Under My Boss's Authority: Office Romance Collection by Jamie Knight (small books to read .TXT) 📕

edge, ending in a swift curve at the tip. Soft nostrils. Wide. Narrow. Two strong muscle humps on either side of his neck.

The sweet smell of anxiety brimming through his exotic cologne. Veins down his strong, muscular arms. Molecules of sweat running down his thick, black, smooth and wild hair.

My fingers between these cold strands and warm scalp. My finger tracing down his clavicle, down the crevice between his chiseled breasts, down his small, cute navel, down his neat pubes, down his veined shaft, down into me.

In my mind, his cock beats like his heart. The tip throbs. The end of it plays with and kisses my clit. I sigh. I gasp on entry, inhaling slowly and surely. His lips and my own share a hello, and we both fall into a sea of forgotten memories.

In my fantasy, he thrusts. I thrust back. My thighs. They clench. They sing. They burn. They struggle to breathe.

My clit, my fingers, my fuzzy mind, the darkness behind my eyes, the high-pitched frequency behind my ears, all meet at the same time and pull me apart, nearly in half.

‘Gooooood, oh Gooood.’ I exhale, inhale, hold my breath.

I lose the world for a moment in eternity and scream until there is no more of it. An orgasm wipes my mind and flips a new page over. The back of my knees click on the floor. Ass and cunt fire up and make me kneel.

My arm tires. My fingers run loose. They rub. They pump. They do not stop. I breathe and hold my breath again. The powerful climax relaxes and grips me once more. Its origins are from my womb and as high up as my aching nipples.

‘Ahaaaaaghh!’ I exhale, breathe, and hold.

Orbs of light race down my neck, up my mind, down my nipples, up my ears, down my pussy, down my ass and then back up again. My fingers are frantic now, brushing the excited clit in demented vigor and alarming urge. My body shoots down and I breathe out.

I see the floor first thing when my eyes pop open. There is drool on it. I check my face and wipe that off. Wow.

The apartment is cold, and I’m alone. I sit up and urge myself to rise. Panties and pants by my ankles, of course. Kicking them aside, I get up. I check my fingers. Slippery and wet. There is liquid fire between my legs.

I should wash up. The blinking light catches me in my stride towards the bathroom.

The device is not plugged in. The screen is blank. The keyboard is dusty. It does not hum.

So why did the laptop camera light blink once and then go dark?

Chapter Four - Henry

‘Will that be all?’

‘Yes. Thank you. Have a good night, Sarah. You too, Marcy.’

The doors click into place and the room resumes its silence. I am one with it, and the cold smooth sip of fifty-year-old malt whiskey joins me for company. The fire in the hearth crackles and spits out, dances like a vibrant Samba beauty and shows me the other side of it, this life, the other life.

It makes no sense how today has passed along, worse than I had hoped but far better than I imagined. My wrist itches. I soothe it with a scratch.

One more sip. Salt would help. Ice too. This might be better. The taste reminds me of the old house growing up. Clambering down the stony steps to find hidden rooms within the mansion. Fighting with fresh zombies and anchoring their souls with my old and ancient magical sword.

Kissing that mysterious girl behind the loft balcony overlooking the grounds’ pond. Fighting with my father over something as silly as whether or not the company name should be changed. Black umbrellas and suits in kind, with pats on the shoulder and swift clearing of the after-service spread.

It comes full circle, this feeling, this oneness with being alone. I do not mind it. I think of my father a lot tonight. He was a hard man to please, as the old cliche goes. Mother left when he was nothing. She came back when he was something.

He scoffed and she begged enough at his feet and got hers. Now she lives in Malibu or Accra depending on the weekend. She leaves me be. I leave her be, too.

Another sip. This time it is dry. It hits my chest and trickles like pounding pepper down to my gut. I see her for a moment, and pull that image closer.

I see her clearly now. Julia Cast, woman extraordinaire. I get comfortable with her in my mind, even forget the shadows dancing across the walls. She is enough light.

Her curves were the first thing I saw when she walked into my office that day. From the looks of things, she had just been hired by the manager at the time, and I had just intruded on some small talk. Those curves, hidden under the vestiges of a properly ironed office dress with a hint of blessed pearls strung across her neck.

She stuttered before she spoke. I was not calm when she did. It was in that singeing moment, oblivious to the world of our status as employee and employer, as corporate versus individual, that we both realized we were as old school and primitive as the old adage: we were man and woman.

I kept my thoughts to myself, of course. It would have been impolite of me to give into my urge to take such delicate innocence. Julia never looked twice at me when we were in the same office. I chose to think it was unrequited, for as long as two years.

One year ago, though, I had tasked her to be my direct aide in a board of governors meeting. She didn’t bat an eyelash and took on the assignment without question. Through the whole meeting as I listened to the board members talk and release and engage, I felt it.

I did not look down, except at the