His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection)

by Melanie Marchande

  “You were about to tell me all the reasons why we can’t keep doing this,” I tell him, before I have a chance to rethink my honesty. “I don’t really want to hear that. I don’t want to think about it.”

  Laughing, he winds his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. “If you think I’m not going to find a way to keep fucking you, you couldn’t be more wrong, kitten. I’m just saying we need to be careful. That’s all.”

  Something unspools in my chest. “Oh.”

  “That’s right.” He gives me a dark look that makes my core clench. “Oh. Now get in there and bend over. I’ve half a mind to teach you a lesson with my belt.”

  My stomach flip-flops. I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know if I’m ready for the intensity, the sting. I much prefer the way his hand feels. The intimacy of it.

  Because, sure, getting intimate with Adrian Risinger is obviously a great long-term goal for me.

  But hey, it seems to be working well so far. With my little “per diem” from the conference, I’ll have enough to get some nicer furniture. Or maybe I should think about socking it away, and saving up for a new place.

  Or maybe I should think about buying a headboard to my bed, so Adrian has something to tie me up to.

  Okay, well, this is just getting out of hand now.

  “Stop thinking,” he orders me. “Strip.”

  Um. That wasn’t part of the command before.

  I freeze in my steps. “Right here?”

  His eyes blaze into mine. “You know what? Yes. Here. Now. Strip.”

  I swallow hard. No matter how many times he sees me, there’s still going to be a part of me that hates doing this. One by one, I undo the buttons of my blouse and let it slip from my shoulders. I can hear his breathing quicken as I unzip my skirt and step out of it, and my mind flashes back to the fantasy he told me about in the hotel. The one where I have to come to work in revealing clothes, and he makes me suck him off under his desk. I’ve thought about that one quite a bit, touching myself in the shower where the sound of the rushing water will drown out my moans. As if it matters. As if that makes it any less real, how much I want him.

  I wonder if we’ve ever done it at the same time, thinking about each other.

  Fuck. The thought of him jerking off, to me, has me throbbing all over. I’ve never thought of myself that way, really, and I know he has. This isn’t some fleeting fancy, he’s wanted me for a long time. Like some idiot kid pulling pigtails on the playground, he’s been trying to tell me, in the most fucked-up and juvenile way possible.

  Like he can read my mind, he’s palming himself through his pants, almost as if he’s trying to calm it down while he watches me. Yeah right. I smirk a little to myself, unhooking my bra and taking my time in letting the straps fall down, without revealing my breasts.

  He squeezes. “Get on with it,” he growls.

  “I want to see you touch yourself.”

  Holy shit, did I just say that? Out loud?

  Adrian smiles. “Since you asked so nicely.”

  At moments like this, sometimes it hits me hard and fast that he’s still my boss. That I am, in fact, watching my boss unzip and and take himself out and stroke, in my hallway, and for a moment I feel like I’m actually going to pass out.

  Instead, I step out of my panties and walk over to him.

  I need him to touch me. I don’t care if he thinks I’m impertinent, if it means I’ll get a harder spanking later (in fact, yes please). The way he’s looking at me makes it impossible for me not to want him even more than I already do.

  He locks eyes with mine, and I grab his hand away from his cock and shove it between my legs. Because I need him. Damn the consequences.

  I could have used his other hand, of course. But that’s not how this works. It never is, with us.

  His whole body reacts when he feels how wet I am. How hot and wanting. I can see it work through him like a slow shudder, and he touches me just like I want him to, because for a moment I’m the one in control.

  You always are.

  I don’t know where that thought comes from, but it hangs thick in the air between us as he curls his fingers deep inside and finds the spot that I used to think was a myth.

  I whimper, knees buckling, but he catches me with his other arm around my waist. His fingers make an obscene sound as he yanks them out, then he lets go of my waist and grabs my hair at the roots, steering me towards the wall. I understand. I plant my hands firmly against it, presenting myself to him, like he needs any further indication of what I need. His fingers slip into my mouth, moments before he grabs my hip and slides in deep.

  I’m expecting him to say something, to call me names or to criticize my forwardness. But he just fucks me. He fucks me like it matters.

  Really, I don’t know how else to describe it. I wouldn’t have the audacity to call it making love. Because it’s not. It’s something, though. All I can do is gasp and moan, my body clenching around him, the heat rising between us until sweat drips down the bridge of my nose and lands on the carpet underneath me.

  He stops.

  “Turn around,” he rumbles, slipping out of me. I whimper in protest at the loss, but I do what he asks. The look on his face isn’t anything I’ve seen before, and for a moment he seems on the verge of saying something else. But he doesn’t. For a moment, we’re both just searching each other’s faces silently and I wish I had any clue of what was going through his head.

  Instead of talking, he puts his hand behind my thigh and lifts my leg up, up, higher still, wrapping it around his waist. Then he grabs my other thigh and hoists me up, and at least part of my weight is on the wall still, but the adrenaline’s pumping through me anyway and I’m struggling to cling to him, not to fall. My arms surround his shoulders.

  “Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispers, and for some reason I believe him.

  His hands grip my ass while he slides into me again, and it feels so different this time. Just the position, surely. But my whole body is tingling, and I don’t want to think it’s because I can see his face. I don’t want to know that it’s because of our foreheads touching, because his pace has slowed, because now we can kiss.

  “Sweet girl,” he whispers, and it’s a complete sentence. That’s all he wants to tell me. Not a command, just a statement of fact.

  When we come - yes, we, our bodies are so ridiculously in sync I could almost laugh - something bursts inside my chest. Butterflies flutter through my stomach and I try to tell myself I’m not feeling what I’m feeling.

  Because I cannot have those feelings for Adrian Risinger.

  “Here.”

  I’m sitting on the bed, towel-drying my hair, when Adrian finally hands me the box. Smiling, I reach over and pull it into my lap. “I almost forgot about this.”

  “I’d still like you to model it for me,” he says, sitting down next to me. “Even if the proceedings got a little out of order, back there.”

  I open the box, and peer inside, pulling back the tissue paper. Whatever it is, it’s a very small scrap of fabric.

  Pulling it out, I watch it unfurl, and suddenly remember what the cashier at Diva’s, the plus-sized boutique, said to me.

  Nightie is a generous description for it. The fabric is sheer, and the matching bubblegum-pink G-string isn’t exactly going to leave anything to the imagination, either.

  I pick up the little embossed card from among the tissue paper, even though some part of me already knows what it’s going to say.

  Diva’s

  “Do you like it?” Adrian wants to know.

  “Does that really matter?” I glance at him. “You shop at Diva’s a lot?”

  “Yes, it matters,” he says, frowning a little. “And no, only once. For this.”

  I’m still holding it, letting the fabric run like water through my fingers. “I got all my Natalie clothes there. The cashier recognized your name, from your credit card. And she asked me how I liked the nightie you bought me.”


  His face blanches.

  “Before Valentine’s day,” I continue. “She was very clear about that. So, I’m forced to draw the conclusion that you bought this for me four months before there was even a hint that we’d ever be sleeping together. Or, you bought it for someone else and re-gifted it.”

  He sighs, slowly. “Well, first off, the cashier at Diva’s should learn to mind her own fucking business.” Clearing his throat, he glances at me. “So…is ‘hopeful’ not an appropriate reason for buying lingerie, then?”

  “Nope, not really.” I’m laughing, in spite of myself. “I guess I should feel flattered. What, were you just going to drop it on my desk and run away?”

  “I didn’t have a plan,” he admits. “I just saw it, and I thought of you.”

  “Bullshit.” I’m really laughing now. “Why were you in Diva’s in the first place?”

  “Well, I was going to get you a gift,” he says, defensively. “Just - not a gift like this, until I saw it. It was just too perfect.”

  “It is pretty nice,” I admit. “And since when do you buy me gifts?”

  “I thought I’d start,” he says. “See, I was working on turning over a new leaf even before we slept together.”

  “You sure know how to spin it,” I admit, getting to my feet and letting my bathrobe slip off my shoulders. “Hell, I guess it’s been waiting around long enough. Let’s find out how it fits.”

  His face, when I look for his reaction, is much too serious. “You know we don’t have to go to that conference,” he says. “I just thought it might…well, if you do want an excuse, we can, but I can see why you’d rather just pick your battles with that woman.”

  “We can talk about it later,” I tell him, sliding the nightie over my head.

  “Yes,” he agrees, his eyes widening. “We can.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE NEXT NIGHT, after work, Adrian comes over.

  This time, he warns me beforehand. I tell him that the coast is clear, but that I can’t guarantee my parents won’t drop in unexpectedly. I already called my mom and left a voicemail telling her I’d be coming to the family Thanksgiving, but I’m thinking I might still cancel last-minute. I’ll just wait until she’s out of town, and she’s made all her plans with the rest of the family so she can’t come after me.

  Until after the holidays, that is. I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

  This time, he doesn’t bring any lingerie, and he doesn’t even make any comments about what varietal of wine my pussy tastes like. He does bring dinner, from some fancy Italian place I’ve never dared to set foot inside, and for the first time since we kissed in the pool, I actually feel like we might be dating.

  I’m not sure how that grabs me.

  “So far, so good,” Adrian says, pouring himself another glass of red that is not Beaujolais nouveau. He’s referring to the fact that my mother hasn’t knocked on the door yet, and I hush him violently.

  “Don’t tempt fate,” I hiss at him, like fate can’t hear me if I’m whispering.

  He shrugs. “I’m not superstitious.”

  The doorbell rings.

  “Welcome to hell,” I mutter, as I go to answer.

  My mother gives me an icy smile. “I see you’ve rethought your holiday plans.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess you were pretty persuasive.” I stand in the middle of the doorway, attempting to block her path. “I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

  “Nonsense. You can always make time for your mother when she’s visiting from so far away.” She pushes past me, and stares Adrian down as she pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Well. Seems like you’ve taken the news rather well, unless she’s saving that for pillow talk.”

  I grit my teeth. “It’s fine, Mom. Really. I already told him I’m not going to do it.”

  “Yes.” She grimaces slightly. “But you’re going to anyway. I can see it in your face. You’ve always been a terrible liar, for such a deceitful little witch.”

  In that moment, I think I actually see Adrian’s jaw unhinge in disbelief. Or perhaps in preparation to swallow his prey whole; it’s always hard to tell, with him.

  “Are you laughing at me?” my mother hisses. I realize that mental image has brought a pretty inconvenient smile to my face, but I don’t particularly feel like hiding it. With Adrian beside me, I feel a strength and steadiness at the center of my chest.

  “No,” I tell her. “There’s nothing funny about you, Mom.”

  Adrian clears his throat. “Don’t speak to her like that.”

  Vicious anger flashes in my mother’s eyes. “She’s my daughter, Mr. Risinger. I’ll speak to her however I like.”

  “You’re very skilled at bullying, Mrs. Burns,” he says, his voice deadly quiet. “It takes one to know one. You may have a few decades of experience on me, but I promise I don’t back down easily.”

  She just quirks an eyebrow at him. She’s not taking him seriously - not yet.

  “I’m not terribly pleased with the way you’ve taken over my daughter’s life,” she says, daring a response.

  Adrian’s fingers are tapping out their slow executioner’s beat on the table. My mother’s eyes snap to them, staring, her lips going thinner and thinner as she stares.

  The look on his face is terrifying. It’s also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  “At least I appreciate her,” he says, his voice quiet and even and calm. “Your daughter is brilliant, and beautiful. I think it’s very sad that you can’t see that. But I think it’s reprehensible that you talk to her like she’s a disappointment. Mrs. Burns, quite frankly, I don’t care about your guilt trip. An animal can give birth to a child and raise it, so that doesn’t particularly impress me. I don’t know how Meghan turned out the way she did, but all I see is you trying to intimidate her into being a scared little girl again so you can feel important. I won’t hear this. I’ve said what I have to say, and if Meghan is determined to allow it…well, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  He stands up, slowly. I don’t dare look at my mother. My heart is thumping, my head rushing and my fingertips tingling.

  I reach out and grab his wrist.

  “Don’t leave,” I tell him, softly.

  “Well.” My mother’s voice is soft and tremulous. “It looks like you’ve made your choice. Don’t come crawling back to me when he finds a skinny woman-“

  Adrian slams his hand down on the table. I almost jump out of my skin, but my whole body is throbbing with a heady mixture of gratitude and fear and…

  And love.

  “Get the fuck out,” he growls. “You heard her. GET THE FUCK OUT.”

  My mother slams the door behind her, but I hardly hear the sound. I’m clawing at Adrian’s clothes before I even realize what’s happening, then I push him against the wall and I tumble to my knees.

  I suck him desperately, urgently, but he pulls me to my feet before I can finish him that way. Kisses me until I’m dizzy with it, then spins me around and presses me against the table. His hand on the middle of my back, he makes me bend at the waist and assume the position. He yanks my panties and pajama pants out of the way.

  He knows, without being asked, exactly what I need.

  At first it’s slow and gentle, light little smacks followed by caresses. Then harder, and harder, until the tears I’ve been holding back finally come. He spanks me as the tears fall, pooling on my dining room table.

  Most men would be afraid to fuck me while I’m crying like this, sobbing, like my soul’s being ripped out of me, but Adrian, Adrian knows. He knows the exact moment when I need to feel him inside, stretching me, yet another challenge for my body to accept. Every sensation banishes the guilt and fear and ugliness further from my mind. Every thrust, every jolt of my hips against the hard wood, certain to leave bruises. Every smack of his palm.

  He grasps my hair by the root and yanks my head up, and I whimper. But I remember the safe w
ord, and he knows I remember it. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even hesitate.

  His every breath is a growl. I can feel all the coiled tension in his body, everything he held back while he listened to my mother’s insults. Ever so slowly, ever so gradually, he replaces little fragments of self-hatred with a strange, sharp sense of joy. One for each thrust. One for each heartbeat. One for each breath.

  There are so many, so many more, so many little fragments in places I can’t even find. But this is a start.

  In spite of how it would look to anyone watching, what I feel in his movements, in his touch, is something very simple. But a revolutionary concept, to me.

  I matter. I have value. I matter.

  Not me, but thinner. Not me, but with better clothes and a better haircut. Not me, but with a flatter stomach. Not me, but with a more advanced degree in something useful. Not me, but with more discipline and self-control.

  Just me. Just me, the way I am, every day when I wake up in the morning without even having to try.

  I howl his name when I come, rattling the table, and I don’t give a fuck about my neighbors.

  Afterwards somehow I’m sitting on the floor, crumpled down with my pants more or less pulled back up, panties still slightly askew, and the tears still flowing. Adrian is beside me, pulling me into his lap. Kissing my forehead, murmuring that everything is going to be okay.

  I don’t quite believe him. But it doesn’t matter, really.

  Because I’ve got him.

  I go to sleep swimming in tears, and I wake up in love with Adrian Risinger.

  Maybe I was before. Maybe I always was. I don’t know, but it takes me less time to realize it than it takes me to notice that he’s gone.

  He carried me to bed last night, stripped down and climbed under the covers and held me until I feel asleep. I remember that. I didn’t exactly expect him to be here when I woke up, but I still feel a cold disappointment in my chest as I turn on the coffeemaker.

  There’s no note on the fridge, nothing written in the mirror for the steam of my shower to reveal. He doesn’t call or text. I don’t know what to make of that, and it frightens me, more than it probably should.