Hating the Boss

By Natalie Wrye

KAT
This isn’t a love story…
It’s a hate one.
Because after Ethan Riske came into my life faster than a sexy dark blond bullet nine years ago, I realized that hate was all there could ever be between us. 
The troubled small town prince loved me.
He lusted for me.
And then he left…stranding me in the dust of the Southern spit of land where we’d met.
I never expected to see him again.
I never expected that he (and all his trouble) would find me. 
And I absolutely never, never expected that one day he’d try to so hard to become the man I call “Boss.”
This is our story.
I warned you that love wasn’t a part of it…
If only I remembered to heed that warning, too. 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a full-length, stand alone, second chance/enemies to lovers romance in the suspense-filled Hating Him series. This book contains surprising twists, humor and heat. Happy Reading!

• Language: English
• Publisher: NATALIE WRYE
• Release date: Oct 16, 2017

Natalie Wrye

Natalie Wrye writes sexy, suspenseful stories about hard-bodied, take-charge heroes, the strong-willed women who crave them, and HEAs worth rooting for. A notebook hoarder whose books have been featured on USA Today's HEA and PopSugar, she enjoys reading, drinking tequila, watching Netflix reruns, and yelling at college basketball games on TV. For more information, visit NatalieWrye.com.

Book preview

Part One

Prologue

There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again, now.

- Eugene O’Neill

---

ETHAN

---

I hope you taste as good as you smell.

The sound drifted through the air. A slow, sensuous melody floated with it, and as both made their way through the room, the beat of the song and the quiet statement I just heard rattled the bourbon in my hand, making the ice cubes shake.

Or maybe I was the one shaking.

I couldn’t help it.

Griff was poking a hole in my ribs with his elbow, and as the lips that had just whispered in my ear withdrew, I could see the look on my best man’s face. He was essentially salivating, his tongue practically swinging as he took in the vision of the woman who was speaking in my ear… and laying a seductive path in my open lap.

She stood, her long legs stretching, her bare torso twisting as she rolled the shape of an S in the air with her body, swaying seductively to the music. She was toned… that was obvious. A tight package with tits too big to be real, the buxom blonde in front of me was the object of every man’s wet-dream, star of every cock-swinger’s fantasy…

Except mine.

But she was doing her best. Clad in a piece of cloth that barely covered her clearly cleanly-waxed pussy, she ground her pretty ass two inches from my face while every other man in the room fought the urge to put their fingers all over her. My best friend, included. He nudged my side for the ninetieth time.

Fuck me, man, he slurred. If she was doing that to me, I’d be two seconds from slapping her tight ass. He smirked widely and wildly.

Good thing you aren’t me, I shot back quietly, leaning over to look into his face. That’d be a felony, you lunatic. I finally smiled. And the last time I checked you didn’t fuck strippers because ‘and I quote… ‘Who knows how many other items have been in those goddamned holes?

I threw Griff’s own words back at him with a silent grin.

Doesn’t matter, he declared, staring at the stripper in front of me for the thousandth time. For her? He swallowed another mouthful of scotch. I’d make an exception.

I admired the beautiful blonde again, and Griff was right. She might be the best looking exotic dancer I have ever seen. Maybe the best. She was tall, long-legged. Gorgeous… in the porn star sense, of course, with a wide, luscious mouth made for licking and sucking in only the most erotic of ways.

She licked her lips at me as if she wanted to make good on the promise she’d just whispered, and I had no doubt when she looked at me, her brown doe-like eyes wide, that—if she could, she would devour me until nothing was left. Until she drained every drop.

Unfortunately, for her, I wasn’t interested.

She tried to drag me to my feet, her tiny fingers wrapping around my own, pulling as she walked backwards in the direction of the edge of the room. The overhead maroon lights illuminating the space in our black-curtain closed boudoir made her look as naughty as every word dripping from her blood-red mouth. Bambi was putting on her best pout to entice me into joining her towards whatever dirty fun lay in the dark room beyond this one.

All of the men—friend and foe—whooped as I slowly dragged myself to my feet, stumbling and fumbling over the discarded decorations that littered the floor. Streamers and Congratulations ribbons ran the length of the room, taking up space between the cloth-covered tables, and I staggered past them, barely holding onto my Bourbon as I followed stolidly behind the too-excited dancer who nearly bounced on her platform-covered toes.

With the push of another curtain, we fell into another room, and I let my body flounce on the dark-colored couches beyond it, slumping into the padded cushions. I took a healthy swig of my drink and sank my fingers into the seat beneath, wondering how many stains these comfortable sofas had really seen.

The drunker I got, the more it didn’t matter. Ignorance truly was bliss.

And so was the sensation making its way down my crotch—a gentle rubbing that circled the length of my cock through the fabric of my suit pants. From the tip to the very base. I groaned, closing my eyes as I saw a vision in my mind. A vision too good to be true.

A vision that was nine years old.

Waves of dark hair fell to a waist too tiny to be anything but touched. Shiny and soft, the beautiful brown mane swept across my chest, against my shirt, as two eyes, a crystal-clear blue, peeked from beneath the strands, as round and as large as saucers. In my mind, they met mine, saying things that couldn’t be vocalized, voicing words that need not be said.

They seduced in the most innocent of ways, waylaying me, pulling at a possessiveness in me I didn’t know existed. The blue eyes smiled. The smile beneath them was even better—wicked, as it dipped to my abdomen and pressed there, making me ache, causing my cock to strain against the inconvenient zipper located there.

How many times had I imagined those lips doing exactly that? That tongue licking out beneath those straight white teeth to lap at my skin, the edge of her mouth nipping at the most sensitive parts of me? It was torture—letting her tease me, taking me to the brink and back again as she swept that sheet of auburn locks over my body as she bent to her knees. I sucked in a breath soaked in desire as I waited for her to place her mouth where it mattered most.

And then it stopped. The teasing. She stopped.

But I was too busy imagining she was pulling—no, ripping—at my pants. The top button would pop, and suddenly my cock would be between her hands, her lips. She would sink her mouth around it with a sigh, sucking with delight. The sexiest slurp ever made to man would escape from between her teeth, and I’d nearly lose it, grinding my own teeth as I gripped the back of her head, my eyelids squeezing tight enough to ache.

Fuck, fuck, fuck… I would mutter. Over and over and over again.

It would be so damn amazing. Something so simple—someone so simple, sweet and secretly naughty could bring a stubborn fucker like me—CEO and all—to his Giorgio Armani-covered knees.

With her name on my mind and my cock in her mouth, I would orgasm hard and let my head fall against the cushions as I did.

Fuck, Kat… I mumbled, feeling way too fucked up to move, the liquor coursing through my veins as I came down from my high, my fingers reaching out to touch her once more.

But she backed away.

I opened my eyes, staring at the figure fumbling around in front of me. It was the blonde vixen—the stripper. Standing on shaky legs, she wobbled between my legs, locking me with a stare, her eyes hard and unblinking. She placed her hands on her tiny hips.

Who the hell is Kat?

In that instant, I realized that everything I’d just experienced—the touches, the tasting, the ache in my chest and the woman that was causing it.

They were all unreal. I was imagining it.

The stripper hadn’t put her mouth on me at all. But I could tell she was outraged.

As if she had any right to question whatever the hell I was doing anyway. I ignored her with a shrug, shifting my hard-on inside my pants. I finished my drink and sat it down.

Ohhhh, I get it, Bambi hissed. This Kat must be your fiancée. Well, I guarantee you that she will never make you come the way I was about to. It would have been epic, baby, she sighed, trying to straddle me. Her pussy was peeking completely out of her barely-there panties this time, and she tried to rub it across me, sliding her pink slit across the front of my pants with a slow grind.

As I stood, she almost fell.

There is no fiancée, I rumbled.

But I thought…

My friends, I interrupted, "thought it’d be funny to celebrate my new position. They said it was fitting… seeing as how I’m now married to my job. This isn’t a real bachelor party. In fact, none of this is real. I sighed. Not at all."

She raised an eyebrow. "Certainly felt real to me."

I pulled out my wallet, taking out a couple hundred dollar bills and putting them in the palm of her hand. I folded her fingers around them, looking into her eyes.

I’m sorry. You are beautiful… I hesitated. But it wasn’t real to me. It couldn’t be; not when I was thinking about someone else the entire time.

I turned, just as the fair-haired vixen raised a hand to slap me. I pulled the black curtain aside, exiting, attempting to avoid the curious gaze of every onlooking employee that came to the party to usher me into my new executive role.

My smile was weak, as I tried to shake off what just happened to me in the other room… and who I was imagining it happening with. Somehow, it was the brunette in my head, and not the blonde on my lap, that felt as if she were still on my skin.

I was in so much fucking trouble.

Chapter One

Crazy Stupid Love

You don't just have a story - you're a story in the making, and you never know what the next chapter's going to be. That's what makes it exciting.

- Dan Millman

---

KAT

---

Dayton, Tennessee

Nine years ago

---

I was in so much fucking trouble.

This day was definitely going in my diary, and the longer I sat there, the more I realized that years in the future, when I read this part of my life, I knew that a piece of me still wouldn’t believe it. The sheriff stared at the shiny steel bracelets binding my tiny wrists. His hat sat low. The sun was high. Dust and dirt filled my lungs as I leaned against the squad car, breathing in the humid mid-day air, my hair sticking to the nape of my neck from sweat.

I had been over this story a million times. I wasn’t going to make it a million and one. Not even for the highest ranking officer in this po-dunk town. I sighed, slumping back against the passenger window as I slid against it.

We’ve gone through this already, I huffed, hanging my head. I didn’t spray paint all of Mrs. Wentworth’s wigs.

The sheriff, bulky and large-backed, crossed and uncrossed his arms as if he were somehow important. As if he were capable of forcing a faulty confession. As if I gave a fuck…

I was doing everything to show him that I didn’t. No matter who he was. It wasn’t like I was going to stay in this town past the summer. I mean, really. How long could he really hold me here?

I can’t hold you forever, Kat, the fleshy-faced officer said, practically reading my thoughts. But I can hold you here for a while, and in the meantime, we’ll sit here and talk about how you and Mrs. Wentworth got into an argument last Tuesday.

A dozen people got into an argument with Mrs. Wentworth last Tuesday. She blocked a mile of traffic when her car stalled in the road and she refused to have it towed out of the way.

You argued with her the Sunday before, too.

So?

You threatened to throw one of the wigs she wears in the lake.

And?

With her still wearing it.

I looked away.

Now, I know this town hasn’t exactly won you over just yet, Katarina…

I snorted, clinking the cuffs. Just yet?

But vandalizing isn’t the answer, the sheriff finished. And if you have a problem with a fellow resident in Dayton, I suggest you find a more amicable way to resolve it than spray-painting every single wig in the local beauty shop in rainbow hues.

I exhaled loudly, shrugging my dark hair over my shoulder. How many times do I have to tell you that I…?

Another cruiser pulled up, sidling into the dirt parking lot. Gravel and soot went flying everywhere as the black-and-white painted car whipped its way into the parking space beside the sheriff’s. Barely in Park, a young officer I often referred to as Deputy Dildo hopped out, his hat in hand, his aviators shining under the bright noon sun as he walked without hesitation over to the sheriff, pointing a thumb over his uniform-padded shoulder. He checked me out, his grimy gaze sliding over my figure before he smiled wide, his clean-shaven face breaking out into a shit-eating grin.

Got your perp here, Sheriff.

The sheriff’s dark eyebrows pulled low. My what?

The guy who spray painted all of the wigs in Mrs. Wentworth’s shop, the amateur cop responded, pulling on his belt. We caught him in the act of spray-painting Dudley Duncan’s stable horses. Bunch of damned things, running around like unicorns out there, Sheriff. It’s a mess.

I heard the scoff from his back seat before I saw anything. A mass of blond curls was leaning against the slightly opened window and the wrists directly beneath it glinted in the sun. The silver jewelry reflected the hot-as-Hell Tennessee rays beaming down on all of us, and I had to look away. The light was bright. Probably much brighter than the dim-witted deputy, who was acting like he caught the Fugitive of the Century.

They made an interesting pair—the life-worn superior and his dopey understudy. Truth was… I never liked Deputy Moines much. He thought he was smarter than he was. His pants were always too tight, his wits too slow, and, not for the first time, did I suspect that maybe the flow of oxygen was getting cut off from his balls to his brain.

Plus, he never seemed to like me… apart from ogling me when he got the chance. I wondered about the man he’d arrested for the same crime, the man in the backseat who seemed entirely too much like me. Unbothered by his circumstances. His posture told a bit of his backstory; he obviously didn’t care about being arrested. But unlike me, Blondie in the back didn’t seem all that slick…or, hell, even smart.

If I actually had done it… I never would have been caught. Not by Sheriff Small Town here… and definitely not by Deputy Tight-Ass, a wanna-be Big Wig so uptight he could pick up a quarter just by squatting. Suddenly, curiosity got the best of me, and I glanced quickly in the rear seat, searching for a face and found nothing. The man’s voice followed soon after.

I didn’t spray paint any horses, Deputy, he spoke out. I was simply admiring the view.

What were you doing out there, ‘admiring the view’, Riske? the sheriff asked.

Catching a few cow-tippers on tape. Mr. Hardhack on the next farm over is offering a prize to the person who finds whoever’s knocking over his precious Betsy’s. The man held up his phone to the window. Caught the perps red-handed, you could say.

I leaned in. Video of a couple of teenage boys, hauling ass across mounds of grass was plain to see. Their hands were red, alright. Literally. They laughed and whooped as they slapped hands in the field, cracking up as they marveled at the spray paint sweating down each finger. They hadn’t noticed Blondie’s camera. Or didn’t seem to.

I smiled at the fading smirk on the young cop’s face. He stuttered.

But he… I saw cans of…

Sheriff, the man in the car interrupted. I know Deputy Moines here, he pointed his cuffs in the stammering officer’s direction, has a boner here for me, but look, if you could just tell him that I’m straight, maybe he’ll…

I’ll wring your neck, Riske.

Dropping his hat, Moines reached for him, going for the back seat. The blond guy never moved. The sheriff stopped him, blocking his subordinate from opening the car door and throttling the smart-ass. Somehow, I had a feeling, by looking at the well-defined forearms and long fingers of the mysterious man in the back, that the deputy wouldn’t be the one doing the throttling.

I let it all play out, watching with curious eyes.

Take a breather, Moines. The elder officer pushed the young man towards the police department’s front door. Deputy Dickhead stalked off, and the sheriff removed a set of keys hung from his hip, placed them in the car door lock and popped the back seat door before I could blink.

Blondie hopped out—well, more like slinked out, and the smooth way with which he removed himself, even handcuffed, caught every bit of my attention. Most people, cuffed, were awkward—unbalanced. The ties that restricted them made moving ungraceful, but not with him. He was like a golden lion, stretching its legs—languid. He wore a crisp white tank. Board shorts hung low on his hips, and from where I stood, I could see nothing but muscles running down the length of his ripped shoulders and arms.

But the sheriff’s ten-gallon sized hat still blocked the entire view of his face. From what I could tell of Mr. Smart-Mouth, he was broad, blond—of course… and built to be the star of my wet dreams. The top of Sheriff Lumpkin’s cowboy hat reached the tip of Blondie’s forehead, and I stretched my neck just to get a glimpse of anything more—maybe even his eyes.

Still, nothing.

How could I try to get a good look at this guy without being too obvious? The answer was: I couldn’t. So, I tried to play it cool. I eavesdropped on the conversation between the normally gruff sheriff and Mr. Smart-Mouth, the golden lion—my legs practically shaking as they squeaked with sweat down the hot car.

The sheriff started first. You keep fucking with the bull, Riske… you’re going to get the horns.

Blondie’s head bobbed once. Yes, sir.

Now, I know you think that Moines is a silly son-of-a-bitch, he commented, lowering his voice, but he’s also a ruthless one. And I don’t want to see you keep getting tangled up with him, butting head to head. If you keep screwing around out there in town, he really is going to bust you… and there’s nothing your father’s going to be able to do to save you.

My ears perked up with that little side note. I stood straighter, struggling to bear the brutal stickiness in the air, that Tennessee humidity, and I wiped a wrist across my forehead, listened closer. Blondie’s tone was low. So low I almost wasn’t sure I was hearing it right.

He needs to stop thinking about me and worry about himself, Sheriff. The only thing getting busted around Moines are his balls. Everyone knows his wife slaps him around. I’m not going to let him feel like the Big Man on Campus just because I’m here. As far as I’m concerned, that hillbilly can go to He…

He stopped short, lowering his head, as the sheriff probably fixed him with the sort of stare that only old folks are capable of. The one that makes you feel guilt and shame and low self-esteem, all at once. Blondie had struck a nerve.

Well, why don’t we hillbillies just try to stay out of your way, huh, Mr. Riske? He took his key and loosened Blondie’s cuffs, letting them drop. And you’ll do the same. The sheriff turned quickly. Miss Lexington! he called out.

I jumped at the sound of my name. Yeah?

You’re the next to go. He walked towards me so quickly I hadn’t any time to recover. He took my wrists in his hands. "I don’t want to see