My boss stands facing his floor to ceiling windows, gloriously naked from the waist upward, his shoulders broad and his back straight. Silver scars, remnants of his rough childhood, slash his golden skin. His tan is natural, his forearms darker than his shoulders, and his dark brown hair is cropped close to his head. Tuxedo pants hug his narrow hips, his feet are braced apart and a phone is pressed to his ear.

A massive mahogany desk paired with a brown leather captain’s chair dominates one end of the office. The shelves lining the interior walls are filled with textbooks, every weighty volume read by my self-educated boss. John’s suit, shirt, and tie are discarded over the two guest chairs positioned in front of the desk.

I stride to the brass coat rack and hang his shirt beside his tuxedo jacket. John turns, and his gaze meets mine, his brown eyes dark and smoldering, resembling the richest, most decadent hot chocolate. My stomach flutters.

His profile is sharp, his thin blade-like nose and defined chin striking rather than classically handsome. More scars circle his neck. According to internet reports, a druggie slashed my boss’ throat when he was a teenager. Not even that brush with death could slow him down.

My gaze drops and my pulse increases. John’s tuxedo pants are undone, the v exposing stark white cotton briefs. A trail of fine brown hair travels downward from the indent at his navel, disappearing under the waistband. I lick my lips, wishing to follow this path with my tongue.

“What?” John barks into his phone. “Hell no, Bass.” He returns his gaze to the blue sky, his focus on the call. I remove the shirt from the wire hanger. “There has to be profitability in this project. I’m running a business, not a charity.”

This isn’t the complete truth. Powers Corporation does give money to charity. I tap his fingers. John lifts his arm, his frown deepening, and I slip the shirtsleeve over his hand, his musky male scent engulfing me.

John leans into me, lowering his big body, allowing me to dress him. The soft cotton pulls tight across his wide shoulders, his back muscles ripple and his biceps bulge. He’s a man in his prime, strong and beautiful, and I long to drag my lips over his tanned skin, to taste every inch of him.

Good assistants don’t taste their bosses. With my slight form positioned in front of my executive’s much larger physique, I feel tiny and feminine and needy, so very needy. My fingers tremble as I fasten his black enamel buttons, quickly covering his magnificent chest, his chiseled abs, his heart-wrenching scars, removing the temptation to touch him. My normally keen-eyed boss thankfully doesn’t notice my reaction to his near-nudity.

“I know Grant told you that,” John rumbles, his voice deep. “What I don’t know is why you didn’t address my concerns immediately.” He spreads his arms.

I reach around his trim waist. His body is seductively warm. I tuck his shirttails into his pants, smoothing the material over his clenched ass cheeks. Dressing John is a test of my professionalism, a test I know I will some day fail.

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for bullshit.”

I wince, having warned Mr. Bass not to waste my boss’ valuable time. The young CEO clearly didn’t listen to me. I slide my hands around John’s hips, over his groin, trying not to touch him, unsuccessful in my quest. My boss is too big, all over.

His cock hardens. In the past, I told myself this was a natural reaction, a man’s response to any woman’s touch. Now, after the discussion with Stacie, I’m not certain. Is he reacting specifically to me, to my hands on his body?

“That’s what I need to know,” John continues his phone conversation.

I fasten the button of his pants. The impressively large ridge in his white briefs prevents me from doing more. I nibble on my bottom lip and glance upward at his face, undecided as to what to do next. John doesn’t look at me, showing no indication that he knows I’m standing before him.

Stacie must be wrong. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t even realize I’m here. I glide my fingertips over his briefs, flatten my palm along his cloth-covered shaft, and nudge him to the side. A shudder rolls down John’s torso, shaking his shoulders.

He knows I’m here now. I smugly tug the metal teeth of his zipper closer together and slowly pull the tab upward, stretching the black fabric of his pants over his hardness. His knuckles whiten around the frame of his phone.

I reach into the right front pocket of his pants, pressing my fingers into his hip as I remove the cufflinks I’ve stored there, the devil in me teasing him more, seeking to ensure he’s aware of me. John’s gaze flicks downward, his eyes excitingly dark, tempestuous, holding a warning I won’t, can’t heed.

I grasp his left wrist, fold the cotton neatly and insert the cufflink, my head bent over my task. John’s knuckles are scarred, silver slashes marring his tanned skin, a testament to his rough childhood and his warrior soul. He acts the sophisticated man now but he has fought for every thing he’s earned, building his business from nothing.

John transfers his phone from his right hand to his left and I fasten his right cuff, resisting the urge to kiss his scars, to lave the raised skin with the flat of my tongue, to care for him the way I yearn to care for him.

“Breakeven should never be your goal.” John bends over, lowering his face to my eyelevel. I retrieve his bowtie and loop the strip of black fabric around his scarred neck. “Grant must have told you that also.” My normally direct boss avoids my gaze as he straightens.

Could Stacie be right? I fasten the black cummerbund around his waist. Could John be interested in me?

“She’ll set it up.”

I hold out his jacket and he shrugs into it. My heart squeezes. Clad in his normal suits, John’s appeal damages my control. In a tuxedo, he’s downright lethal. I brush my hands over his shoulders and place a folded cloth handkerchief in his pocket, completing his sophisticated ensemble.

“We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.” John ends the call, lowering his phone. “Bass wants to meet tomorrow, eleven thirty, half an hour, my office.”

John already has a meeting tomorrow at eleven thirty. I maintain my blank expression, not showing my dismay. His schedule will have to be rearranged yet again. “Yes, sir.” I extract his keys and wallet from the pocket of his suit pants and I hold them out to him. His fingers brush over mine as he retrieves his essentials.

“Bass is an idealistic kid,” my boss declares.

“Yes, sir,” I dutifully reply. Rexton Bass is two years younger than John and three years older than I am. “His proposal has legs though.”

“So you say,” John drawls. “Walk with me, Grant.”

He waits for me to exit first and then stalks soundlessly behind me, his tread light for such a large man. My boss prefers that I walk in front of him. I suspect this is to buffer him from overzealous employees.

“Is she meeting me at the venue?” he asks.

Is she meeting him? I smother my grin. He doesn’t remember his date’s name. “Yes, a car has been dispatched for Marcia. You sent her the usual dozen red roses.”

“What did you put on the card?” John presses the button for the elevator. “I hope the message wasn’t emotional. The last one was a clinger, wanted my direct number.” The doors open. He allows me to enter first.

“You wrote the standard ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.’” I wave my passcard over the sensor and choose executive parking, ensuring the elevator makes no other stops. “Marcia is an actress.” I prep him. “She plays a vampire in a TV series.”

“I don’t plan to talk to her.” John frowns, crowding me into the right rear corner. “Have your phone on. We have work to do.”

We always have work to do. “My phone will be on all night, sir.” I stare at his back, my view obstructed by one massive male.