicking in my wake is making me sweat. There are goosebumps running down the length of my arms, the collar of my shirt choking me. How am I going to get through this meeting without embarrassing myself?

We reach the kitchen and Jane spreads out the contents of her folder on the island. When I take a spot on the opposite side of the barrier, she wrinkles her nose at me but doesn’t comment. Within seconds, I wish I was closer, too. Wish I was close enough to smell her, see her pretty smile up close. Feel the warmth of her skin. I still remember the pleasure of being heated by her body when she got close to me yesterday.

Crossing her legs.

Uncrossing them.

Letting me see her wet panties.

Does the idea of being with a rich man make her horny, even if he’s an unrepentant dork? Does that mean she’d like having sex with me, even if she’s just interested in the comforts and security that a man with money provides?

You’re not going to find out.

I clear my throat hard. “Would you like something to drink, Jane?”

“Yes, please,” she answers with one of those bright smiles. “Anything is fine. Seltzer, soda, water…”

“Lemon lime seltzer?”

“Perfect.”

I take the can from my fridge and pour it into a glass, sliding it across the island in her direction, rather than get too close. But when I do that, when I avoid going near her, I watch her smile dim and sadness dance through her brown eyes. Painful, burdensome sadness that doesn’t belong anywhere in the vicinity of this bubbly girl.

My heart jolts up into my mouth at the sight of it.

What was that?

Did I cause it?

“W-well…” she begins unevenly. “Have you given any more thought to what you would like to see at the Halloween party?”

I want to address the sadness, the desolation I glimpsed in her, but it’s gone now. Did I imagine it? “Uh…no. Not really. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I have lots of ideas. Why don’t I rattle them off and you can give them a thumbs up or down?”