Chapter 15 You and I in the Bathroom 1
June
Phew. I sigh the moment he steps into the restroom.
Should I even be sighing in relief?
I almost acted like a complete pervert just now — falling into his arms like some drunk groupie.
That damn tequila—
No. Don’t you dare blame that innocent drink, June.
Three shots of tequila don’t get you tipsy enough to fall chest-first into a man.
But... was his heart racing just now?
Or was I imagining that too?
Ugh. Forget it, June. Just forget everything that happened.
At least he thinks I’m a little drunk. That’s a good thing... right?
"What do we have here?" I mumble, picking up one of the files.
“PETITION FOR THE HALT OF Xyren-4.”
Huh. I’ve seen that before — on some dark web medical thread.
It’s a new drug, right? Can’t remember what it does exactly… but it was controversial.
Wait.
What does Apex have to do with this?
I move closer to his desk, flipping the pages, eyes scanning fast—almost there—just when I hear that deep, delicious voice behind me:
“What are you—”
Shit.
I panic. I need to look like I’m sorting, not snooping.
I jolt backward instantly— straight into something solid, and warm.
And—
No. Nope. Too warm and too firm.
His cologne hits me first. The usual dark, expensive kind that smells like he bites.
Then—
Oh God.
Am I hallucinating again?
Because why the hell do I feel something hard poking right into my as—
Click. Darkness.
The lights are gone.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
This is going to make my imagination so much worse.
I swear I can feel it pulsing right there. Still pressed against me.
Do I move? Should I?
Should I... touch it?
The lights snap back on.
And with it, a wave of embarrassment hits me square in the face.
Why can’t I keep my imagination in check—especially when I’m in front of him?
Or, you know, literally pressed against him.
"I'm sorry, sir!" I squeak, sounding like some sad anime schoolgirl.
He blinks. Flustered, and confused. Maybe horrified, which is fair. He has a walking hormonal crisis for a secretary.
"I—I need to use the restroom. I’ll be quick!" I blurt out, practically sprinting toward salvation.
I think I hear him say something behind me, but I’m already halfway down the hall.
Right now, I need to be anywhere else. Anywhere that’s not right in front of his
I can't even imagine it without my brain censoring it.
Inside the bathroom, I tug off his coat, it’s not cold anymore. It’s freaking hot.
My cheeks are burning, my chest is tight, and my thighs—
Okay. No.
Back in his office—when the lights went out—was I actually about to touch Mr. Grande’s co—
"Oh my God!"
I splash cold water on my face.
Then my neck, then my collarbones.
Hell, I start sprinkling it down my chest like I’m casting out horny demons.
"You almost got yourself fired because of your dirty thoughts," I hiss, pointing a dripping finger at my reflection.
She looks just as red-faced and guilty as I feel.
I groan and press my palms to my burning cheeks.
I have to fix this. Get it together.
I need to relieve this ache before I do something incredibly stupid.
I wear back his coat: This won't take long.
I stumble into one of the stalls and lock the door behind me with shaking fingers.
This is insane. I’m insane.
But I can't walk back into that office with this heat between my legs. This throbbing, persistent, embarrassing, and real ache.
So real.
I slide my back down the cool metal until I’m sitting on the closed lid, thighs clenched tight.
Just one minute. One tiny relief.
I slip a hand beneath my dress.
God, I’m already wet. Soaked, actually.
And it’s his fault.
That cologne, that voice, that damn heartbeat I felt pounding against my back like it was about to break through his ribcage.
The way his body curved around mine—solid, warm, and unforgiving.
Did I imagine it? The way something hard was pressing against my ass?
No. I felt it. He was hard for me.
I bite my lower lip and press down against my swollen clit, moaning quietly into the sleeve of his coat still draped around me. Still smelling like him.
My fingers move slowly drawing soft circles that make my thighs quiver.
"What are you doing, June?" I whisper to myself, breathless.
Losing it. That’s what I’m doing.
But I can’t stop picturing his cold, furious, and beautiful face.
How his lips almost touched my ear when he caught me snooping.
How his hands barely brushed my waist but it burned.
My hips buck and I press harder, circling faster now.
What if he touched me like this?
What if that cold voice dropped to a whisper and he said my name while dragging his fingers—
I bite down a moan.
"Fuck…" I pant.
A wave builds—hot and dangerous. My stomach tightens, and my toes curl in my heels.
"Nnh..."
I imagine him watching me like this, mouth hard, eyes darker than sin—
“June.”
He'll growl it, like a warning.
My hand moves faster, riding the rhythm. I’m so close. Right there—
My fingers are working fast now. Slippery and desperate.
"Hnnf... ah— fucking hell"
I don’t even care anymore — I just need this. I need it.
The pressure’s building. Climbing.
I’m panting, biting down on my sleeve, trying not to make a sound as my head tips back and my thighs begin to shake.
"Hermes...Huhh... hhhah..."
It slips out before I can stop it. It's a whisper, a plea, and a curse.
And then it hits — wave after wave — rolling through me like hot lightning. My back arches off the toilet lid, mouth open in a silent moan as I shudder through it.
Oh. My. Good. God.
It’s blinding and shameful, but I'm not even sorry.
I sit there for a moment, my chest heaving, soaked and limp.
Relief washes through me like a drug. I might actually survive this night now.
I giggle like a maniac.
But then— my gaze lifts to the wall in front of me.
And there it is.
A fat, long-legged roach, twitching its antennae like it's judging me. Like it knows.
"OH MY GOD!!!"
I scream and shoot to my feet so fast I nearly trip over his coat.
“Nope. Nope. Nope!”
I yank open the stall door, panties half up, nearly forgetting the coat still draped on me. My orgasm dies a quick death, reawakening my dignity.
As I fling the door open, mid-sprint, I nearly barrel straight into a figure.
Shit.
I have two options: slam into them and risk getting screamed at, or hurl myself forward and hope they catch me like it’s some kind of romcom-meets-softcore disaster.
I choose the latter.
Because of course I do.
And just like in a slow-motion scene from a movie I should not be starring in — I leap.
They catch me. He catches me.
Oh no.
I blink, my brain struggling to load the situation. I'm not in a stranger’s arms. I’m in his. Again.
And his hands are on my ass.
Firm, big, and gripping.
I freeze.
My eyes drop to his forearms — it's tense, veiny, and way too sexy for my overstimulated brain. Then, like an idiot, I lift my gaze slowly, already biting my lip like I'm caught doing something illegal.
“Mr. Grande…” I whisper, horrified.
Then—
I feel it.
Maybe it’s real, maybe I’m still riding the high, but I swear to God his hand squeezes me. Just slightly, but enough to short-circuit my brain.
My breath hitches. My core — that traitorous, aching core — lights up again like it’s been waiting for him this whole damn time.
"Shit," I whisper, eyes dropping in shame.
I’m really going to get fired tonight.
For sexually harassing my boss with my existence.