She leaned in, a tip she had read today on HuffPo’s Love & Sex section. Boobs out, smile wide, voice low.
Being sexy was exhausting.
She pushed him back to the desk, poking his chest.
“I may punch you, bite you, crush your nuts between my thighs. It’s going to be the best hate sex I’ve ever had. And your survival is not my first concern.”
He was the hottest guy she had ever seen, so out of her league they hadn’t invented his league yet. It was like Future League of Hot Guys We Can’t Place Because They’re Too Fucking Hot.
“They’re a slow-moving lot, reporters. Slothlike. Weighed down by all that righteous indignation about the freedom of the press and the public’s right to know, not to mention the liquid lunches they see as their constant due. Go out now and you’re playing right into their grasping, ink-stained hands.” He cocked an ear to the door. “I’m doing my best to protect your reputation here. It wouldn’t do to have a serving wench caught in a compromising position with the lord of the manor.”
“You don’t have the cleavage to make a good serving wench, Eli.”
“Who needs the fairy tale when crazy, messy, sexy reality with the woman I adore is a million times better?”