“Absolutely,” Adrian says.
“Less jokes about old TV shows, more fresh flowers. She might say she doesn’t like flowers, but everybody likes flowers. Don’t get so caught up in being clever that you forget to show her how much you care. Every single day.” He nods to himself, thoughtfully. “Yep. I think that about does it. You two have fun, now.”
And with that, Peter pulls away.
"Come on, Mrs. Risinger," Adrian says, punctuating with a kiss. "We have pressing business to attend to."
"I never said I was taking your name," I tease him, as he drags me through the lobby. The elevators feel very far away.
He gives me a look. The lust simmering under the surface takes a bit of the edge off. "You hate your family."
"I hate you, too." I interlace my fingers with his. "I guess it's a toss-up at this point, huh?"
"Do you ever get tired of being a smartass?" We're finally there, and the clerk starts to say "Hello, Mr. Ris-" but he doesn't have a chance to finish before Adrian's yanking me into the elevator. In quick succession, he jams the heel of his hand against Door Close, and the big red STOP button.
Leading with his hips, he shoves me against the wall. The railing digs into my ass, and I really could not care less.
His hands are all over me, his mouth devours mine, and I'm obediently moving along with him as he grabs my thigh, lifting my leg up and hooking it around his hip, before I realize this isn't what I want.
Well, it is. But there's something else I want more.
"Wait," I gasp, and to his credit, he stops immediately, but his fingers still dig into my hips and his harsh breaths tickle my neck.
"What?" he mutters, his cock twitching impatiently against me.
"Not like this," I whisper, as demurely as I can manage under the circumstances. "I want my first time with my new husband to be special."
He pulls back, his eyes glinting as he begins to understand what I'm driving at. He searches my face, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
"You're right," he says, taking a deep breath and straightening his clothes as much as he can. Running his fingers through his hair, he stabs the big red button again, then hits the one for our floor. "I'm terribly sorry. Almost let my desires run away with me. You deserve special treatment on your wedding night."
"Thank you," I exhale, grasping the railing to steady myself. I'm blushing, which is perfect for the role I want to play. "I know it must be difficult for you, being so...experienced."
He laughs. "A change of pace is nice," he says. "I can take my time."
"Good." Feeling a little more brazen, but trying not to show it too much, for the sake of maintaining the roleplay, I close the distance between us and stroke his lapel. "I'm so glad you're going to be my first."
If he had any doubt of how I wanted to play tonight, he doesn't now. I'm going to step effortlessly into the role of the blushing virgin bride, and he's going to take me gently at first, pretending he didn't have me face-down ass-up yesterday. Because that's just how we roll.
"Me too, Mrs. Risinger. Me too." He kisses me softly, the way he might actually do if I'd never been with a man before. It's nice. It's very, very nice.
I imagine I'll grow impatient with it eventually, but hopefully by then I'll be able to convince him that I don't need the gentle treatment anymore.
When we get to the room, he kisses me again - tenderly, still, but with growing heat. I realize we've never had this. In the beginning it was always fast and urgent, and then we slipped right into the comfortable habits of longtime lovers. In a way, we were - five years of verbal foreplay hadn't been for nothing. And there was still plenty of room for the fast-and-urgent type, but we've never tried it...gentle. Tentative. Unsure. Careful.
He's kissing me like he thinks I might shy away, and strangely, I really, really like it.
I had that one ex who treated me like a breakable porcelain doll, which wasn't exactly fun, but this is totally different. Adrian's playing a role just like I am, but the struggle to hold himself back is real. I can tell he's aching to throw me down, rip my panties off with his teeth, and fuck me - but he's loving the tease. And so am I.
"Are you all right, darling?" he asks, softly, when his lips break away from mine. I'm panting like I just ran a mile.
"Yes," I whisper, quickly realizing that my body's tingling all over, just from his kiss. Oh, my God. I might not survive tonight. "Just...I'm...it's a lot."
"Too much?" His eyes twinkle.
"Not enough," I admit, swallowing hard. "I think. But I don't know how much more I can take."
"Just promise me this." He strokes the side of my cheek with one finger. "Let me guide you. Trust me. I'll make you feel things you never even imagined, but you have to be willing to let go."
I suck in a deep breath, staring at those eyes I've seen a thousand times, feeling a little bit like I've never really looked before.
"I trust you," I tell him.
With one hand on the small of my back, he draws me in close, just so that I can melt into him. Feel his arousal. Grow accustomed to it, I suppose. He breathes softly, nuzzling my neck, but not kissing and biting at the soft skin that loves his attention so much. Not yet. He's pretending that he doesn't know I like that.
"Don't be afraid to stop me, if it gets to be too much."
I just nod. There's not a chance in hell. Then again, I didn't decide on doing this in the first place, until he started groping me in the elevator.
How far do I want to take this ingenue act? I smile to myself. "It feels so big."
Adrian's trying not to laugh, but it still got to him. He sighs a little, tilting his hips just slightly. "Don't worry, I know you'll be able to take it."
It takes a massive effort not to snicker. He knows, all right.
I'm not sure how this happened. I went from hating this man to loving him so completely, but the more I think about it, the more I realize how much those two feelings really do have in common. Half of the reason I hated him was because of how much I liked him - and half of the reason he treated me so badly was because he wanted me, but he knew he'd only hurt me if I got too close.
It's complicated, but we seem to have come to an understanding.
Six months is much, much too quick. Any sensible person would tell me I shouldn’t have married him, and they'd be right, except we've really been falling in love since the moment we met.
God, that's disgusting. I want to punch us both in the face, but first, I have to keep pretending I'm a blushing virgin bride who's about to get her first taste of real pleasure.
"Okay," I whisper. "If you say so."
"I'll go slow, baby." Finally, he nips at my earlobe, ever so slightly. "We've got all night. And all day. And the rest of the week...you'll be so blissed out, I'll have to carry you over my shoulder to get on the plane back home."
I stiffen slightly. Even now, it's still hard for me to hear things like that. I know he's strong, but I'm not exactly a waif. It's been a struggle to stop myself from instantly making a snarky comment in response. But I hate the way his face falls when I put myself down.
"That's quite a brag, Mr. Risinger." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax against him. I'm glad he can't see my face, the way I winced when he talked about picking me up. "I'm pretty curious how you plan on making good on it."
"Oh, are you?" He lets out a long, hot breath, and it travels down my spine and brings out the goosebumps all over. "I have a couple ideas. Most of them involve my mouth and your beautiful pussy, kitten."
"How do you know it's beautiful?" Somehow, I'm managing to disguise the quiver in my voice. I don't think it's proper that my fucking wedding turned me on so much I can't see straight, but I really don't care right now. All I want is for him to make good on his promise.
"Because every inch of you is beautiful," he whispers. His fingers are toying with the juncture of my inner thigh, and I'm pretty sure my gorgeous new dress is getting wet from where he's pressing it into me
. The thought makes me dizzy with arousal. My beautiful, pure white wedding dress is going to be soaked with my juices if he just presses a little more, a little harder, the way I want him to...
"Please," I whimper, softly, my hips twitching towards him.
"Please what?" He's chuckling. Damn it, I should've known he'd take control of this game if I started it. Now, I'm trapped in the role of a shy, demure bride who can't ask for what she really wants. If I cave, then he wins. This wasn't supposed to be a competition, but of course it is. Because it's us.
"I, um..."
"You want me to touch you?"
Thank God, he's taking pity on me. Or maybe his own raging hard-on is calling the shots now, I really don't care. Anything that gets his fingers between my legs, at this point.
"Yes." I bite my lip with the effort of not grabbing his hand and shoving it where I want it. "Please. I need you, I need to..."
"I know what you need," he rumbles, his fingers ghosting against needy, throbbing flesh. I gasp. Even through the fabric it's almost unbearably intense, and I can feel myself clench deep inside, ready to explode.
I kind of hate that he does this to me, but not as much as I love it. It's just not fair. Nobody should have this much control over my body. But ever since I first read his books, not knowing he was the author, he's had this bizarre ability to plug directly into my libido and push all the right buttons.
Fuck me, he's hot. Sometimes it almost hurts to look at him, the realization that he's really here, that he's mine, all mine, is just too much to wrap my head around.
And now he's my husband.
"Meg?" He hesitates, fingers stilling. I moan in protest, but I know why he stopped. He must have seen something on my face, and I can't hide how overwhelmed I am by everything.
"I'm fine," I assure him, smiling. "Or at least, I will be."
He looks a little skeptical, and I sigh.
"I just can't believe this is real," I admit, finally. "It's...I don't now."
"Believe it," he says, fervently. "I could pinch you, if it helps."
I'm starting to lose my grasp on the roleplay, but at this point it's honestly remarkable I'm still upright.
"Yes please," I tell him, heatedly, and he does. Gently, but exactly where I need it.
With his thumb and forefinger on either side of my clit, I can't hold back. I shudder and scream, collapsing against him and feeling the tears start to leak from my eyes. Damn it, this wasn't part of the plan. Sure, it fits the game I wanted to play, but I really am crying. I'm such an unforgivable sap, and the rush of endorphins from my orgasm is no excuse.
"Shh." He's holding me, gently, patiently. I never would have pegged him for someone who could be so patient. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I'm all yours."
He's not just playing a role. Not now. As improbable as it seems, the overbearing control freak who used to spend an inordinate amount of time devising new ways to imply that I was an actual broomstick-riding witch is really, truly in love with me.
And even more remarkably, I’m in love with him.
Five Years Ago
I walk into Adrian Risinger’s office with my head firmly attached to my shoulders.
I need this job. But, I have to convince myself - I don’t need him as much as he needs me. I have to balance my tenacity and determination with some sort of aloofness, because men like him will absolutely feed on any sign of weakness. I’ve never met this guy, don’t even know what he looks like, but I know he must be a shark.
My ignorance isn’t for lack of trying. I can’t find much information about him online. There was no headshot on the website, or on the Forbes list, and he seems to have avoided the tabloids. Which, to be fair, isn’t that difficult. There’s nothing particularly interesting about the nature of his work, and he doesn’t make an effort to be a personality. Unless you wear a really bad hairpiece, host a reality TV show, or throw chairs during a major league sporting event, just being a billionaire is no longer newsworthy.
I’ve been able to piece together his approximate age - late twenties - and the fact that he was definitely born into money. I found more information about his father than I did about him, ranging from “tough but fair captain of industry” to “emotionally abusive tyrant,” depending on who’s telling the story.
All very interesting, but none of it prepares me for a job interview.
The receptionist insisted I should just walk in, but the door’s closed, so I knock first.
“Yes?” comes a voice from inside.
Shrugging, I push the door open and step in.
It’s smaller than I would have guessed. Considering he could probably have the whole top floor if he wanted, it’s strange that his office isn’t much bigger than my living room. It’s fairly cold and sterile, with a massive desk, very modern, all polished steel and tempered glass, as the centerpiece.
He’s not sitting behind it. Instead, he’s leaning on the wall next to the window. Just looking at me.
Adrian Risinger is tall and lean, with effortlessly tousled dirty-blond hair and a face that would make angels weep. His mouth promises mischief, or maybe that’s just the little smile on his lips as I approach him. His eyebrows lift slightly, as if something about my approach or appearance has surprised him - but not unpleasantly.
“Ms. Burns,” he says, shaking my offered hand.
“Mr. Risinger.” I smile at him. He keeps my hand clasped in his for a little too long, as if he’s trying to read something off the warmth of my skin. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he says. “Please. Have a seat.”
There are two chairs opposite his desk, and both of them are somewhat puzzling in their postmodern design. But the one I pick is more comfortable than I would have guessed, although I keep my back firm and upright, staying on my guard.
“Tell me,” he says, taking a seat in his captain’s chair and tenting his fingers. “Do you always lie to get an interview?”
Instantly, my face is burning. Obviously I fudged a little bit when I told him I was with Haldiman, but it wasn’t an outright lie. I never actually said they’d referred me, I only implied it. I never expected him to confront me, given how desperate he clearly is.
I keep my composure as best I can. I have the option of denying, of playing dumb, but that’s never going to work with him. I might as well acknowledge it.
“I only told you that I was with Haldiman,” I point out, calmly. “That’s not a lie.”
He nods, grinning suddenly. “You’re right. They won’t refer anyone to me these days. So unless you slipped through the cracks somehow - unlikely - you just heard about the opening and decided to take matters into your own hands. Which means you’ve heard about the unfortunate falling-out between me and the agency.”
Well, there’s no point in denying it. “I’ve heard you have very high standards.”
Mr. Risinger laughs. “Meghan - may I call you Meghan?” He doesn’t really pause long enough for an answer. “Please, do me a favor. No bullshit.”
All right, fine. He wants honesty? I can do honesty. “I heard that you’re difficult.”
He rolls his eyes, making a dismissive gesture. “Try again.”
Okay, I’m starting to see what the problem is. But I’m determined to see this through, and I’ve got nothing to lose.
“I heard you’re an asshole.”
For a heart-stopping moment, he just stares at me. His smile fades a little, and in spite of his goading, I momentarily become convinced that I’ve pushed him too far.
What the hell were you thinking? You’re in a fucking job interview, and you just called the boss an asshole.
Finally, he speaks again.
“So that begs the question,” he says. “Why would you want to work for an asshole?”
I take a deep breath, unsure if I’m out of the woods yet. “Because I’m good at it.”
After another long silence, he laughs, standing up abruptly and hitting a button
on his desk phone. “Do you want some coffee, Ms. Burns?”
So we’re back to Ms. Burns. Is that a good sign, or a bad one? “No thank you,” I tell him.
“Don’t be shy,” he says. “Cora, can you bring up two coffees?”
The receptionist’s voice crackles back in response. “Get it yourself.”
“Thanks, Cora.” Mr. Risinger reaches into a desk drawer. “As you can see, I’m in need of a dedicated assistant.” He pulls out a flask. “Brandy?”
“Um…” He’s kidding, right?
“Relax,” he says, pouring himself a mug and sitting back down. “I know you haven’t really worked at this level before, but around here, we don’t have problem drinkers. Only executive drinkers.”
I nod skeptically, as he takes a sip.
“Anyway,” he says, making a slight face and shaking his head. “I don’t normally start this early without a mixer. A good Sumatran roast is always the best choice. I do have high standards, Ms. Burns, and the only difference between me and everybody else is that I have the ability to make things happen. Power doesn’t corrupt. It just opens up doors.”
He switches subjects so quickly, and his tone barely changes. It takes me a second to digest what he’s saying. “If you say so.”
He smirks. “Everybody likes to think they’d be different, if they suddenly had the money. The power. But as soon as you have the ability to make things exactly the way you want them, and you’ve got people at your beck and call…well. Let’s just say money isn’t the root of all evil, but it sure makes it easier to be a son of a bitch.”
“Nobody ever said it was,” I mutter, almost to myself, because this whole situation is so bizarre, it’s almost eliminated my mental filter.
Mr. Risinger frowns at me a little. “What?”
I get the feeling nobody’s ever bothered to respond to his little manifesto, let alone criticize it. I should just pull my foot out of my mouth and walk away gracefully, but he’s managed to push enough of my buttons that I just can’t.
“That’s not how it goes,” I explain, suppressing a sigh - at myself, or at him, I don’t know. “The verse you’re quoting. It says, ‘the love of money is the root of all evil.’”
His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection) Page 31