Hell.

I’m in fucking hell.

And it has not one thing to do with being set up by our driver and ambushed in the middle of a Nicaraguan rainforest. Though, I can’t lie, that sucked.

Four months ago, my marketing director came to me with a resume of the perfect applicant, who was not only fluent in Spanish, but who also had industry sales experience. I gave him the green light to hire ASAP. I had high hopes of growing our foreign markets, so finding someone to fill both roles in our time frame was a fucking miracle because the rest of us were struggling to communicate with the clients after our last Spanish-speaking rep left. My hell started when I laid eyes on our new Central America rep. I was shocked.

What wasn’t included on her resume was her long, dark blond hair, her fair skin, those deep brown eyes, or lips so perfect I have to force myself to think about my Great Aunt Libby’s cats to get my mind off her. Aunt Libby has as many taxidermied cats as she does live ones. And what tops that freak show off is that my uncle stuffs those cats in their basement—DIY style.

What humans aren’t willing to admit is that their pets are a representation of themselves. Show me a freak-of-nature pet, ten grand says their humans are weird as shit, too.

Case in point, Aunt Libby is a freak show and so are her cats. It’s a weird-ass cat bonanza on steroids that still freaks me out as an adult. And that’s saying something. I was a Ranger in the Army and just took out our driver and four armed guerillas in the jungle, but I still cringe when I think about those damned cats.

Over the last four months, I’ve had to force myself to focus on those feline freaks—stuffed and otherwise—every time Lillian Burkette’s perfect lips curve into a smile so bright, all I can do is wonder what effect those lips would have wrapped around my cock. The way she lights up a room with only her smile, she’d surely send me straight into blowjob utopia, where I’d drift around like a fucking float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I keep telling myself blowjob utopia doesn’t exist, but I’ll never be in the position to find out since she’s my employee and I don’t shit where I live. Also, it would suck—metaphorically speaking—to expect the blowjob of all blowjobs, only to be let down by poor suction, no ball stimulation, or—shoot me with my own gun—if she ignored the tip. It’s better to stick to my fantasy than be plagued by bad-blowjob reality.

This is the mantra I’ve chanted to myself for the last four months right after I think of the dead cats decorating the guest room I was forced to sleep in when I had to visit Great Aunt Libby.

I thought, after time, it would get easier being around Lillian and, in some ways, it has. After four months of ignoring her and wearing her down with the surliest demeanor I could muster, I’m pretty sure she’s given up on winning me over. No longer do I get warm smiles, sweet “good mornings,” or offers of home-baked delights that smell so damn good when she brings them into the office, I have to make myself not ravish the whole basket in the same way I’ve dreamed of ravishing her.

It also doesn’t help that everyone loves her because she’s like the sun, floating around the office, drawing everyone into orbit around her warmth and baskets full of sugary pleasures. She’s become everyone’s best friend—offering to water plants when people are out of town or babysitting. Hell, she even threw a retirement party for someone in HR last week.

It’s not just her personality that’s made my associates bring her into the fold like a long-lost child. She’s smart and damn good at her job. She wasn’t lying earlier. She’s grown her territory in huge proportions in her first quarter alone and, from what I’ve seen all week, clients worship her.

She went from just another beautiful face, to a beautiful face with a rocking body that houses the sweetest and smartest woman any man would fight to have in his bed. Don’t even get me started on her voice. So soft, with only a hint of a southern accent that makes everything she says even sweeter.

What’s not to love? She’s perfect.

Which is why I’m in utter, fucking hell.

We left the client at around four o’clock and since the fucking ambush, we’ve been walking for hours. She’s in those sexy sandals that I’ve tried hard not to look at all day because they do amazing things to her bare legs. Those legs in that dress, in turn, do other things to my cock that I’ve had to fight off during client meetings. I slowed my pace for her a bit, but even maneuvering in those shoes throughout the rainforest, she’s keeping up better than I imagined. Nevertheless, listening to her breathe for hours has been torture.

Damn her for needing so much oxygen.

The sun is starting to disappear and I glance back down at the compass on my phone. We’ve been moving on a westerly path since we started and haven’t come in contact with anything. From my calculations, we would’ve had at least another hour-and-a-half drive back to town. Which means, we should eventually hit civilization and be able to get back to our hotel. My only concern is who we’ll run into when we get there. Two Americans in Central America are bound to draw attention. It’s why I hire security and always carry when I’m here, but that wasn’t enough this time.

I swipe the large makeshift machete, that’s really just a stick, through the brush ahead of me and stop abruptly. Lillian stumbles and grabs onto the back of my shirt to balance herself and my muscles tense at her touch.

“Sorry.” She pushes away quickly. “I’ve been watching the ground so I don’t trip.”

When I turn to look at her, I put a finger to my lips and shake my head to shut her up. She’s close, standing a breath away as she frowns up at me before leaning to the side to peer around my shoulder.

Her face lights up and she whispers, “A house.”

I frown and turn to the side, pulling her behind a patch of thick trees and brush. Ever since I laid my hands on her body in the car after the shooting, I’ve thought of nothing besides touching her again.

Okay. I’ve also thought about how to get us out of here, dead cats, and touching her again.

“Shh,” I whisper. “It’s nothing but a lean-to and we have no idea if anyone’s in it.”

“Well, it might not be a house, but it’s definitely someone’s home. There’s a stool out front and some tools—even a pot by the little fire pit. Maybe someone can tell us how to get out of here.”

We’ve barely spoken to one another since we started hiking, so to hear her speak, especially with her words brushing my skin, is fascinating and I have to make myself focus on her deep-brown eyes rather than her lips. She’s pulled her hair out of her face and tied it high on her head, with strands that didn’t feel like cooperating glued to her fair skin with perspiration.

I do my best to think about the issue at hand and not be jealous of her unruly locks. “Have you forgotten that not everyone out here is our friend? We can’t assume someone’s just going to welcome us in for dinner.”

Her face falls as if I just killed all hope she creatively concocted in her head. But what almost does me in is her fidgeting back and forth on her feet, rubbing her body from her tits to her knees against me. “It’s just … well … I was hoping we could take a break. I hate to complain, but my feet hurt and I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve slowed down even more.”

She lifts a shoulder, causing her tit to rub against me. If I don’t let go of her soon and get my mind on something else, I’ll be forced to steal a cat from Aunt Libby and carry it around with me at all times. It’ll be my very own cock-softening, taxidermied pussy. I’ll name it Limp Dick. Even it might not do the trick because right now—I’m waging a war against my cock and the more she moves, the harder it is to not become … well … harder.

As if she could read my mind, she puts her hands to my chest and pushes, stepping away from me so I’m forced to let her go. “I knew we needed to get to wherever we were going fast and you were on a mission. Plus, moving at a good clip meant there’s a better chance I wouldn’t see a snake and, at this point in the day, I think a snake might do me in. You seem to know where you’re going, right?”

I narrow my eyes. “Generally.”

“Oh.” She looks to the side and hitches her bag up her shoulder and I notice how dirty she is—we both are, really—from walking through the jungle. Her dress is ripped over her thigh and she’s got cuts and scrapes all over her arms and legs from the brush. She slaps a bug on her arm when she goes on. “I guess generally is better than being lost, but the sun is going down. Do you have any idea how much farther we’ll have to walk?”

I sigh and shake my head, not wanting to admit it out loud. But with no signal, the best I can do is keep us on a straight trek so we’re not circling ourselves.

“Okay.” Her voice is small and not only does she look worried, but also tired.

“Stay here,” I say and her eyes go big. There’s nothing around that I can tell—not even an old road leading up to it but I need to make sure it’s safe. “I’m going to check out the shack. Maybe we can stay there for the night if it’s abandoned. Stay put. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”

She nods and I move, making my way to the back of the lean-to. There aren’t any windows, but I don’t hear anything and, when I get around to the front, it seems deserted. Weeds and brush are growing up through the old fire pit and everything is rusted to the point of falling apart. I step inside carefully and the boards creek under my feet, but nothing seems like it will give way. There are some rags lying around that look like they once might have been blankets along with trash and enough cobwebs to trap Sasquatch.

I step back out and look where Lillian is waiting. “It’s all clear. We can settle here for the night.”

I watch her move through the last of the brush and walk gingerly to me.

A night with Lillian Burkette.

I had no idea I could fall deeper into hell, but here I am.