JAMES

Did she really just say she wants in my pants? Because apparently, she already is. The same cotton that normally cups my balls is rubbing between her legs right now.

How am I supposed to react to this? How am I not supposed to be bowled over by the idea of her wanting in my pants? Or the fact that she’s wearing my Jockeys right now?

My body refuses to behave, latching onto the conundrum like a drowning man. Why can I not seem to get a handle on things since she walked through the door this morning? It’s Myra, for God’s sake.

I try to chase after her, but it’s hard maneuvering this stupid wheelchair with only one hand. As hard as the erection tenting my pants. Rather, my brother’s pants. I want out of his, Myra wants into mine.

That is what she said, isn’t it? I didn’t imagine those words coming from her mouth?

The wheeled chair slams into the cabinet, jarring my broken ankle. “Goddamn it!” Gritting my teeth, I surge forward until the narrow rubber wheels bump into the raised threshold of the doorway leading out onto the patio.

She’s left the screen open, so while I can’t get outside without her help, I can at least watch while she familiarizes herself with the grill. She’s dancing while she turns on the gas, humming to a song in her head. While her breasts are small, they still move slightly as she bounces, and the nipples are so hard they stab at the shirt, creating an outline that’s almost as clear as staring at the real thing.

My shirt. She’s wearing my undershirt and boxers. Not exactly the image her words conjure in my mind. I’d rather her hand be in those boxers while they’re on my body.

No, I wouldn’t. Okay, yes, I would, but I shouldn’t want that. Not from Myra.

“What do you mean, you need to get into my pants?” Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey have nothing on the moves my mind is conjuring at the moment.

No, that can’t be what she means. That’s not who we are. “Are you sure that’s what you meant to say?”

“Oh.” She glances up from where she’s laying out skewered meat and vegetables on the cast iron grates. Her cheeks flame, red splotches that she probably thinks make her look terrible, but are damned endearing. “With Chloe on her honeymoon and you indisposed, I assume you expect me to run the business for the next two weeks. Which means I need to get into your…”

“Head?” That doesn’t help. Not when the one in my pants is throbbing.

“I need to get into your head. Yes, that’s the proper phrase.”

“Yeah, that’s the proper phrase.” I clear my throat. Head. Head. Head. I close my eyes and try not to picture her moving closer, dropping to her knees... “I don’t think you’ll have a difficult time of it. You know me better than anyone else. Better than I know myself.”

She snorts and returns her focus to grilling our dinner. “If that were the case…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” she mutters while closing the lid on the grill. “Do you need a refill?”

I left my glass in the kitchen since I can’t roll around in this chair while holding it. Somebody needs to invent cup holders for these things.

Christ, I need to get back on track here. “Going to get me to reveal all my secrets so you can take over my business while I’m incapacitated?”

She rolls her eyes as she slips past me, her leg brushing against mine. I almost reach out with my good hand, let my fingers trail along her calf below the hemline of her capris.

“Right,” she says, “That’s exactly my plan.”

***

Between the two of us, we manage to get my wheelchair outside onto the patio, where we eat dinner at the tiny bistro table that’s usually reserved for drinking coffee while I’m taking meetings with business associates located on the other side of the globe, before heading into the office each morning. Realistically, I’ll be able to perform most of the functions of my job from home while my various cracked and bruised bones heal.

“You aren’t planning to go into the office this week, are you?” I ask before biting down on a perfectly marinated and grilled chunk of chicken and tugging it off the stick.

Myra daintily slices her meat before popping a small piece into her mouth. She doesn’t answer me until she’s swallowed and chased the morsel with a slug of wine. Which is a perfectly acceptable way to eat, yet it makes me shift in my seat as I imagine her throat working like that while she swallows me down.

I grab my wine. I should push it away because it’s probably at least partially to blame for my recent inability to keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow, but screw it. I need something to wet my suddenly parched throat.

“Of course I am,” she says. “Have to keep your business running, remember?”

I need her here with me, not in my office.

“We can do that from here. You’ll just need to reschedule any in-person meetings, and possibly cancel that trip to San Francisco.”

She frowns. “I was looking forward to exploring some of the wineries in Napa Valley.”

I wish I could explore you. I place my elbow on the table and rub at my temple. I swear, not only can I hear that little devil whispering in my head, I can practically see him perched on my shoulder, laughing at my struggle to keep my thoughts from straying into inappropriate territory. Over my admin, for Christ’s sake.

She leaps to her feet and rushes around the table. “Are you all right?” She bends over and the front of her—my—shirt falls away from her chest, giving me a bird’s eye view of her delightfully pert breasts.

I can’t help it; I lean forward until my forehead brushes against her chest. I feel her heart beating, watch her nipples pucker, and I lick my lips. God, I want a taste. Just a lick and a suckle. And—

Myra grabs my head and lifts my face until I’m staring into her eyes, which are wide, the pupils darting back and forth. “James? James, focus. Can you hear me? Should I call the doctor?”

I shake my head, but she doesn’t release her hold. “No, I’m fine. I just…”

I want you.

No, no, that’s not right. “I’m tired, I guess. Moving about in this contraption is far more difficult than it looks.”

“Here, let me get you inside. You need to lie down, get some rest.”

It doesn’t take long until I’m settled on the couch and Myra is trying to tuck a blanket around my legs, which is unnecessary as the temperature in the condo is plenty warm enough. Not to mention, I don’t want her to get too close and realize my dick isn’t doing a very good job of following her directions.

But Myra is a damned determined woman, and when she makes up her mind about something, it’s nearly impossible to sway her. Pulling my mother’s homemade afghan off the back of the couch, she shakes out the folds and drapes it over my legs, reaching across my lap to tuck the fringed edge between me and the cushion. My pecker leaps for joy at her nearness, the head bumping into her arm. She jerks away, dragging across my sensitive skin, and I bow into myself, shockwaves of unexpected pleasure surging through my body like a freaking lightning strike.

And unsurprisingly, I’m not any less hard, despite that embarrassing interaction. Myra is staring at my lap like she’s never seen a guy’s rock hard dick before.

I grasp the blanket, bunching it on my legs to hide the evidence of my arousal. This is ridiculous. And embarrassing. I cannot imagine what Myra must be thinking, seeing her boss tenting his pants over her.

For five years, we’ve had an easy, relaxed rapport. In fact, since her first day on the job, she’s had this same comfortable relationship with all of us. Well, not exactly the same, I suppose. She and Garrett have always acted like brother and sister, and she’s always mothered Paynt, even though she’s only three years his senior. And she and I have never been precisely friends, either, like her and Ronnie.

Still, when it comes down to it, we are business associates. Practically partners, truth be told. Okay, Chloe technically is my partner, but Myra, she’s…I don’t know. Necessary. How many deals has she managed to step in and close when I struggled to grasp what the client really wanted? It’s funny; I never considered promoting her into a different position because she has always been so perfect as my assistant. To be fair, she’s never asked, either.

“Is that what you want?” I ask abruptly.

Her gaze whips to my face and she licks her lips, and my mind leaps right back into the gutter. My vision goes hazy as the image of her standing over me shifts, and instead, she’s kneeling next to the couch, her head bobbing over my lap while my hand is twisted in her hair, the other gripping the cushion while I try to hold out because this is so damn good I want it to go on forever and—

“Er, what do you mean?” she asks, and I shake my head to clear the fantasy. I can conjure it up later, when I’m alone. Even though I shouldn’t.

“A promotion,” I manage to croak. The tension seeps from my body, the idea pushing away the fog in my brain. Yes, this is why Myra has decided to quit. I’m not sure why it was such a shock to me that I tripped over the goat at Paynt’s wedding, but that doesn’t matter now.

“I’ll hate not having you as my assistant, because we work so well together, but I can’t hold you back any longer, Supergirl. If anyone deserves to fly, it’s you. I should have promoted you a long time ago. And I’m sorry I apparently took it so poorly last night when you obviously suggested it. I don’t have an excuse. But I can make it right now. How would you like to be my partner?”

“Partner?”

I nod, grinning widely. Her eyes are huge, her mouth a perfect O. Not quite the reaction I expect for such an offer, but it has been five years. I’m sure she’s shocked I’ve finally come to my senses.

“Yes. I want you to be my business partner.”