Tempted
Layla
Mr Steele: Late.
I scowl at the text.
The clipped message from my reclusive, billionaire, alphahole boss that I can fully translate after five months.
Don’t wait up. I will be late.
And the don’t wait up is not a suggestion. He needs me out of his sight, hidden in my room in his ridiculously secluded, massive mansion when he comes home.
He’s trained me well.
Like a pet who only needs a word or two from their human to roll over and comply with a demand.
If the human is a man who pays me generously to roll over.
And when you’re a 22-year old with a mountain of student debt, a shit mother who only asks for things, never gives, and a revolving door of stepfathers who think you’re fair game while they’re dating your mother...paycheck beats dignity.
So rolling over it is.
After giving him a little bit of sass so he knows I’m not a total pushover. He has enough people around him who hang on to his every word, which is part of the reason why he behaves like he owns the oxygen in any room he walks into. I don’t want to be one of those people. So even it’s token sass, it still counts.
Me: How kind of you to let me know, Mr Steele, Sir
I cringe after I hit send and re-read it.
Why the hell am I saying things to him lately that sound so...flirty?
He’s my boss, I’m his nanny.
He has money, I don’t.
And he’s a...married man. Married. With a child.
The fact that his wife is some globe-trotting journalist whose job is too important for her to be home for more than a few weeks a year, is irrelevant.
I’ve not even seen her photos. Apparently, her job requires anonymity.
But I’m sure she’s stunning. Because he’s...God, the man is perfection. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, crystal gray eyes, fit physique, dense brown hair...if I could, I’d write poems.
And he clearly loves her.
He never stays out overnight, or brings any woman home. So unless he’s using his office or these events to pick up chicks, or is just really good at covering his tracks, he’s...faithful.
A pang tightens my chest.
I want to ask his staff about her. And I don’t. I’m dying of curiosity, but afraid of finding out just how far out of my league he actually is even if he was single. So ignorance is bliss.
His wife must be some woman to have a man like him so loyal to her, when she’s barely ever with him. I can only hope to have someone love me like that some day.
My phone pings back.
Mr Steele: As a reminder, I’m not paying you for lip, Ms Monroe.
My fingers are racing on the keypad instantly.
Me: It’s called going above and beyond, Mr Steele, Sir
It only takes a few seconds.
Mr Steele: Seems like I need to evaluate how much idle time you have on your hands.
Awful man.
He knows perfectly well that I have zero free time. Between senior year study pressure and Ben, I’m hardly ever free.
I lock my phone and set it down.
Whatever.
I still have an unfinished assignment I need to submit tonight.
2-year old Ben is usually the sweetest, easiest little baby to take care of, but he was especially fussy today because the poor darling is teething. So I had no time to study during the day.
But working in my room always gets me sleepy. His precious study is the only place I’m able to focus. Go figure.
I’m just going to finish this submission and then dash to my room before he’s back. I only need like 20 more minutes, and he’ll never have to know that I use his study all the time when he’s out. The study that he’s told me is explicitly off limits.
“Getting bolder, are we, Ms Monroe?”
Rowan Steele’s deep, low baritone has me jumping out of the chair, my neck darting up, my eyes flying from my laptop screen to him standing at the door of the study, leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets.
What?? He’s here? So soon? So—
My gaze flicks to the digital clock on the wall behind him.
It wasn’t 20 minutes. I’ve been here for more than 4 hours, and it’s 11:52pm now.
Shit.
I get up from the chair—his chair, double shit—as gracefully, as calmly as I can, closing my laptop.
Then clear my throat and ignore the hammering of my heart. “I was just leaving, Mr Steele.”
He straightens and strides in, unhurried, stopping when he’s at the other side of his desk, across from me.
My pussy clenches.
Because...good God.
He’s wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that looks like it was tailored to make women ovulate. A vest clings to his broad, muscled chest. His tie is loosened, the top two buttons of his gray shirt undone, revealing a tantalizing slash of tanned skin and the faint shadow of chest hair. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his brown hair is slightly tousled, and those heart-stopping gray eyes look tired but still sharp enough to cut glass.
He smells like expensive whiskey and cedar cologne. And something musky. I can scent him from across the desk.
“I believe the question is why are you in here at all.” He rumbles, gaze piercing.
My pulse jumps. One, he doesn’t like excuses or lies. Two, he was plenty clear the day I moved in that his study is off limits. And now here I am, caught after sneakily using it after so long.
Wait. He doesn’t know that, right?
“It was a mistake.” I push out. “Won’t happen a second time.”
He tilts his head. “You realize there are cameras in here, right?”
Triple shit. Shit shit shit.
I swallow. “It won’t happen again at all, Mr Steele.” I amend.
He says nothing, just eyes me with that disconcerting look like if he keeps at it long enough, he’ll know all my thoughts, my secrets.
Even the obscene ones about him. The ones that make me wet.
Move, move, get out of here.
“I’ll go.” I say quickly, grabbing my laptop and scrambling out from behind the desk.
One minute I’m beelining toward the door, the next my bare foot catches awkwardly on the edge of the thick area rug and I’m tipping over.
But before I can crash to the floor on my ass or face, one large hand lands on my hip, and another large one bands around my lower back, fingers splaying, yanking me flush against a hard chest.
Holy moly of folly.
I’m pressed against him. Mr Steele.
Such that I feel every inch of him — the heat radiating through his dress shirt, the solid wall of muscle, the strength in his arms. My breasts crush against the vest, nipples tightening into aching peaks within seconds.
And I’m gushing onto the crotch of my panties.
Just as something pokes into my lower belly for one electric heartbeat before he releases me and steps back, jaw clenched tight.
Face suddenly dark.
“Leave.” He barks.
I do.
I literally run out of there, all the way to my room.
Shutting the door, I try to calm my sprinting heart.
That was a close call. He’s been tolerant of my attitude, and he’s been more than fair about my employment terms. And I need this job. I have a great place to live, food to eat, and I feel safe in my life for the first time since my breasts formed. I can’t keep pushing boundaries. For any reason.
Which means...stopping every sick thing I’ve been doing, because I’m so disgustingly in lust with him.
Everything.
All of it.
...after tonight.
Just one more night.
Then I’ll stop.
His bedroom door is ajar. Outside the master bathroom, he’s left a neat pile of discarded clothes: the jacket, the vest, the white dress shirt still warm from his body, the trousers…and the black boxer briefs he wore tonight.
My breath glitches.
I shouldn’t. Shit, I really shouldn’t.
I keep thinking he’s so obscenely rich that he’ll never notice.
But it’s been weeks. I have...seven pairs so far.
Of his underwear.
I’m stealing my married boss’s underwear.
Then press their crotch to my face while I masturbate. Sniffing it. Picturing his cock touching the fabric. Maybe spurting some precum on them if I was lucky.
I need to stop this depravity.
...after tonight.
I pick them up.
They’re still slightly damp with his sweat and the faint musk of his cock and balls. The scent makes my mouth water.
I tuck them quickly into the waistband of my yoga pants, pressed against my skin. My dirty secret.
Then I tiptoe to my usual spot outside the glass doors of the shower. The one that gives me the most optimal view of my boss taking a shower. I can’t see all of him, but I can see enough to fuel my fantasies.
The shower is already running. Steam curls invitingly from the cracks of the glass doors.
Shame burns in me.
But not enough to turn away.
I need this. It’s a sick compulsion.
I pick up his white dress shirt and bury my face in it, inhaling deeply. The fabric still carries the heat of his skin, the rich cedar of his cologne, the faint salt of his sweat.
My pussy throbs so viciously I have to bite my lip.
I slip my hand inside my yoga pants, past the drenched lace of my panties. My clit is swollen, slick, begging. The first flick on it makes my knees buckle. I brace one hand on the wall, clutching his shirt to my nose with the other, and lean closer to the narrow crack in the door.
Mr Steele stands under the rainfall showerhead, water cascading over every hard, sculpted inch of his body. Broad shoulders, defined back tapering to a narrow waist, thick powerful thighs, and the most perfect ass ever created. Not that I’ve seen many. Or any. But I’m still sure.
When he shifts slightly, I catch a perfect view of his cock — thick, heavy, already half-hard. It’s big. So big it makes me a little afraid. I was legit terrified when I saw it for the first time.
Is this why his wife stays away for months? Because she needs all that time to recover from his massive penis?
I get it. Although if it was me, I’d let him fuck me sore and aching.
I see him wrap one large hand around it and give it a slow, firm stroke from root to tip, veins standing out along the thick shaft.
A muffled whimper falls out of me.
I press down and rub my clit, frantic, while sliding two fingers through my dripping folds, imagining it’s his hand, his tongue, his fat cock splitting me open while he tells me in that rough, arrogant tone that I’m a dirty nanny who can’t keep it in her pants.
The wet sounds of my fingers working my leaking cunt mix with the rush of the shower water.
I can smell him everywhere — his shirt against my face, the stolen briefs pressed warm against my hip, the steam thick with his masculine scent.
Inside the shower, Mr Steele’s head tips back, water streaming down his face and chest. His hand moves faster on his cock, long, deliberate strokes. The thick head glistens as water runs down the tip. I assume mixed with precum.
Fuck.
Pleasure coils tight and brutal, low in my belly.
My thighs tremble violently.
I bite down hard on the collar of his shirt to stifle the sounds as my orgasm crashes over me — sharp, blinding, guilty as hell.
My pussy spasms hard around nothing, slick gushing over my fingers in hot pulses while I keep rubbing through every aftershock, eyes locked on Mr Steele’s big, powerful body through the crack in the door.
When it finally fades, I’m shaking, legs weak, his shirt damp from my mouth and the frustrated tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
With jittery hands, I bunch up his underwear, and slink out of his room with it.
The tears start when I close the door to my room, slump against it, and drop to the floor.
What is wrong with me?
He’s never been inappropriate with me. High-handed, but always a gentleman. Unlike the disgusting men ma dates and marries.
He’s offered more than once to clear off my tuition debt. He’s given me health insurance. Free reign to the mansion’s pantry. I can cook or ask the staff to make something for me, and he never questions it.
He has trusted me unconditionally with Ben the minute I started this job. No, the minute I walked in for the interview and interacted with Ben.
I should respect him. Be grateful to him. Not do whatever the hell I’m doing.
Then why am I doing it? Why can’t I stop?
I think...maybe, ma was right?
Maybe I am a desperate slut. It just took this man to bring it out of me.
What happens if he finds out?
