A Hostile Work Environment

I honestly have never met anyone that I hate as much as I hate Luke Ewan.

It's not enough that he treats being the manager of a bar like it's the same as being the manager of a French bistro with a Michelin star. Or that he dresses like he has a date with an old spice commercial. Or that his scruff is always the perfect amount of scruffy, as if he has a setting on his electric razor called "Adam Levine."

No, the thing I hate most about Luke is how much he obviously hates me. He doesn't seem to hate everyone-to most people he acts like a regular boss (if a little tough). But he has it out for me. And today is no exception.

As soon as I get to the bar I punch in my 4-digit employee code to clock in (with two minutes to spare, thankyouverymuch) and his eyes lock in on me from across the room.

"Maya!" he barks. "Is that shirt a part of the uniform?"

I look down at the Dogfish Head t-shirt that I've worn at least one shift a week since I started working at Rico's.

"I'm pretty sure it is, Luke."

He walks slowly over to me, putting down his clipboard and sticking his pencil behind his ear. I feel my palms begin to sweat. I hate getting reprimanded on the floor, and no one can deliver a dressing-down like Luke.

"Come on, Maya," he says with a knowing smile that says he's about to be a huge dick. "You know the rules. Black t-shirts, Rico's t-shirts, or a brewery we have on tap."

I glance nervously behind the bar. Sure enough, the Dogfish Head pull that's stood above the bar for the six months I've been working here is nowhere to be found.

"Come on, Luke," I groan. "When did you take it off the list, yesterday?"

His expression sours. He likes backtalk about as much as I like public reprimanding. He glares down at me from his towering six feet, and I try my best not to be intimidated, but the man is disturbingly scary-looking. He's got crazy wide shoulders and jet-black hair and a smattering of well-placed tattoos, including one that peeks out from under his shirt collar. I mean, he practically walked off the set of Sons of Anarchy. I tear my eyes away from his tattoos and meet his gaze, apprehension building in the pit of my stomach.

"There are old Rico's t-shirts in the back office," he says, giving me another once-over. "Change after you're done with inventory."

But I don't end up having time. Tonight is trivia night, and by the time I'm done with marking down all the bottles we have in the fridge, the place is packed. I'm running all over the place, I'm hot and sweaty, I keep having to tug down my new black miniskirt because it's riding up so far that I'm giving customers a free show. So by the time I get a break to head to the back office and change, I've already worked half my shift in the offending Dogfish Head shirt. I'm not looking forward to the talking-to I'm sure to get at the end of the night. I'll probably get some kind of demerit. I just know he has a little notebook somewhere where he keeps track of everything I've ever done wrong like the sick control freak that he is.

I search through the stacks of t-shirts in the plastic bin on the floor but all I'm finding is L, L, XL. I'm not what you'd call supermodel thin, but a men's large t-shirt would absolutely drown me. I pull out one that has some black marker on the tag that I'm pretty sure is a small and peel off my other shirt. Then when I hold it up against me I can see that no way, this is definitely a large, and prepare to dive back into the tub. I bend over and feel the breeze on my ass that says that my skirt is definitely riding up again, but I'm determined to find a shirt that doesn't make me look like the smallest kid in gym class. Maybe at the bottom of the pile?

And that's when I hear the worst sound in the world.

The door opens.

I stand up as as fast as I can and spin around before realizing that, of course, in my haste to keep the intruder from seeing my backside I've forgotten that I'm not wearing a shirt.

I'm standing there in my stupidest bra, a bra that I bought at the MLM "party" of a high school friend, the one that's basically just lace and underwire. You could barely even call it a bra, it's more like a boob decoration.

And Luke is standing there, eyes burning with fury, mouth tight like he doesn't know whether to give me one of his famous lectures or fire me on the spot.

I recover my senses, snap my mouth shut, and yank the giant t-shirt over my head. He stands aside without a word when I shove past him, but I know he's just filing it away for later. He'll insist that it was the height of unprofessionalism to change without locking the door first. He'll probably accuse me of sexual harassment. Sure, there's this thing called knocking, but at Rico's nothing is ever Luke's fault.

I work the rest of my shift with a lump of dread in my stomach. I know he's gonna fire me tonight, I just know it.

I guess I could get a job at a different grubby bar, but this one is right on my way home from class. The tips are generally pretty good, and I actually like the people who work here. Well, other than Luke.

When I see him lock the front door and take the drawer to the back to count the cash at the end of the night, I know I should just get it over with. I finish wiping down the tables and head back to his office. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and open the door.

And there's Luke behind the desk with his hand down his pants and his eyes closed.

Shit. Shit!

This is not good. This is the darkest timeline.

He groans a little. I can't see exactly what's going on under the desk but I can see the muscles in his forearm rippling and his face getting tight. My mouth goes absolutely dry. Panic blurs my brain, and something else is stopping me from being able to think clearly. Oh, God, am I turned on right now? As if it wasn't bad enough that I walked in on him touching himself and didn't immediately shut the door, now I'm actually getting off on the whole thing, I'm such a creep. FOCUS, MAYA.

Should I try and sneak out and pretend like nothing happened? Should I stay and attempt to blackmail him into not firing me?

Just as I'm deciding to back quietly away, his eyelids flutter a little, and then they snap open and he freezes.

I clear my throat. The silence feels oppressive. It feels like the room is full of Jell-o. I just want to go home and drink my weight in anything alcoholic and pretend this never happened.

He slowly takes his hand out of his pants and rests it on his thigh. He looks me right in the eye, glowering. And then he does something I would have never expected.

He bursts out laughing.

His eyes crinkle, his breath stutters and heaves, and his mouth is open in a giant grin. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was almost human.

"I guess both of us could learn to knock," he says after a minute. "Here, sit down."

I slide onto the faded pleather couch in the corner while he does up his fly. I do not look. I do NOT look. I am a lady, after all.

"So," he says.

"Um," I say back. I'm not sure what to do. I came in here to take whatever punishment he was ready to hand out, but now the point seems sort of moot.

"I'm sorry," he says in a low voice. All of a sudden he seems to find the floor really interesting. He won't look at me.

"That's okay," I say carefully. "You're right, I should have knocked."

He waves this away, then he takes a deep breath and looks me in the face with considerable effort. "I'm sorry if this is going to be weird for you. And I understand if you have to tell Richard." Richard is the owner. I guess "Richard's" didn't quite have the alluring ring of possible mob involvement that "Rico's" does. But I'm not sure why he thinks I'd blab, it seems like none of my business.

"Hey, it's your office, you're free to do whatever you want in here," I shrug. I can't help but add, "But I hope you wash your hands before you count the cash. And maybe lock the door next time."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Um, it's not like I do this often."

It takes me a minute to realize what he's implying. And at that same moment, he seems to realize that I didn't already know why he was suddenly overcome with the urge to beat one off before he could even make it home.

"Shit," he says under his breath.

"Um," I say again.

"I'm really sorry," he chokes out.

"I thought you were mad at me," is all I can think to say. Oh my god, I'm blushing. What am I, twelve? "I thought I was going to get fired."

He shakes his head emphatically and comes around the desk to sit next to me on the couch. "You're not getting fired. If anyone is getting fired here, it's me. That was so unprofessional, I'm so sorry Maya. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable."

This nice version of Luke is really weird. I'd gotten so used to the nitpicking and the public humiliation, I almost don't know what to do with myself.

"It's okay," I say. "I guess I just wonder, though . . . why are you always so hard on me? I thought it was because you didn't like me, but now . . ." Unless he was hate-fantasizing about me. Oh my god, I'm an idiot. What if he really hates me but he just liked the stupid MLM bra?

"Ahhh," he says, sitting back and rubbing his neck. "I guess I over-corrected a little."

"What?" I ask, totally in the dark.

"I try really hard not to show favoritism," he says, smiling in an abashed sort of way.

I can't believe it. I've been coming to work for six months totally dreading what fresh hell the next shift might bring because he LIKES me?

"You ass!" I yelp, and hit him in the shoulder.

He nods. "I deserve that."

"Do you have any idea what it's been like? I can never do anything right, everything is always my fault-"

"I thought you knew!"

"You thought I KNEW? When you're making me redo inventory and yelling at me because I haven't cleaned up a table that someone just left ten minutes ago, and making me change my shirt-" I hadn't realized how much he had been getting to me. To my horror, tears spring to my eyes. I shoot up and go for the door, not wanting to let him see my cry.

He's up in a second, holding my wrist.

"Wait, please-" he says, and before I know it I'm colliding with a warm, solid chest. He smells so good, like some kind of warm-scented cologne and a little bit like beer. On instinct, my traitorous body sinks into his, and I could swear he sighs before his arms wrap around me.

"I'm sorry, this is so dumb," I whisper as a single tear sneaks out past my defenses.

"Hey, hey," he says, swiping his thumb across my cheek and pulling me a little tighter, rubbing my back. I melt a little inside, seeing the naked concern on his face.

And then I feel him start to get hard against me. He groans and loosens his hold on me.

"This is the most embarrassing day of my life."

I can't answer him. I don't move away. I'm frozen.

I know I should be horrified. I know I should be pushing him away and heading for the hills. I know there are probably lawyers who would salivate to get a phone call from me right now.

But I'm so turned on by his obvious want for me, I can barely breathe.

Before I can stop myself, before I can bundle up what's left of my dignity and run, I tilt my face up to his. I can't pull my eyes away from his mouth. I can feel his breath coming shorter, his whole body tightening a little.

I don't know who kisses who first, but I know that his mouth is warm and soft, and his hands are strong on my waist again, and when I slide my tongue against his he makes this low, delicious sound that I'll probably dream about later.

"Maya," he whispers. He steps back and sits down on the couch, his head in his hands. "Fuck. Maya."

I can't tell what's going on. Did I do something wrong? Did I totally misread the situation?

"Sorry," I mutter, not sure what else to say.

"What?" he asks. He looks up at me. "No. No way. No I just . . ." He sighs and smiles sadly at me. "I can't really trust myself, I think. And I don't want you to feel like . . . I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do."

Who is this new, considerate Luke and where has he been for the past six months? Why did he choose now, when I want nothing more than for him to shove courtesy aside and take me like Don Draper, to find his conscience?

I guess I'll have to damn propriety to hell for both of us.

I take his hands in mine and climb over him on the couch, fitting my knees snugly on either side of his hips, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

A rough sound escapes his throat. He kisses me again, hungrily, his hands searching. He pulls experimentally at my giant Rico's t-shirt, and I lift up my arms. He slides it over my head and bites my breast gently.

"This bra . . ." he says in a low rumble. "Who gave you permission to wear something like this to work?"

Ah, there he is. This is the bossy Luke I've been craving since I saw the look on his face while he stroked himself, before he noticed me. I slide my fingers into his hair and he grins.

"And this miniskirt." Said skirt has ridden up so far it's not hard for him to slide his hand up and grab a handful of my ass. "That image of you bending over is going to be burned into my brain for the rest of my life. I thought I would die if I didn't get a chance to come soon."

I realize, as he says this, that he still hasn't gotten a chance to ome.

I kiss him again and his hand starts rubbing my ass, flirting with the hem of my panties.

"Can I touch you?" he breathes, his voice rough. "I want to touch you so bad."

I nod and kiss him again, feeling his hand move over my thigh and his fingers slip between my legs.

"Fuck," he says, and his pulse starts hammering at his throat. "Fuck, Maya, is this me? I'm making you wet like this?"

I can't even answer him because he's slipping a finger inside me and brushing my clit with his thumb and my whole body is tightening like a spring. All I can do rub myself against his hand and try to stifle the noises that are building up in my chest.

His brows knit together while he strokes me, intent on watching me come apart in front of him.

"That's it," he says as I clench around his hand again. He kisses my neck, my breast, but he can't seem to stop talking. "That's it, baby, come on. Fuck, your face is so hot right now." His hips grind against my ass, like he can't even help it. I spasm again, quicker this time. He sucks in a sharp breath. "Are you-are you about to come right now?"

I can't believe it, but I think I am. I can barely even nod and try to muffle the sounds I'm making against his shoulder. I bite him as I come hard, my teeth sinking into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. My whole body explodes in a wave of sensation. He rubs his thumb across my clit one last time, making goosebumps erupt all over my chest.

"That was so hot," he says, kissing me me before pulling back a little. But I'm insatiable. I don't want to stop. I don't want to cuddle, or for him to walk me to my car. He's seen me come, and I fully intend to return the favor.

I tug off his shirt and trail kisses down his belly, stopping to unbutton his jeans. He groans and leans back into the couch, one hand stroking my hair absently.

"I can't believe this is happening," he says to himself. I shimmy his pants down a little and his cock springs out, already dripping with precum and hard as a rock. I slide my hand along his shaft and give him a little squeeze at the base, and he pushes into my hand involuntarily. Then I take him into my mouth.

The sounds he makes are so low, so needy, I feel myself getting even more turned on than I was before (if that's possible). I can feel him doing everything he can not to thrust into my mouth, gentleman that he is, but the restraint is killing him. As I lick him and squeeze him in my hand, he moans in appreciation.

"Maya," he says slowly. "Oh fuck, Maya." And then his breath quickens, and suddenly there's a note of panic in his voice. "Maya." I keep going, and his stomach tightens under my hand. "Maya, stop."

I pause and look up at him. The muscles in his neck are standing out, he's staring at the ceiling, his eyes closed tight.

"Please," he begs. He takes a deep breath and leans down to kiss me. "Please, I don't want it like this."

I sit back a little and let a coy smile play on my lips.

"So tell me how you want it."

His eyes search mine, looking to see if I'm with him. Then he seems to make a decision, and his expression hardens.

"Lay down, Maya."

I lower myself to the floor.

"Take off your skirt. Panties, too."

I slide them over my hips, looking up at him. He closes his eyes and breathes in, deep. While he stands there, trying to regain control, I slip a hand between my legs, pressing my thighs together, unable to wait. When he hears me moan, his eyes snap open and he growls.

He lowers himself on top of me, bending to kiss me and sliding his hand in to match mine. As I spread myself for him, something in his steely resolve falters.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

"Luke," I say with as much authority as I can muster. "I want you inside me. Now."

He moans and rub the head of his cock against me, making me arch against his chest.

"Shit," he says, breathless. "Shit. I don't have a condom."

"I'm on the pill," I say, just as breathless.

He closes his eyes. "That's a bad idea."

"Do you have something?"

"No!"

"Neither do I." I take his cock in my hand and squeeze, and his breath catches. Then I position him right at my entrance and lift my hips a little, taking just a centimeter of him.

The breath shudders out of him, his skin is so hot against mine. Then he mutters, "Fuck it," and pushes slowly inside me.

He fills me up, delicious, silky and cool against my swollen, aching warmth.

"Oh my god," he breathes. I shift under him and he puts a hand on my leg. "Don't move. Give me a minute." He closes his eyes. "I swear this isn't normal for me."

I can't help but giggle. "It's fine." I tilt my hips and his eyes roll into the back of his head. "I think it's hot that you can't control yourself around me."

"Damn straight," he says, breathing deep. "I seriously was about to come as soon as I was inside you."

"Mmm, I know you were," I whisper. "Almost like you'd thought about it before."

"You know I have," he laughs in a low rumble. "You know I think about you. Just usually I can make it home first."

"But not tonight," I say, rolling my hips against him again. He starts to move, too, slowly rocking in and out of me, breathing hard. "Tonight you saw me and you just had to . . . touch yourself." A blush creeps up my neck and he grins down at me as he keeps going, tension building inside of me.

"Maya, did you like watching me?"

I look away, biting my hand to keep from crying out as he fills me again.

"Tell me, Maya."

"Yes," I say in a strangled voice.

"You were so wet for me because you liked watching me with my hand on my cock, stroking myself and thinking about you. It turned you on."

"So much," I whisper, mortified. His thumb finds its way to my clit again and my back arches. He reaches his other hand under my back and undoes my bra, sliding it over my shoulders and then rubbing my bare breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers.

"And you like that I almost lost it when you had your mouth on me," he says, not taking his eyes off of me. I shudder. "You want to watch me lose control, want to make me come when I can't even help it." I nod, I can't say anything at all. He's stroking me and rolling his hips in and out of me and massaging my breast and watching my face with rapt attention, and all I can do is moan.

"Are you going to come again?" he whispers in my ear. "You are, aren't you?" I nod again. "Say my name," he orders in a low voice. I spasm around him. "Say my name," he says again, louder, more urgently. "Tell me how it feels."