10 Shades of Seduction

by Tiffany Reisz

  Yet still, she raged, “Where are you, you fuck! Just when I need you, you go AWOL...you and those bloody Swiss bastards. Men, you’re all the fucking same!”

  It was nonsense, and ridiculous, and she knew it, but she wanted to knock everything off his desk, and send it flying, and smash all the other plants on the shelves around the office, too.

  “Fuck!” she growled again, stomping across the room and swooping down to pick up papers.

  “Well, if that’s what you want, boss, I guess another long lunch is in order.”

  Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice, in a most alarming way. It wasn’t a sex thing somehow, just relief, huge relief, that he was here.

  “Yes, it fucking well is!” she countered, still down, a sheaf of muddled paper in her hand. Of course they’d all had to slide out of the folders, hadn’t they?

  Teetering in a crouch, on her smart heels, she glowered over her shoulder at him, then suddenly overbalanced, landing on the carpet on her bottom. Another howl of rage rose to her lips, but within an instant, Patrick was at her side, helping her to rise, and the anger seemed to steam away like morning mist and she found herself laughing along with him as his strong arm brought her back up onto her feet.

  “Another rough meeting, I guess?” he said, reaching out and tucking her hair behind her ears in an easy natural gesture.

  Miranda’s heart did another wild lurch. He never touched her in the office. It was part of their unspoken ground rules. A code they’d somehow formulated without ever once discussing it. She should have been even angrier with him for breaching it, but instead the tiny contact felt exquisite. And she ached for more of it, even as his hand withdrew.

  “Absolute shit. Those bastards from the Swiss partnership are the most devious and conniving operators on the face of the planet. They project this nice, reasonable facade but it’s a total sham. They’re all sharks.” She fussed with her hair herself, to cover the way she was shaking. Not with rage but with a sweet trembling at the proximity of Patrick.

  “But you aced the meeting all the same?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  You know me so well, don’t you? You can see right through the tantrums to the heart of what happened.

  The revelation was alarming, yet wonderful. As was the way his beautiful cologne was tantalizing her, making her feel dizzy with lust and a whole lot more.

  “Lucky guess,” he replied with a puckish smile. “Look, let me tidy up here. Won’t take a second. Get your things and I’ll meet you in the car park in ten minutes, eh?” For a moment, he looked slightly unsure of himself, in a way she rarely saw, and a twist of strange yearning made her shudder. “That is, if you still want to?”

  “What do you think?” she answered, wanting to reach down and ruffle his gilded hair as he sank into a crouch and began to field errant papers. Either that, or sigh at the way the action tightened his dark trousers around his haunches and his arse, revealing their strong, muscular shape. Instead, she darted away, snatched up her bag, then hurried past him while he was still scooping up documents.

  “See you in ten...maybe fifteen, but no longer, eh?” Not looking back, she headed for the car park, via the cloakroom.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later and he was walking toward her, jingling his keys, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and the sleeves of his blue Sea Island cotton shirt rolled up. She liked the look of his smooth forearms. They were powerful, and had a capable quality. Patrick was wonderful with his arms and hands. Well, every part of himself really. She knew his body was fabulous, even though she had yet to see him absolutely and completely naked. Their couplings had so far all been partially clothed affairs, even though not always hurried.

  Without speaking, he let her into passenger seat, holding open the door for her, then strode around to his side, sliding in and slinging his jacket on the backseat. He gave her a placid, reassuring smile that seemed to negate even the need for words, and still in silence, they set off, heading for their secret world of sex.

  About half way to the chalet, Patrick spoke up though. Miranda was half expecting him to ask her to remove her knickers, which he sometimes—but not always—requested, but instead, he said, “They’re hard on you, these division level meetings, aren’t they?” He glanced at her quickly, out of the corner of his eye, his expression compassionate. “I can tell, even when I haven’t been to one.”

  It was as if he’d released a pressure valve. It felt like a huge relief as she smiled back at him and said, “Hell, yes! I do enjoy them in a way...and I pretty much always get what I want out of them. But it’s difficult, even in the twenty-first century, to dominate a gathering of men that way. Division heads, partners...execs. They take some bloody mastering, I can tell you.” She took a long breath, sinking into the Citroën’s squashy, comfy seat. “But it really takes it out of me, angling for control all the time...you know?”

  “Yes...I know.”

  Three words, but they seemed to hum with a deep, almost psychic wisdom.

  “I know you do...and that’s why I like our...um...” What to call them? “Our little get-togethers. I like them because I don’t have to be in charge. I can just...just...”

  “Submit?”

  “Yes...with you, I don’t have to decide things or control things or take responsibility. I can just be.”

  It was easy to say it. But complex, scary and wonderful to feel it. She had a sense that in admitting to that particular word—submit—she’d stepped through yet another veil, moved onto another level, and her pussy tensed suddenly at the thought of it.

  The last time they’d been together, Patrick had landed a single teasing slap on her bottom when they’d been fooling around together, tussling on the small settee in the cottage. And she’d been stunned how much of a turn-on that had been. She’d immediately wanted him again, and got him, even though time had been short.

  But now time wasn’t short. She had no meetings for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  They passed the rest of the journey in silence, each mulling over their thoughts. At least Miranda was. For all his amiability and his sensitivity to her needs, Patrick was still very much an enigma. Were her needs his needs, too? Who could tell? She still knew virtually nothing about him outside of work and their time together at the cottage.

  As he let her into the small holiday home, he took her bag from her and set it on the sideboard by the door. With a touch to the small of her back, he propelled her into the center of the room, then circled around until he was standing facing her, his eyes fixed on hers.

  “You need to let go, Miranda.” His hand settled on her cheek, long fingers curving and inviting her to turn her face and kiss his palm. “Remember what you said...just be.”

  A delicious lightness of spirit sluiced through her body, washing away stress and angst. Her concerns about work, her life, even her occasional wistful ponderings about Patrick himself and what she really meant to him. His touch seemed to cleanse her of all that. Especially when he leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly.

  “Now remove your clothes.”

  Clamor in her chest, wild excitement, something new, something new. Immediately, between her legs, she felt hot and wet, silky with desire. An urge to move her hips, rub her thighs together, touch herself even, was like a crackling wildfire surging in her belly.

  But Patrick’s level blue gaze forbade those things completely.

  Dragging in a breath, Miranda shrugged out of her jacket. For a moment, she was at a loss what to do with it, but Patrick took it from her and laid it quite neatly over the back of a chair. Next, her simple silk shell top. She unfastened the little button at the back of the neck, then wriggled out of it, pulling it off over her head. Patrick reached for that, too, but not before smoothing her hair back into place. Then he set her top with her jacket, and returned his gaze to her, appraisingly.

  Her bra was white lace, very luxe and p
retty. She’d taken to wearing her nicer undies to work—La Perla, Janet Reger, other upscale brands—simply on the off chance that it might be a day when she and Patrick fled the rat race to the cottage. More often than not, her silk-and-lace finery went unseen and unappreciated by his gaze, but there was always a frisson of excitement in wearing it anyway, fantasizing about moments like this. Moments when he smiled archly, his eyes zeroing in on her nipples that showed so darkly through the pale lace and protruded like ripe, tempting berries. Nodding infinitesimally, he swept his tongue over his lips as if anticipating the taste of such luscious fruit.

  Her fingers fumbling with the hooks and eyes, Miranda struggled to free herself. The tiny fastenings defied her, turned into impenetrable micropuzzles by her lust and frustration, but just as she was on the point of ripping and tearing like a madwoman, Patrick stepped forward, reached around her and unhooked her in a smooth easy action. For a moment, he left the bra hanging loose, via its straps, then he slid his two hands around to the front of her body and cupped her breasts. A second later, after just a little squeeze, he lifted away the white lace and bared her. The brassiere went with her jacket and blouse across the back of the hard chair.

  Bare from the waist up, Miranda experienced an irrational urge to cover herself. Her sense of vulnerability was a sweet taste upon her tongue, a nectar in her blood. Light-headed, she pushed back her shoulders, acting completely on instinct. The nakedness of her breasts was Patrick’s by right, she must offer herself. Not resist, or fight, just be his.

  “You’re very beautiful...very, very beautiful. Those Swiss bastards should have been on their hands and knees, kissing your shoes, and grateful for the chance to humble themselves before you.”

  She laughed. What a thought. Even in the midst of sex and heat he could entertain her.

  “Uh-oh,” he said softly, placing a finger over her lips, light as thistledown, to silence her. She might be a goddess, to be worshipped and groveled to by the Swiss execs, but Patrick was her god, to be obeyed. “Now, behave yourself and get on with the task in hand.”

  Miranda experienced a pang of loss when the finger left her lips. She’d wanted to kiss it, draw it into her mouth and suck on it hungrily. Just the tiniest touch and contact excited her out of all proportion. She felt as if she were losing her mind for this man, but in a joyous, exciting way.

  The hook and zip on her skirt weren’t the barrier her bra hooks had been and in a flash, she was stepping out of it, balancing on her smart, business heels, terrified she’d trip on the hem and tumble. Not because she might bump herself, but because she didn’t want to disappoint Patrick. She didn’t want to be anything less than perfect and elegant and obedient for him.

  Where had this submissiveness come from? It seemed both bizarre and alien, and yet it was like a comforting cloak, slipping over her, suiting her perfectly. She found herself lowering her eyes, respectfully, even though a part of her wanted to gorge on the handsome sight of him. His elegant athletic body in his dark waistcoat and trousers, and the way his white shirt, open at the neck, made him look like a golden laughing prince.

  Nervous, she stepped out of her shoes, and then peeled down her hold-up stockings, tossing them aside. Just her panties remained, trim and lacy, the last barrier. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband, but Patrick shook his head. Her hands fell to her sides, as if they had no purpose, and she had no will.

  Not sure whether she should, she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. He smiled, beautiful and benign, yet still steely somehow. Keeping his gaze locked on her face he stepped forward until their bodies were almost contiguous, then looked down on her. He wasn’t all that much taller than she, but just enough to reinforce his supremacy. His hands dropped to her hips and he pulled her close until expanses of her bare skin were pressed close to the length of his clothed body. The brush of cloth against her breasts and abdomen and thighs was tantalizing and perverse, as was the taste of his mouth as he kissed her deeply again, thrusting his tongue between her lips, exploring her teeth, her palate, the inside of her cheeks.

  It was a thorough kiss, a controlling kiss, and that quality compelled her stillness. As he devoured her, she knew she wasn’t allowed to touch him in return. Her hands hung motionless at her sides, held there by his will.

  He kissed her for a long time thus, one hand on her bottom, pressing her to him, one hand in her hair, securing her head. The power of his mouth was almost cruel, it made her jaw ache, but she rejoiced in it, feeding on his lust.

  Finally he drew back, and said, “I’m going to spank you now. I’m going to spank you hard, and you’re going to enjoy it, even if you don’t think you will.”

  His voice was hypnotic, even, gentle. All power in his soft words.

  But I know I’ll enjoy it.

  That one casual spank he’d bestowed on her had made her sex flutter and desire gather. More she knew would be wonderful, despite the pain. Years ago, she and an old boyfriend had tried a bit of BDSM play, and that, too, had set a fire in her sex. The man had lost interest, and that hadn’t bothered her at the time, but now she knew she would have liked to continue and experiment.

  This time it would be different, greater, more wonderful. Because it was Patrick. Looking into his eyes, she knew this wasn’t his chief kink. It was just something he liked to do, and wanted to do now, but that was enough for her. With him, she could try everything, do everything.

  “Come,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her across the room to the little old settee, which was dun-colored, the worse for years and irregularly stuffed. Still holding her hand he sank down onto it and set his thighs strongly braced. Ready. “Right, Miranda...let’s be having you.”

  Not quite sure how he wanted her, she followed the tug of his fingers and after a bit of hitching and adjustment, found herself face down across Patrick’s lap, balanced in a state of both precariousness and safety. Her body and her face flamed, blushing furiously at both her vulnerable condition and the sensation of his solid, frisky erection digging into the side of her belly.

  His next words surprised her.

  “You can still change your mind, love. If you think this isn’t what you want, we can do something else...even turn the tables.”

  Her heart pounded. He’d do that for her? It was against his preference, she was sure of it. But for her, he’d go against his natural desires. What did that mean?

  “Miranda?” he prompted.

  “I don’t want to change my mind. I want this!”

  “Good girl...good girl...”

  He began to caress her bottom, smoothing the tips of his fingers over her toned flesh through the flimsy fabric of her knickers. She worked hard at the gym three times a week, and she ate a good diet. She was in great shape and her bum was one of her best and sexiest features.

  His touch was light, but aroused her exponentially. She felt again that urge she often got with him. The compulsion to move, to jiggle about, to rub against him, working off the electrical energy of desire that he roused in her. She felt as if she were bursting with it, whenever he was near. When she was at the office, she channeled it into work and ambition and the pursuit of excellence. When they were alone, it roiled inside, ever growing and boiling until an orgasm released it.

  When she began to move, he said, “Tut-tut,” and pressed down on the small of her back, to steady her. She obeyed instantly, and once she was still he peeled down her panties to the tops of her thighs, baring her bottom.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured...and then spanked her. Hard. Two fiery slaps, one on the crown of each buttock.

  Miranda yelped as if she’d been electrocuted. This was nothing like that play slap the other time, and nothing like the meek and mild spanking her former lover had given her. This was powerful, determined, efficient, and just those two blows, and then a couple more, set her bottom and her pussy wildly aflame.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!” she chanted, unable not to wriggle now. Her entire sex was throbbing as
well as her rear end, glowing and pulsating, just a hair away from climax.

  Patrick spanked on, coating the entire surface of her bottom in burning heat, making it feel swollen and as if it were a simmering fluorescent crimson. Maybe it was? She didn’t care. She couldn’t think. She was desperate for the end of the awful, beautiful pain, but in the gaps between the strikes, she wanted to cry out more, please, hurry! By now she was lifting her hips to meet each hit, matching his action with her reaction.

  “I want to come!” she wailed suddenly, unable to stop herself.

  “Then why don’t you?” observed Patrick, still spanking as he laughed fondly.

  Hitching around on his lap, and rubbing herself lasciviously against his cock as she did so, Miranda reached around underneath herself to find her clit. She barely needed to touch it. Just one stroke and she came hard, desperately hard, the first pulsations fluttering in time to a couple of Patrick’s spanks.

  “Oh...ooh...oh, God,” she gasped, pleasure cresting and surging, her legs kicking crazily as he ceased the punishment and slid two fingers into her channel from behind. Her pussy grabbed at him, hungrily, welcoming the intrusion as his thumb and his free fingers stirred the redness on the underhang of her bottom. His other hand was on her back, soft and light.

  The orgasm seemed to go on a long time, a jerking, pulsing jumble of pain and bliss. Out of her head, Miranda was a castaway washed up on the living rock of Patrick. He was her refuge, and she clung on, sobbing and thanking him.

  Eventually, she fell back into herself, intensely aware of his erection boring into her. It was like a knot of oak against her, hot through his trousers. She could feel it glowing, almost pulsing, calling to her, the heat of it echoing her own. Without stopping to ask, she slid off his knee and pressed his thighs apart with her hands. Shaking, fumbling, she unfastened his trousers and rummaged amongst his shirttail and underwear to draw him out into the light and air, an angry reddened column of primal desire.