I rounded the corner near the copier, and my train of thought jumped the tracks. Kellan was on his knees in front of the monstrous machine, pushing tray buttons at random and swearing inventively under his breath. He sat back with his ass on his heels, so it became obvious that his legs were just as tight as I’d previously speculated. That was a pretty hard body he was working there. He looked up at me, sighing, mouth just slightly open.
Hey, while you’re down there…
And there it was, the inappropriate workplace boner. I ducked down to eye level and asked, “Problems?” This served to mask my reaction well enough that I could be sure, at least, that he wouldn’t slap me with a harassment suit.
He made that face again, the annoyed-kid one. “Paper jam. I can’t find the fucking tray. There’s A, B, and D.”
I reached out and tapped the side of the copier, as it happened to be near me, where he couldn’t see it. The tray popped open, and I said, “C.”
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it wrecked, and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Motherfucker.”
I couldn’t help it. “You know, Kellan, you got a mouth on you.”
He bit his bottom lip as if to keep from smiling. “Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. Really.”
He grinned outright but looked down.
I rearranged myself as best I could without showing off how impressed I was with his dirty mouth and dug out the paper that was causing him grief. “Poor old thing. He’ll work for anyone, but there’s just no heart left in him.”
“Wrong or right, men are statistically more likely to work for anyone.” I fixed him with a significant glance around the copier.
He shifted in a familiar way, sort of folding in on himself, still on his knees. He laughed, and the little dimple appeared in an unnaturally flushed cheek.
Couldn’t get a clear view to check the state of his package, but I didn’t need to—other than just wanting a good look at it. I told myself to stop there, let it be, but something perverse in me pushed me onward. “We can’t help ourselves, I guess.”
“No shit.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. They were better than good when he was genuinely amused—they were exquisite, even hidden behind glasses.
I wondered what he’d do if I stood, let him see how hard this got me, and then nodded toward the door. Would he follow me to the bathroom? To my car in the garage? Or would he just silently fantasize about yanking down my pants and sucking me off in the middle of the office? Maybe pulling me down on the floor and fucking my brains out right there and then?
The way his flush crept into his ears, I could almost buy that it’d be something like that anyhow. Always the quiet ones, right?
No. This was anything but idle speculation. This, I wanted. Bad.
“This thing giving you trouble again, James?”
The sound of that particular voice snapped me out of my head so fast I almost got whiplash. I looked up at Amy Delmonico: read, my boss. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and wears power suits; great sense of humor, but never steps over the line; doesn’t drink too much at the Christmas party; at her desk by nine a.m. sharp. She’s one scary-perfect executive, I mean to say.
Not someone I wanted to fuck with. But thank God, she was smiling.
So I said, “Yes, ma’am.” And then, though I knew I shouldn’t, that perverse thing—probably the one in my pants—made me continue with, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it a good flogging.”
She laughed and walked on.
Kellan said, now from behind a hand, “Can’t help ourselves with that either, huh?”
He chuckled silently as I finished digging out his paper jam, calming down slightly but not even close to enough to stand.
When I handed over the crumpled remnants of his print job, he said, “My hero.”
By that time, my brain was screaming at my dick to stop it, but this was definitely a libido-override situation. I licked my lips, fixed him with another look, and said, “At your service.”
No, really. Anything you want. Anytime you want it. At. Your. Service.