Bossed Around

Charles walks in while Sheena’s still wired into her laptop at the kitchen island, voice flat, stress curling at the edge of every keystroke. He gripes about his back and a no-show masseuse and that goddamn warm oil he paid for in advance. She doesn’t look up, just tells him to find another hour in the day; she’s got numbers bleeding red. He keeps pushing. So she snaps—Melissa the intern can handle it, she’ll be here any minute. Charles frowns. Says it isn’t a regular rub-down; it’s that slippery, skin-on-skin nuru thing. Sheena’s already drifting back to the spreadsheet. Whatever. If it stops the bitching, go ahead, get it done. An hour later the living-room floor is a plastic-wrapped rectangle slick with clear, thick gel. Charles explains it all to Melissa before she’s even ditched her blouse: bodies only, nothing between them. Her cheeks go hot, but she nods—interns stay useful. Naked, they drop to their knees. Melissa pours the gel down her tits, then stretches over his shoulders, her nipples skating along his spine, soft full weight dragging down, up, across the knots in his back. The sound is wet friction, the air heavy with coconut. Sheena appears in the doorway, eyes narrowing at the two slick bodies grinding slow and deliberate. Charles reminds her she signed off. She stares like she’s been slapped. Then comes the fire. He says he explained this weeks ago; she never listens. She swallows the jab, mutters an apology that tastes like rust, jealousy throbbing behind it. Pride stings. Control feels better, so she strips, kneels, takes over—her breasts instead of Melissa’s, gliding lower, fingertips pressing deeper. Tension leaks out of her in a long breath. Sheena points to her own back, tells Melissa to slide on. Melissa obeys, draping herself across the boss while Sheena keeps stroking Charles. Hands roam. Gel catches light. Sheena’s breath roughens; she arches, mouth brushing Charles’s ear. A wicked grin tugs at her lips. She turns to Melissa and tells her tonight they’re both on the clock, every hole open. Melissa doesn’t argue. Three bodies slide together, gel, heat, hungry friction, a messy tangle of limbs taking whatever it wants on the living-room floor.