His Distraction

Brielle has always been happy to be whatever her boss wants her to be. And what he's always wanted most was a distraction: her body is his main source of stress relief whenever he has problems with his wife. But something's about to happen that will change their affair forever. It isn't a safe time. And Darren's insisting on taking her unprotected...

Excerpt:
I slipped quietly into my boss’ office, though I knew he was on the phone. I was the one who had originally taken the call, of course. Knew who it was and how it would affect Darren.

Just as I expected, he looked… frazzled. His hair stood on end from where he’d slashed his hand through the strands, repeatedly, and his tie was askew. More telling was the flush in his cheeks and the way the hand that wasn’t holding the phone receiver clenched around the ‘stress ball’ some of his co-workers had given him as a gag gift one Christmas.

Never realizing that he was often truly in need of stress relief. Or that he had another way of getting it.

From me.

“Yes, dear.” The sound of his voice made me jump. I had known that he was talking to his wife. There must have been an expectant pause in her stream of complaints and demands. One that he’d felt obligated to reply to.

I don’t know why she always insisted on calling him on his office phone. Darren had a cell, and it wasn’t like anyone in the office would dare complain if he took a personal call on that line on occasion. I always had the sense that the woman got some sort of strange, twisted thrill out of what she was doing. As if the reminder that there was someone dedicated to take care of the most menial of things—like transferring phone calls—for her husband made her feel good.

She reminded me of the women my mother used to complain about when I was a girl. I was an army brat. My mother had hated dealing with those army wives who, in her words, “wore their husband’s rank.” Or thought they did anyway. Believing that being married to an officer gave them some kind of power over the others.

I could picture Mrs. Mitchell doing that. I’m sure she often boasted about her husband’s job to her friends.

As if she had somehow been responsible for his career.

The only thing she was actually responsible for was spending his money. Spending it almost as fast as he could earn it.

Darren didn’t look up as I crossed over to his desk. He had pushed his chair back slightly, which allowed me to get down on the carpet under the piece of furniture.

Only the twitch of a muscle in his jaw acknowledged my presence.

But I knew what he needed right now.

Quickly and quietly, with the stealth I had developed after many years of practice, I undid his belt and the fly of his trousers. Reaching through the opening of his boxers, I drew out his cock.