11
Trevor is still working. Harder.
There’s a great big marching band in the room.
Wait, no. That’s just my pulse.
My terrified, humiliated, mortified, panicking pulse.
Like, it’s literally pounding in my ears so loudly, I don’t even hear Ben’s first words of greeting.
His name’s not just Ben, I scold myself. It’s Mr. Benjamin Gage. Your boss. He is your totally untouchable boss and nothing more.
“Julian. Samantha. Quentin.” The boss says each of the names of the others at the table in a tone that’s detached and cool. Whatever banter they were having is now replaced with piercing silence as Benjamin Gage strolls by on his way to the dry erase board at the front of the room.
Which gives me a very unfair, perfect view of Ben’s ass. If anything, it has gotten five and a half times more epic since the last time I saw it. You know—at Ben’s place. With his pant buttons undone. And his junk on display in those tight, bulging boxer briefs.
And I almost caved.
In the next instant, I hear Ben’s voice fill the room, deep and dominant. “And you two are here for…?”
My eyes flick up from his butt—to find he’s not even looking at us. He’s at the board, calmly fishing a marker out of its tray.
“I’m Brandon,” states the bearded one at my side. “We were sent to take notes for R-Reynold and Emilio.”
A corner of Ben’s mouth curls upward. “You’re taking notes for Raymond, not Reynold,” he corrects him. “If you are chosen as the assigned note-taker for someone, I recommend you know the person for whom you’re taking notes.”
Brandon’s eyes flash wide. “Y-Yes, sir.”
“And keep up,” Ben goes on. “I don’t go slow. And you were sent to take notes for Emilio, I presume?”
I’m staring at him, surprised at his complete coldness and lack of acknowledgement. Are we really going to pretend like we didn’t meet each other at all this past Friday? Is he going to ice me out like I don’t exist?
And then I realize that last question was directed at me.
“Yes,” blurts Brandon, answering for me. “He is, sir. And his name’s Trevor.”
Benjamin Gage—chiseled jaw, breathtakingly handsome, cold in the eyes—continues to write on the board without once looking our way. “And did Trevor somehow lose his voice between the introductions and this conference room, or is it possible for him to answer me himself?”
My mouth parts. The whole room looks my way. I feel the eyes of the three at the other end of the table and Brandon at my side. Their stares bore into me like aiming archers.
But not Ben. The pompous, arrogant, cocky, powerful, cold-as-can-be Ben only continues to squeak that marker on that board, not even allowing me the simple dignity of a glance.
It’s infuriating. Couldn’t he at least treat me like a human being who’s worth the air he breathes? He doesn’t have to announce to the room that I drank his wine, or took off my shirt in his home, or eye-fucked him across a smokey nightclub.
But he can at least acknowledge my damned existence.
“Perhaps he has lost his voice,” muses Ben, taunting me worse as he continues to circle, squiggle, and draw arrows across his big board.
I squint heatedly, lift my chin, and use my voice. “I’m Trevor,” I state, “and I’m taking notes for Emilio. And no, I did not lose my voice. It is very much here. Obviously. Sir.”
Piercing silence is all that is returned to me. After it persists for a second too long, Ben finally pops the cap back onto his marker and faces the room.
Namely, me.
And the look on his face is not the indignant one I expected.
He looks … amused.
The subtle twisting of his striking eyes to convey how very funny he must think this whole situation is makes me angry. Doesn’t he know how much effort I put into preparing for this internship, preparing for the workload I would have to endure and the expectations I would have to live up to, and preparing to meet him and get in his good graces?
His “good graces” are all I wanted to get in. I didn’t count on almost getting into his bedroom before my first damned day in his office. That wasn’t part of the plan.
And damn it, neither is this.
“You know,” he says at long last, “that kind of attitude you just threw my way would have me kicking any of my interns to the curb without so much as a sticky note of good riddance.”
The blood drains from my face.
“But …” He crosses his arms and squints at me, questions and curiosities in his eyes. “You’re not just any intern, are you?”
Despite the glint of defiance in his gorgeous eyes—those same eyes I poured into, even if briefly, Friday night—I don’t find myself angered in the least by how he’s looking at me.
Instead, worse, I’m turned on.
Really, Trevor? Turned on? Right now?
Yes. Right now. Turned on by the heat in his eyes. Turned on by the bulges his biceps make when his arms are folded in that tight shirt. And I’m finally looking upon those lips of his again—those full, lush, heart-shaped lips that I had just one little taste of.
And I’m imagining those lips on mine again.
I feel my own lips everywhere on Ben’s body—from the nape of his wide, strong neck, to the peak of either of his big, firm pecs where a sensitive, pebbled nipple awaits on each, to the ridges of his six-pack abs, down to the base of his quickly swelling cock, where I’ll be sure to stay for hours and hours and hours, working him to the edge.
Suddenly, I have a totally different situation to handle, which inspires me to quickly—and tightly—cross my legs.
Fuck.
“N-No, sir,” I manage to reply, despite my “situation”. I can’t believe this is happening. “I’m not just … any intern.”
“No, you’re not. You were picked to take notes for Emilio. And you have a voice, we’ve discovered.” He gives me a curt nod. “So use that voice, and don’t you ever let me catch some other guy speaking on your behalf again. Got it?”
I choke on whatever words I could possibly say. Brandon has frozen at my side, every part of him turning to ice under the cold words of Mr. Gage.
My face sets, my jaw tightening. “Got it. Sir.”
“Very well.” He swiftly turns back to the dry erase board. “Let us focus on the living hell that is our favorite boy band renegade from New Jersey, shall we?”
His question is returned with a grunt of agreement from the non-interns at the table, and then the imaginary spotlight that just inspired a nervous sheen of sweat on my forehead mercifully wrenches away from us, and he begins talking.
I should be taking notes now. The pressure is off and all of the attention is on Benjamin Gage as he talks about his plans.
But I’m not listening; I’m watching. Benjamin’s writing hand moves with quick, sensual finesse as he draws charts on the board. It’s hypnotizing, the sexy, muscular way in which his body moves. All of his back muscles dance tauntingly as he writes, revealing themselves to me through his tight shirt as intimately as if he wasn’t wearing a shirt at all.
Oh great. Now I’m imagining him not wearing anything.
Get yourself together, Trevor. Take some damned notes. It’s literally the only reason you’re in this room.
But then I notice even his meaty butt wiggles as he covers the board with squeaky ink. That is the sexiest, squeakiest ink I have ever heard to accompany the show that is his sweet, sculpted ass.
Today is torture Trevor day.
Yeah, that ass is a whole other act of hypnosis I have to suffer. I’m fixated instantly on that shelf—that fucking shelf—of muscle in those fitted pants. His ass cheeks sing sweet symphonies of desire to me. I catch my mouth parting, as if I’m literally deciding whether he’s got an ass in those pants, or two juicy humps of meat I want to chomp my teeth into.
Great. Cannibalism. My horniness has led to cannibalism.
Before I completely lose my mind, I should probably, really, seriously, actually jot down a note or two. Emilio is going to need to be filled in on something from this damned meeting—whoever the fuck Emilio is.
“We got him to take down his incendiary post and issue a kind apology in its place,” Ben is explaining, waving his marker in the air as he talks. “An apology that we worded. But let’s discuss—”
Ben’s marker swings around like a conductor’s baton, guiding the music of his sexy, silky voice as he addresses the room—you know, saying whatever really super important thing he’s saying. My eyes drink in the sight of his biceps as they flex and bulge with his movements, pulling on the thin fabric of his tight white pinstriped dress shirt. When it returns to the board, the marker squeaks as he makes circles, draws arrows, and dots every “i”.
Yes, pretty man is still talking. “… putting good stories out in the fray to combat the negative …” I take notes, sneaking glances up at him every second—up at his ass, more like. “… and taking control of the conversation. What I need from you is …”
Tell me, Ben. Tell me what you need from me. I start taking notes in such mind-numbing autopilot, I’m not really paying much attention to precisely what I’m writing down. I doubt it’s coherent. Might even just be the alphabet over and over for all I know.
And yes, my legs are still crossed tightly. And I’m not going to uncross them until this totally-out-of-control cock of mine learns to behave professionally during a business meeting, damn it.
“Commit the interviewers to certain questions only,” throws in a guy at the other end of the table. “Control the questions, you control the interview.”
“Obviously. That’s politics 101,” Ben states. “Think bigger.”
Think bigger? If I think any bigger, my dick’s gonna turn into an eggplant.
A woman, freckled and mousy, throws in her two shiny cents. “Deflect, deflect, deflect. Why not put out news about one of our other clients? Someone lateral? Frank Tank, maybe. Doesn’t he have a tour coming up?”
“Hmm, yeah,” chimes in the guy, wrinkling his blunt nose upon which his bifocals rest. “Give some other newer story a chance to trend on Twitter, filling up those column inches. Oh, that’s also politics 101, huh?” he adds sheepishly, biting his lip.
Everyone second guesses themselves in front of Benjamin Gage. Everyone cowers beneath his know-all and his piercing gaze, even when they suggest to fill up columnist’s inches.
And here I am, writing nonsense notes so fast and sneaking so many glances at Ben that all I’m thinking of are my own inches.
The ones growing in my pants from all of this staring.
“Good points, but that’s elementary stuff,” states Ben. He fists his marker tightly. “I have some more permanent fixes in mind. Pay attention and learn, boys and girls.”
And of course the only thing I pay attention to is his body as it sings a totally different song than the one coming from his mouth. My mind and soul are on fire, pleading and begging for that man to pay me a speck of attention.
I clench shut my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m so pathetic.
It’s only a brisk twenty minutes later that a course of action is settled on and the team disperses before I even realize we’ve been dismissed. My daydream is broken when Brandon rises from his seat abruptly and beelines for Mr. Gage to shake his hand. A whole slew of words of admiration spill from his lips as he plays every card in his deck to the boss. Speaking of pathetic.
But I won’t stoop to that level. I simply gather my notebook and tuck it under an arm before heading toward the door, refusing to drown myself in any more of Benjamin Gage’s hotness.
Despite my efforts, I succumb to a moment of weakness, lingering at the door for just a second too long. In that second, Mr. Gage’s gaze detaches from the intern in front of him and connects with mine, potently and deliberately. The deep, bleeding urgency within that scalding stare of his makes all of my insides come apart. My heart rate, which I had just managed to return to normal, flings itself right back into the race in one instant.
And this instant is all I need to remember—vividly—what it felt like to be in Ben’s home drinking his wine, staring into his eyes expectantly, and wondering what in the hell was about to happen. The excitement, the anticipation, the terror …
He’s your boss, whispers a voice. He’s untouchable. Turn away.
Turn away.
That’s precisely what I do. The eye contact breaks, though I can’t say whether it’s me who looks away first or him. I’m out of the conference room and crossing the office space. Every person I pass is a blur. Every face is every other face. Every tie is every other tie. Despite trying to push away thoughts of Ben, he’s the only damned thing I’m thinking about. I’m stony-eyed and lost in so many thoughts, I stumble twice on my way, almost walk into an opened filing cabinet, and literally forget where I am.
What a crap-tastic situation.
I finally make it back to the round table where the others are sitting. Elijah’s lit-up face sobers me. “Dude! How was it?”
I blink, completely lost. “H-How was what?”
“Getting to sit in a meeting with the man himself,” he answers, like it’s the most obvious thing. He wears a permanent smile of excitement that bunches up his cheeks. “You gotta tell me. What was it like, seeing him work his brilliance in the flesh?”
When I let my bewildered eyes drift from Elijah’s, I realize three of the other interns are also paying attention to me, having stopped their tasks to hear my answer. I haven’t quite had the pleasure to meet these three yet—including a pretty girl with short curly black hair, cute dorky glasses, smooth rich russet skin, and bright green eyes that seem to drink in everything. I notice her especially, since she’s standing right next to Elijah.
I shrug. “It … was interesting, I guess.”
“Don’t hold out,” teases Elijah, nudging me.
“I was just sent in there to take notes for Emilio, since he’s not here. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Elijah gapes at me. “Dude, that’s not even the point. You do realize everything has an ulterior motive, right? Rebekah chose you and Brandon to go in there and absorb. You weren’t supposed to just take notes, dummy. You’re learning the business! You’re picking up on his technique, watching the master at work!”
The other interns are still staring at me. I press my lips together and shuffle uncomfortably, not liking all the attention.
“Alright, alright.” My roommate lets off his tough, pressing demeanor. “I get it. You can tell me later,” he adds in a whisper. “I’ll order some teriyaki wings from the local wingery. That oughta loosen your tongue.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I state aloud, “and ‘wingery’ isn’t a word.”
“Sure it is.” He gives me another obnoxious nudge, chuckles, then adds, “You missed a spot,” with a poke at my belly before he returns to his work.
I glance down and notice a tiny smudge of toner I must’ve missed when I went to clean myself up before the meeting. In a haze of questions and frustration, I make my way back across the office to the restroom. In the quiet, offensively fluorescent-lit tiled room, I stand in front of the mirror and quietly scrub the last bit of toner off my shirt. Unlike the rest which came off easily, this bit only seems to smear, much to my jaw-tightening chagrin.
The door sweeps open suddenly. For some reason, I expect to see Brandon waltz in all smug and proud. But it’s not Brandon.
It’s Ben.
When the door closes, he just stands there, all six feet of him. His muscular shoulders fill that pinstriped white dress shirt. His sculpted pecs pull the thin fabric of his shirt across them as though the material was painted right on his body. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, giving a hint of his thick, muscled forearms. For some reason, I also happen to note how big his hands are.
Maybe because I want them on me right now. Maybe because I regret cutting off our Friday night so abruptly. Maybe a part of me secretly wishes we had gone all the way, since I now realize that the opportunity will never arise again.
Especially not in the office restroom. I turn away from him and face the mirror as I continue to scrub away, but now with more fervor than before.
“Trevor.”
In stark contrast to the dominant, powerful way in which he addressed me in the conference room, his voice is soft and sends a chill of sensitivity up my spine, feeling not unlike a pair of gentle, teasing fingertips tracing along my naked body. I feel goosebumps everywhere just from the sound of it.
And then I instantly resent the tingly, sexy feeling. “What?” I shoot back rudely, not looking his way.
He comes closer to the sink where I stand. The scent of his spicy cologne fills my nostrils. I fight an involuntary desire to drop against his meaty body, succumbing to the way he makes me feel when he’s in my presence.
He’s like a mean, potent drug that talks to me.
How cruel, when your addiction can talk to you and convince you to give in some more.
“I know what you’re up to,” he says to me, low and gravelly, “and I’m telling you now, it won’t work.”
I freeze. What the hell does he mean?
“Yeah,” he goes on, nodding with conviction. “You think I’m not on to you and your plan? Seducing me Friday night? Gunning to get the boss under your thumb so you can … what? Get some special treatment? Get a promotion?”
I drop my jaw. “I am not …” I can’t even look at him. I can barely make sentences. “I would never have—”
“C’mon,” he cuts me off. “You knew your boss’s name. That’s my name. Surely you had seen pictures and knew what my face looked like, too.”
Finally I face him, indignant. “Do you have any idea how you look online and how you look in the flesh? It’s not even the same person. Your online pics make you look like your own sanitized, imaginary uncle who owns a law firm in Connecticut. You don’t look a thing like …” I gesture my hand at his body, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt tapers perfectly to his form and disappears in his butt-hugging, thigh-squeezing slacks.
An amused smirk crosses his face. “That so?”
“Yeah!” I bite back. “You think I would actually …? You really thought I was trying to … to f-fuck my way to the top?” I can barely say the word.
His piercing, sexy stare is the only answer I get.
I scowl at him. “Then you don’t know me at all,” I spit back. “I was preparing all spring to be able to show off my skills to you. I wanted to work to impress you. I even studied your past clients! I’ve had my nose buried in books on marketing, on public relations and scandals and image …”
I let go of my tie. There’s no way I’m going to get the stupid smudge out anyway. I’m stained permanently. And I won’t try to draw symbolism out of that right now; I’m too angry.
“You expect me to believe that?” he presses on, stubborn.
“I … Y-You just … You believe whatever you want to believe.” I’m stammering now. It’s just too distracting to try and keep up my anger in front of Ben when all I’m doing is flooding myself with desire the longer I keep my eyes on him.
Control yourself! My heart is not racing because of how close he is to me. My legs are not squirming because of the blood flowing to my staff of destiny, which has to be conjuring up some kind of wicked, fiery dark magic down there, for all the inappropriate images racing past my eyes.
His smirk not letting up any, Ben takes a step closer.
I take a step back. It’s too overwhelming, being so close to him while wanting him this badly. I don’t trust myself. And clearly he doesn’t trust me. So why is he advancing on me still?
He takes another step.
My heels kick into the wall. My back presses flat against the cold tile.
Ben towers over me—masculine, powerful, reeking of sex and hunger—and his eyes, smoldering.
“Impress me?” he echoes tauntingly, practically sneering like a schoolyard bully. “You’re working to … impress me?”
I don’t know why, but I find the mocking tone in his voice to be so hot. I’m always so uptight and in control every second of my life. Having him tear all of that down—and force his way straight into my horny, repressed, starved psyche—is almost more than I can take. I’m desperate with yearning for him.
And I’m still angry at his accusation. Horny and angry is a deadly combination. “Yes,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls slowly with his firm, measured breathing. Ben is always in control.
“You really didn’t know who I was?”
I can only lift my chin halfway to him, unable to meet his eyes, for fear of what they’ll do to me. “No.”
His muscled chest keeps rising, falling, rising, falling before my eyes. “Really?”
“Really.” I lick my lips. “And … I think I still don’t.”
“You still don’t,” he agrees. “But let me enlighten you, Trevor. I’m your boss. You’re my intern. There’s nothing more going on between us, and there won’t be.”
“Nothing more going on between us,” I force myself to agree as I continue to stare hungrily at Ben. His arms shift ever slightly, and I revel in the creasing and pulling of his shirt fabric over his biceps. I have never been so hypnotized before by the simple way in which a man’s clothing fits so perfectly to his sculpted body. I see every inch of him in such tortuous detail.
“Eyes up here,” he demands with a snap of his fingers.
At once, I flick my eyes to his, then cower under the weight of his magnificent, steely gaze.
Yeah, he seriously just snapped his fingers at me—like I’m his new obedient dog, trained and housebroken.
“Professional,” Ben states for a reminder in that firm yet silky voice of his.
And all the while, I’m leaking pre-cum like no one’s business in my fast tightening underwear. It is official. I feel it. My cock throbs, wet, and my breath quickens, and my eyes are trained.
“Boss,” he states, lifting one of his big fingers and pointing to his massive chest. Then he moves his finger to my chest, poking me with enough force to pin me to the wall if I wasn’t pinned here already. “Intern.”
He really knows how to put a boy in his place. “Understood.”
After lingering for far too long on my chest, he finally drops his hand. I wait for him to turn away and leave me to finish up in the restroom, or perhaps to give me a big long spiel on the grave importance of keeping it appropriate in the workplace, or how he still thinks I knew who he was Friday night and just wanted to fuck my way to the top.
Instead, he grabs me by the tie and yanks me into his face, then plants his firm, wet lips on mine.