Romantic Erotic Short Story: The Freelancer

The Freelancer

by

Neale Sourna

The Freelancer [soft core Romantic Erotica] Annie’s new temp, Ryan, with the fascinating ass, is great at his job, on his first day, but he’s driving her to distraction. She can’t get anything done. When Annie, the construction architect, works late and alone, to catch up on work, gorgeous Ryan returns in order to show her what he’s really freelancing in. _1000 words [Office sex, yes, that's sex in the office. Hm, sex in office. Oh, yum, hot office sex. How're your office sex stories? Sex Office, what's not to like?] —Read: The Freelancer Now AVAILABLE for sale, with 50% MORE STORY than free version, as downloadable ebook: ISBN 978-1-938903-00-7 [Mobipocket/Kindle, Adobe Reader], find everywhere online!_1558 words!

“You say something, Annie?”

I looked at Ryan’s face, while he was still leaning on his elbows over my architectural blueprint on the work table, his ass (at which I’d been staring) pointed at me, and now that face gazing back over his shoulder, too.

It is hot in this stupid construction trailer.

“W-What? N-No. Didn’t say....” My stupid lust thoughts are too loud.
He frowned a little, like I might’ve just lied to him, but he didn’t want to call me on it, and went back to work.

It’s his first day, after all. His temp supervisor said he had “great credentials” and , luckily, “he’d just walked in.” Yesterday. She’d gushed some other stuff hormonally induced by this incredible bit of male tail and face.

Shit, don’t objectify the man, idiot; go back to your construction notes, bills, and ... ass.

“Oh!” he uttered, “Sandy’s back and will need these.”

He grabbed Sandy’s messages and new contracts for my construction foreman and walked out. What. A. Walk. His ass, in those jeans, does magical things to me. If I don’t get myself sued for harassment, with the rest of the day to get through, not to mention an entire week.

* * * *

I’d completed my site tour with Sandy, who’d gone home, Ryan, too, thank god. I hadn’t gotten anything done all day, except the tour, because I’d sent Ryan on an errand.

The site was locked, and everyone gone, until I heard footsteps and reached for my gun.

“Don’t shoot. It’s me, Ryan.” The solid door pulled open slowly; he peaked around it. “May I come in?”

Proper grammar. My mom the English professor would love him.

“W-Why?” [more]