His Secretary: Undone

by Melanie Marchande

  Sighing heavily, I walk into the kitchen. "All I have is rum, but at least it's good - and ninety proof. Is that okay with you?"

  "Unless you have something stronger," he says. "Like heroin. Or bath salts."

  Snickering, I pour us each a glass and bring them over, sitting down beside him. "I'm sorry you walked into that."

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I mean - I came over here to apologize, but I didn't anticipating having to apologize for this."

  I give him a look. The softness is back, in his face, his voice - it came on so gradually in Austin that I almost didn't notice the change, but now I can see it clearly. "You do have a few apologies to deal out."

  He drinks the whole glass in one swallow. "I know. Would you like a refill?"

  I manage a giggle. "Haven't even started. Plus, I'm afraid that was the last of it. I haven't hit up the liquor store lately."

  "Shit. Anything else?" He's already headed into the kitchen.

  "Just some wine I got. Haven't tried it yet. It's some seasonal new harvest thing."

  He's pulling the bottle out of the fridge. "Beaujolais nouveau? Oh, well - it's a little juvenile, but it'll do."

  I roll my eyes. "Christ. You really don't know how to do apologies, do you?"

  Adrian pours two glasses. "I'm teasing you. Mostly. I like it, myself."

  I make a face when I taste it. It's bright and fresh, but there's a little too much of a vinegar aftertaste for me. Or a lot too much. I smack my lips, trying to figure out how it hits my palate.

  Adrian's smiling, and it's wicked.

  "What?" I ask him. "It's just not my…"

  But he's not reacting to me, he's reacting to the wine.

  "This reminds me of something," he says, licking his lips. "Something very specific."

  "Oh yeah?" I lean back on the sofa.

  "Mmmhmm." He looks me up and down. "A very particular flavor that I've developed a taste for recently."

  I'm starting to blush. "I don't know if I'm prepared for this conversation right now," I admit.

  "Me neither," he says. "But I gave it a shot. Too creepy?"

  I shake my head. "If my mother hadn't just barged into my apartment, it probably would've worked a lot better."

  "I didn't know you majored in music," he says, setting his glass down on the coaster. I'm not surprised he has good breeding, but I am kind of surprised that he's not leaving a ring on my Ikea coffee table just to prove a point.

  "I started leaving it off my resume after I realized how it sounded." I shift in my seat, eyes wandering to the box he's set down on the table.

  He raises his eyebrows slightly. "How does it sound?"

  I shrug. "Flighty. Like I don't really want a corporate job. I dunno, but I got a lot more callbacks when I left it off."

  "Hmm." He's leaning back on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. His slacks are so well-tailored I can see the muscles bunch and release under the finely-woven fabric. "I think it shows discipline."

  He glances at me, and of course I'm bright red, thinking of his hand connecting with my ass. "Well, I'll make sure to keep that in mind when I finally grow a pair and quit on you."

  Adrian is laughing. "Oh, Meg." He slides one foot closer towards the sofa, leaving the other leg outstretched. "We both know that's never going to happen."

  I scowl at him. "How can you be so confident about everything all the time?"

  "It's easy," he shrugs. "Just make more money than anyone else you know."

  I grab a throw pillow, and hurl it at his head.

  Grabbing it out of the air, he tosses it into the armchair across the room. "Pillow fight? That's not very mature."

  "Yeah, well." Now I'm blushing even deeper than I ever thought possible, and wishing I could just disappear into the sofa. I know he came here for sex, and I'm wishing he'd just get on with it, because it's much easier than talking. "You deserve something a lot heavier, but I don't have any large rocks handy."

  "Do you still play anything?" he asks me, and it takes a second to switch gears. God damn it, why won't be stop harping on my musical past? Hahaha, good pun. I don't want to talk about this. I don't even want to think about it; it's depressing.

  "Not really," I deflect. "You didn't come here to talk about my lack of a musical career, did you?"

  "No," he admits, glancing at the box. "But your mother's steely gaze may have derailed me just a bit."

  I can't help letting out an undignified snort. "I hope it doesn't cause you any permanent damage."

  "Don't worry." With a lightning-fast motion he's upright again, his body turning towards mine, not actually closing the distance between us, but making my pulse quicken nonetheless. "I'm already starting to forget the details."

  Licking my lips quickly, I glance at the box again. "Uh, so, in the words of the immortal Brad Pitt-"

  "What's in the boooxx?" he intones, breaking into a grin. "You'll find out in a minute, kitten. Are you sure you're not too traumatized?"

  "Don't tease me." I'm pouting. I don't know what it is about him that brings out my inner brat, but this is definitely more fun than interacting with him in the office. At work, I've got this compulsion to make myself heard, even when I know it's not going to make a difference. I always feel silenced. But now, as he leans in to kiss me, to claim me, his hand on the side of my neck like a brand - I'm content to be silenced. More than that, I want to be silenced.

  Why? How is this different?

  Besides, the obvious, of course.

  The obvious is currently pressing against my thigh as he leans into me, flattening us both down on the sofa until my head hangs over the armrest and his body completely surrounds me, cages me in, somehow. It shouldn't be physically possible. I'm wider than he is, but right now, I don't feel it.

  His tongue plunders my mouth with the confidence of a man who knows he's getting exactly what he wants tonight, and that probably shouldn't be as sexy as it is. But holy shit, I'm turned on. Everything about him turns me on, and I'm starting to question my whole history with Adrian, if maybe a good portion of my constant annoyance is just pure horniness.

  With an effort, he pulls away, and I realize I've clamped my thighs around him so he barely move. Also, my arms are clasped around his back very tightly. Also, I might have been sucking on his tongue a little.

  Or - a lot.

  "Good god, woman," he pants, swiping his sleeve across his mouth. "I know I'm good, but can't you go a week without my dick and not end up a crazed sex fiend?"

  Yeah, no. He's definitely legitimately annoying.

  And I definitely legitimately don't care right now.

  "Let's make a concerted effort to never find out," I suggest, grabbing his face and pulling it back to mine.

  He chuckles against my mouth. "One or two visits to your place before a big business trip are easily explained away," he murmurs. "After a while, though, people are going to talk."

  My heart sinks. This is it. This is the conversation I thought we'd be having when we got back, just not in this context. Not right now. Please, not right now. I want to beg him to shut up, but instead, I just say: "No one's gonna notice, you egomaniac."

  Swiftly, he pins my wrists down, growling, "call me names again when we're in bed together. I dare you."

  "We're not in bed," I point out, innocently.

  "All right, that's it." He jumps to his feet, grabbing my hand and pulling me along with him. "Which direction's the bedroom?"

  "The only direction there is in here," I grouse. "Other than outside."

  Adrian yanks me to him and swats me once, firmly, on my backside. "Stop it. What's put you in this mood, all of sudden?"

  "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.