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

by Melanie Marchande

  “Open your eyes,” he whispers. “And keep them open.”

  I do.

  He’s slightly hunkered down to get the right angle, but only slightly. I watch the muscles in his legs clench and tremble, watch his hard length disappear inside me, inch by inch.

  Oh yeah - it bears mentioning that he’s naked now.

  And he fucks me like that, gentle and slow, his fingers returning to the place where we’re joined, touching me just right. I feel myself start to clench and I try to stop it, choking out an apology as he works his magic.

  “Stop.” His voice rumbles straight through his chest and into my bound arms, my back, my heart. “I know you can’t help it, love.”

  And that’s when something inside me cracks. I can’t even begin to explain it, but as I start to come, some overwhelming, pent-up emotion bursts the surface and I cry. Just like that, as my body quivers with pleasure, hot tears start to slide down my cheeks. He pauses just slightly in his movements to lock his eyes with mine, an unspoken question.

  “Don’t stop,” I beg him, and miraculously, he doesn’t.

  I watch him, blinking the tears away as they come, wanting to see his face change as he loses control. When he comes, he bites my shoulder, and I shudder from head to toe.

  He pulls away then, and I’m left there standing, every muscle tense and sore, wetness trickling down my legs, tears streaked across my face. With one swift movement, he literally sweeps me off of my feet.

  It’s only so he can deposit me gently on the bed, lying on my side, so he can make short work of the ropes. But still. He’s never picked me up before, not like that. Like I weighed nothing at all.

  My arms released, I go completely boneless on the sheets. He climbs in after me and settles in, playing the big spoon like he does so well.

  “Meg?” His tone is soft and recognizably Ryn, and I melt even more. His voice hums against my ear, so that I almost feel the words more than I hear them. “Good tears, yes?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, grasping his hand where it rests on my stomach. I hate crying after sex, mostly because it seems like something boss-Adrian would’ve mercilessly mocked me for. It’s bizarre, but I hate the idea that he’s somehow censoring himself now, to try and deal with my delicate feelings.

  I suppose I hate it because it makes me feel like an inconvenience. Like eventually, he’ll get sick of me. The mask will slip.

  But now, for the first time, I realize what I should’ve known all along. This is real. The rest was an act. It came naturally enough, and it was easier than risking the pain of allowing himself to care. Watching him slip back into that role, like a well-tailored suit, makes the truth so obvious.

  “God, I love you,” he sighs. “But sometimes I miss seeing that fire in your eyes.”

  I laugh softly, the tears starting to dissipate. “You’ll always be able to piss me off. Don’t worry.”

  “Yeah, but not like before.” His teeth graze my earlobe, and I shudder. “It’s fucked up that I miss it, right?”

  “Yeah. Get your head examined, Risinger.” I twine my fingers with his, holding on tight. “I really need a shower, you know that?”

  “Hmm,” he chuckles. “You do reek of sex.”

  “Wonder why.”

  For a while, all I hear is the ticking of the clock in the corner.

  “Listen, that thing about…” I clear my throat. How on earth do you ask so, does the fact that your dirty-talk includes getting me pregnant mean that you see a serious future for us together? “…I mean, you know. Were you…?”

  “Might have to be a little more specific,” he says. “Also, I have to be honest, I thought you were going to be lot angrier about the scavenger hunt.”

  Truth is? I sort of forgot about it. But I can’t just reinforce the idea that it’s so imminently possible to distract me with sex, so I just make a non-committal noise. “It fits. I don’t know why I would’ve expected anything but a massive troll from the likes of you.”

  “Indeed,” he says. “To wit, I know exactly what you’re asking me about. I’m just very conscious of the fact that there’s many more potential wrong answers than right ones.”

  “Then just tell me the truth,” I insist.

  “The truth is I can’t imagine my life without you.” He’s silent for a moment, his lips just resting against my cheek. “That’s all I know for sure. The truth is, I had five years’ lead time in the realm of having feelings for you, and I realize that’s creepy enough already without leaving you with the impression that I’ve been planning our wedding since our second date.”

  More and more, I’m beginning to realize how much I really did care for him, back then. I didn’t see it at the time, of course. I couldn’t put a name to it. But the rift between us back then wasn’t as big as he imagines.

  “Okay.” One last band of tension in my chest slowly releases, and I close my eyes. “You know I think I’ve been in love with you since that time in my apartment. When we pulled the all-nighter working on those proposals for the board and you made me drink whiskey with pickle juice.”

  “Made you,” he repeats. “I dared you, that’s something entirely different.”

  “You try refusing a dare from your boss,” I shoot back. “Anyway, when we were standing by the door I had this weird feeling like you were going to kiss me.”

  He lets out a small, bewildered laugh. “I almost did. Can you imagine?”

  “I would have been confused,” I admit. “But I like to think I would’ve warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. I mean, I was pretty drunk and delirious from a lack of sleep.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t do it,” he says. “But I don’t know if you would have been half as confused as I was, in the pool.”

  “Really?” I giggle. “That whole thing wasn’t specifically orchestrated to seduce me?”

  “My hand to God,” he says. “I was born this hot. It’s not my fault if I can’t have a little swim without women exploding in clouds of sexual frustration.”

  “That’s actually kind of embarrassing, you know. Now I feel like I took advantage of you.” I’m joking, mostly, although it’s a little humiliating to imagine that I completely blindsided him with my sudden, raging horniness.

  “Trust me.” He kisses my temple lightly. “When you grabbed my hand and put it - just, right there on your tits, it was by far the best thing that had happened to me in at least a decade.”

  I snort. “Don’t call them that.”

  “What, tits? Would you prefer boobs? I’m not twelve.”

  Sighing, I stroke my thumb against his. “Fine. But now I’m kind of curious what happened in the last decade that was so great.”

  “Absolutely not,” he says, firmly. “I’m not falling into that trap.”

  “You’re no fun,” I pout.

  “Right.” He chuckles. “No fun at all. It’s all work and no play with me, isn’t it?”

  “Come on,” I needle him. “What was it? Losing your virginity to…I’m going to guess a drama club girl who wore a lot of tights with holes in them, and ended up dumping you for the captain of the football team? A pool party with Torrid models? Come on. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

  He’s rolling his eyes at me. I don’t have to look at him to know that. “You know I’m going to make you pay for this tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, that’s Tomorrow Meg’s problem.” I still feel a little giddy, and a lot in love.

  “So it is.” He rolls over, just enough to look at the clock. “Are you hungry?”

  I suddenly realize that I really, really am. “I could eat,” I reply casually, as my stomach growls. “But a shower first, probably.”

  “You go on,” he says. “I’ll call room service. What sounds good?”

  “Anything,” I say, dreamily, as I start to prop myself up on the bed. “Everything. Valentine’s Day stuff. Steaks, chocolate, strawberries, champagne. Make it happen for me, Mr. Billionaire.”

  “Sure,” he says
, grinning. “But I feel obligated to inform you that none of those things cost a billion dollars.”

  “The fact that you even know that is kind of ruining the fantasy for me,” I inform him. “Are you even a real billionaire?”

  “You caught me,” he says, flipping open the menu. “What gave it away?”

  “The fact that you do your own laundry, mostly,” I tell him. “Also the fact that you’re looking at a menu instead of just demanding whatever you want.”

  With a sigh, he stands up, stabbing a few buttons on the phone and picking up the receiver. “Yeah. Room 605. Send up a strip steak and a ribeye, both medium rare, with mashed potatoes and asparagus on the side, a dozen chocolate-covered strawberries, and the most expensive champagne you can get ahold of in the next twenty minutes. Just knock and leave them outside the door. I swear to God if the asparagus is limp I’ll have everyone in this place fired. All right?”

  I’m just barely stifling my laughter when he hangs up.

  “How’s that?” He comes over to me swiftly, his arm surrounding me and pressing me against him for an all-too-brief kiss. “Demanding enough for you?”

  “It’s nice to know you can still be a dick,” I tell him, and I actually mean it. God only knows why.

  “Especially if you put me up to it,” he says. “Now get a move on, Ms. Burns. Shower. Your naked body’s not going to ogle itself, and I’m running out of patience.”

  Laughing, I walk into the bathroom, with him hot on my heels. “I’m already naked, have you not noticed?”

  “Yeah, but wet, soapy naked is a whole different class of naked. Here. I’ll demonstrate.” Reaching past me to turn on the taps, he very deliberately brushes his body against mine. “But I’ll have to make it quick. I’d hate to let the steaks sit too long and get to medium. I’d have to fire the whole management chain.”

  I just shake my head at him. “Sorry, you were saying something about wet, soapy naked?”

  “Oh, well if you wanted me to put on a show, all you had to do was ask.” He steps under the water and reaches for the bar of soap. “But this is probably going to be more fun if you join me.”

  “If I join you, it’s going to take a lot longer than twenty minutes.” But I step in, all the same.

  My once and former boss, hair plastered down from the rivulets of water cascading down his maddeningly perfect body, holds out the bar of soap and winks. He actually fucking winks at me.

  “Lather up,” he says.

  And that’s exactly what I do.

  Snow for His Secretary

  THEN

  She’s hopping on one foot, trying in vain to yank off her snow boot and change into some more work-appropriate footwear. She has no idea I’m watching her.

  It’s snowing outside.

  I’ve never been a fan of winter. Specifically, the holidays. Business slows down, everyone’s supposed to go home and spend time with their families. It’s Bizarro World.

  Everything else in life is tailor-made for us singles - we’re expected to have no loyalties except to ourselves and our jobs, to work ourselves to death, to be motivated, to be driven, to care about absolutely nothing except success.

  Then, November comes. Everything we’re supposed to focus on during the rest of the year suddenly falls by the wayside, and for those few months out of the year, suddenly it’s all about family.

  Everything on TV, everything in every single movie, they all seem designed to make me feel like shit. For those few months out of the year, I’m not supposed to be a successful businessman anymore. I’m supposed to have a few giggling toddlers running around my feet, grabbing presents under the tree and shaking them. I’m supposed to stumble into the kitchen after too little sleep and too many cookies “for Santa,” and pry open the can of discount coffee while the jingle reminds me that this is the best part of waking up.

  But in reality, outside of Commercial Land, I’m alone in the world. And so is my secretary.

  Well, Meghan has family, but she doesn’t like them. That much is obvious.

  Risinger Industries doesn’t shut down for the week of Christmas. I like to keep people on their toes. Of course we’re not actually open, and no one but me is actually working - but I feel like if I shut the place down completely, everyone gets complacent. Meghan only asked for four days off. Four days? Who doesn’t ask for a week, for Christmas?

  Meghan doesn’t want to spend time with her family. She’ll use me as an excuse, which shouldn’t bother me. And it doesn’t. Except…well, it goes against everything I thought I learned about her, in the last four months. From the moment I hired her, “spineless” was never an attribute I would’ve pinned on that woman.

  Sarcastic, yes. Infuriating. She’s biting back all the nasty things she wants to say to me, but if she thinks I can’t tell, she’s insane. If looks could kill, this place would just be a smoking pile of rubble. She hates me.

  So I smile a little bit, watching her struggle with her boots. It’s just funny to watch her, those little noises of frustration, the way she’s bent over so her skirt hikes up to the middle of her thigh -

  All right, so she’s fucking sexy. Let’s just move on from that.

  I have been trying. Since day one. I’ve made a valiant effort not to think about her that way, because it’s such a bad idea. She’s the only assistant I can see myself keeping for any length of time; I’m not going to jeopardize that by getting too close to her. There are plenty of women in the world, and she’s nothing special.

  I keep telling myself that, until I almost believe it.

  In the past, I’ve made a point of hiring against type. My secretaries are always slender blondes whom everyone assumes I’m fucking, not realizing that my tastes run more to freckles and curls and hips soft enough to really sink your grip into. I want to feel like I’m leaving fingerprints on her body. I want lush, I want soft, and more than that, I want her.

  God damn it.

  At that exact moment, she turns around. Her face is slightly flushed, and her hair is frizzing wildly in defiance of everything I’m sure she did this morning to tame it.

  “Good morning, sir,” she says, her eyes widening slightly. She might hate me, but she’s still trying to put on a professional front, and she’s not particularly pleased that I’ve spotted her struggling with something that ought to be simple.

  “You’re early,” I point out.

  “Yesterday, you said I was late.” Her mouth twists a little. “Is this another one of your famous no-win scenarios?”

  I grin. She’s the only person in the this building who’s not afraid of me, and part of me wishes she was. But much more than that, it thrills me a little.

  “Just try to improve your sense of timing,” I tell her. She’s not going to take me seriously. She never does. I can make ridiculous demands of anyone else in the office, and they’ll just give me that deer-in-the-headlights look, and stumble backwards out of the room saying yes, Mr. Risinger, I’m sorry, Mr. Risinger. This girl, meanwhile…

  Maybe it’s because she can tell I’m picturing her in nothing but fishnets.

  God damn it, am I?

  Well, I certainly am now.

  I am a grown man with control over my own life, and my own desires. I have been for, what, almost a decade now? I will not be stymied by a voluptuous redhead who just happened to walk into my life when I needed another distraction like I needed a hole in my head.

  Somehow, I have to exorcise her from my life. My thoughts. I only know of one way to do that, and I really, really don’t want to.

  But I can’t see any other choice.

  I have to write about her.

  Now

  She whistles softly, and the fluffy Pyrenees comes trotting right to her. He stares up at her, big, black eyes watching her intently. Waiting for her next command.

  “Good boy,” she murmurs, scratching behind his ears.

  I relate to this dog more than I probably should.

  Meg glances at me. “D
on’t worry, I’m not going to adopt him. He’s already got six families on his waiting list."

  “Good,” I tell her, sternly, covering pretty well for what was actually running through my head. “You spend too much time here with all the animals to actually take one of them home.”

  Our breaths come out in bursts of white steam, but there’s still no snow. It was a green, gray, crunchy Christmas. I’ve never thought of myself as sentimental, particularly not about inconvenient weather patterns, but it feels strange to be this deep into winter without a single significant snowfall. I guess, in a way, I like the city better when it’s blanketed in white, quieting everything. Until the plows come by and turn it to sludge.

  I hired her in the early autumn. I distinctly remember that. Those times when the plants can’t quite decide if they should keep blooming, and the sun-warmed days give way to cool, crisp nights. It wasn’t until the first snowfall that I realized I might have something other than idle feelings of fleeting attraction for her, and now we’re…

  Well, something. “Dating” is too casual, and half of her clothes are at my place even if she hasn’t technically moved in. When she decides not to spend the night, I act all cool, then spend the night tossing and turning sleeplessly in the very same bed that I once wouldn’t let another human being into. Fucking strangers in hotels had its charms, but now I can’t even relax without her curled up in my arms.

  The next step is obvious. I have to ask her to move in with me. There’s no reason to delay it any longer.

  Except somehow, I can’t quite find the words.

  She’s surrounded by dogs. There’s something about her that quiets them, and draws their attention. She doesn’t have to speak, or produce treats from her pocket, although it helps. I’ve noticed the same quality in many of the people who volunteer here at the shelter. I like animals just fine, but I don’t seem to have that preternatural connection with them.