So, I'm sneaking around with the boss.
Over the last week, we've made out against every flat surface in the penthouse office, and dragged each other into a few supply cupboards on the lower floors too. Ansel's desk chair has stopped squeaking every time I climb onto his lap, the poor thing squished into submission, and we've fogged up the elevator mirrors most days.
It's delicious. He's so freaking hot and stern with everyone else, but he goes all melty just for me. When he tells me to close his office door and get over there, arms already spread as he bosses me around in that deep voice—I just about die.
And despite being a literal genius, he thinks the sun shines out of my ass. Seriously, if I drew Ansel a wobbly stick figure, he'd probably display it on the staff refrigerator. It's a
