Billie Bossa Nova

14.

Sleep deprived, hot and extremely frustrated was the manner in which he trudded down the stairs to the kitchen. It must have been late midnight when he woke from a scorching dream, sweaty and heavily aroused from the mere thought of his assistant. It was pure luck that he didn't even know the room she slept in, otherwise he wasn't so sure his logic was still there to advise him against barging in and coercing her into submission.

His lower region ached. He needed water. Maybe a bucket full of it should be poured down his entire body. His sweats were suffocating, and the shirt hugging his body was tight. His throat was dry, too. Water.

He needed water. Maybe her as well, but if he wanted the heat drowning his body to die down, he needed to stay realistic and, more importantly, morally sober. He didn't turn the lights of the kitchen on when he entered, it was too hot for that. He knew exactly where the glasses stayed, and poured himself some ice cold water from the dispenser. Downed it within seconds. He felt himself cool down some, relaxing momentarily at the calming feel of the icy cold down his throat.

While he was pouring the other glass, the kitchen lights came on, making fury swarm his chest.

"Turn it off," he growled, lifting his gaze towards the kitchen entrance.

Something in his chest lunged. Couldn't be his heart. That thing moved for nobody. He tightened his grip on the half full glass of water. Jaw tense. A whiff of air left his chest until he worried his soul had left his body. His treacherous eyes wandered and sucked in and devoured the fiery sight before them.

Eilish entered the kitchen in her usual confident strut. Except now, instead of the pencil skirt and blouse that covered enough to keep him sane, she had nothing but a tights and sports bra covering just about enough, yet exposing just about enough.

"I'll just pour some water first," she said in exasperation. "I can't do that in the dark."

His eyes followed her as she came in, his half awake mind convincing him that it was just a dream. Almost succeeding, too. The burning urge to pull himself against her almost had its way with him and fulfilled.

"I prefer them off," he said instead. Lust clogged his throat and croaked through his voice. She had really come at a bad time.

She rolled her eyes. When she turned to get a glass, his gaze unconsciously flitted to her round behind. He knew she wasn't like the women he was accustomed to. Not only her age, but her manners and habits were completely different from any woman her age or older. She was young, but had the intelligence of someone beyond her age. She was wise, but possessed the body of someone who was too delusioned by worldly passions to know enough.

He watched her petite frame try to reach for the glass that was positioned too high for her reach. She stood on her toes, legs stretching and ass becoming taut. An involuntary hum of approval left his throat at the sight. She spun her head, glaring at him over her shoulder.

He sipped on his water as a distraction, diverting his eyes from her in guilt. He'd barely ever felt anything for anyone, let alone someone of his age, and he felt somewhat awkward around her at times. Especially now, when he was trying to nurse a certain part of himself back to sleep and she was flaunting everything that part itched for.

"The decent thing to do would be to help me," she said, huffing and facing him.

He glanced back at her. Eyes on hers, Rivera. No bullshit. He maintained eye contact with some difficulty, given his peripherals were flooded with the sight of her barely clothed skin.

"You appear to be a smart, independent woman, you can help yourself."

"And you appear to be a chivalrous, decent man of value. Surely, this is not a difficult task- helping a damsel in distress," she countered.