by July Hall
“It—” Now Mr. Magister looked absolutely thunderstruck. “It’s what?”
“Oh, come on,” Sandra said, squirming. “Gold and emeralds? Really?”
“Give me that.” Mr. Magister grabbed the box and opened it, checking out the barrette. So did Sandra. It was so beautiful. Giving it back was almost like opening a vein. Mr. Magister looked at the barrette, looked at Sandra, and then looked back at the barrette.
“Like I said, gorgeous,” Sandra repeated. “Thank you. But I can’t.”
At the word can’t, Mr. Magister seemed to snap out of it. He inhaled deeply, and the irritation returned to his face. “He’s never given you anything better than this? Are you being serious?”
Sandra’s jaw dropped. “Are you? That is gold,” she repeated. “Those are emeralds.”
“This is a trinket,” he said. “A valuable one, but it is unthinkable that he hasn’t been more generous. You’re his girlfriend. He’s a Magister. If he’s going to let money burn through his pockets, he ought to burn some for you. At least then he’d have something to show for it.”
Sandra’s shoulders stiffened. “I don’t need him to buy me jewelry,” she said. “Or you, or anybody. I don’t even want you to. I’m not—I don’t want people to think—”
She looked away, unable to say the rest. I don’t want people to think I’m a gold-digger. I don’t want you to think I can be bought.
“Gifts carry no obligation,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “That’s what makes them gifts.”
Sandra traced the quartz surface of her watch with her fingertip, feeling the tiny scratch that ran across the top left corner. She was now officially behind schedule. She still couldn’t look at Mr. Magister, not when he spouted enormous lies that he apparently thought she would believe. There was no way this man gave gifts and expected nothing in return.
“You lost my hair clip,” she said. “It’s not a big deal. Get rid of the Persian carpet and we’ll call it even.”
Then she looked up. She knew it was a mistake, but she had to see his eyes again. They did not disappoint. She lost her breath.
He said quietly, “Put it on.”
She blinked and tried to focus. “I’m sorry?”
“Put it on and let me see,” he said. “If you’re going to throw it back at me, I might as well see what it looks like before you do.” He held the box up.
Sandra couldn’t say why that seemed like such a terrible idea. It was just a strange request, that was all. Rich people could be eccentric. There wasn’t anything wrong with putting on a barrette. If this meant he’d take it back without a fuss…
She gulped and took the shining gold piece from its bed of black velvet, and decided to slide it over her right temple, drawing her hair back and clipping it. He didn’t take his eyes from her face the whole time. Why, oh why had some unearthly power given him eyes like that?
“Well, there it is,” she said, fiddling self-consciously with the ends of her hair. He kept staring at her face.
Silence fell. It went on for far, far too long. She broke first, turning away again to focus on the coffee table. Brazilian rosewood, inlaid with gold. He must have a thing for gold.
Then he said, his voice hoarse, “Beautiful.”
Sandra gulped. “Yes, it is.” The gold made an intricate star pattern in the rosewood. For some reason, it was kind of blurry right now.
“You like pretty things. You should have them.”
“I can get my own pretty things,” she said through her teeth. “They don’t have to cost an arm and a leg.”
“No?” he said. The leather beneath her creaked as he edged closer to her. Their knees bumped. She closed her eyes.
Get up, she told herself, find an excuse and get out of here. But she couldn’t move. Her whole body was flushed with heat, her heart was pounding again, and…and her nipples were hard. She was breathing too fast. He hadn’t even touched her.
“Everything costs something,” Mr. Magister breathed, far too close now. “I didn’t mean to insult you.” She felt a faint pressure at her temple: his fingertips, tracing over the barrette. Her breath caught. She held as still as humanly possible while he unclipped it and slid it out of her hair, as before.
If he moved even an inch closer, they’d practically be on top of each other. But of course he wouldn’t. This was some game he was playing, seeing how far he could push his nephew's silly girlfriend before she broke—it was a test—
His lips pressed against her temple.
At that simple contact, she almost blacked out. It was too much. She couldn’t move or speak or open her eyes. She could only melt while he kissed her temple once, twice, his mouth as hot as a coal.
He touched her face with his right hand. His fingertips shook as he stroked them across her cheek, then down her throat, leaving trails of heat behind. She actually throbbed between her legs.
This could not be real. It couldn’t be real, and it couldn’t be him. But he was only touching her neck, and it was hotter than all her dreams put together. So maybe it was another dream after all. Maybe it was a dream, and if she moved, she’d wake up like she always did, and it would be gone like it always was.
Mr. Magister’s mouth traveled slowly from her temple down to her cheek, brushing against her skin, pausing occasionally for whisper-soft kisses. He hardly seemed to breathe. He wasn’t like this in her dreams, all hesitant and careful. She didn’t know what to do. If this was a dream, she could reach for him and…
She did just that before she could stop herself, sliding her hand up his arm, feeling the firm muscle beneath the sleeve of his suit jacket. He gasped and pulled away, looking down into her eyes.
Sandra almost cried out. His eyes were blazing, and she realized he wasn’t hesitant. He was holding himself back. He slid his hand from her face and curled it around the back of her neck while he stared at her mouth, still barely breathing. His lips pulled back in a snarl.
“Oh,” she gasped.
Then she wasn’t sure who moved first. She just knew they were kissing and he’d slid his other hand into her hair, gripping it tightly as if to make sure she couldn’t get away. She didn’t want to get away. She wanted to keep tasting his mouth and feeling the bristle of his beard against her chin.
She’d yearned for sparks. These weren’t sparks. This was fire, flame roaring through her, and she couldn’t stop it or even slow it down. And it wasn’t like her dreams, where Mr. Magister had been forceful but controlled. Now he kissed her wildly, sliding one hand down her back to crush her to him, keeping the other in her hair.
She tried to keep up. She wanted this—wanted him—so much, but she didn’t have his sheer strength, she couldn’t grab him like that. All she could do was wrap her arms around his neck and hold on. That wasn’t enough. She had to do something. She needed more, so much more, she needed to be the temptress, and make him want her, and…she needed him to kiss her like…
She softened her mouth under his, parted her lips. He froze. Oh, no—please—please want me, she thought, and made a beseeching little noise.
Mr. Magister loosened his grip on her hair so that he was cupping the back of her head instead. He angled his mouth and took what she offered, going inside with a moan. At the brush of his tongue, she arched into his body and wondered how close she could get.
“Oh God,” he panted against her mouth, pushing both hands into her hair, combing through it. His voice, low and raw, made her quiver, and then he began kissing her throat, hungry and hard. “So sweet…”
Sweet. Yes. Sandra arched her head back and clutched him tight. The world spun away. It was just the two of them, in each other’s arms, and nothing had ever felt like this in all her life.
Perfection.
“Please,” she begged, not sure for what. For anything, maybe. It earned her Mr. Magister’s hand on her breast, cupping it while she heard his breath shatter. When he began to knead and squeeze, pleasure shot through her whole body. And yet—not
enough— “Please!”
“Yes,” he hissed, yanking at her silk blouse, tearing it open. The buttons popped off and fell onto the couch before bouncing onto the carpet. He didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even pause. Instead he began covering her bared flesh with kisses, starting at her clavicle and moving down to the rise of her breasts. His beard scraped her skin; he soothed the burn with his lips. Sandra whimpered, high-pitched and involuntarily.
At the sound, he gasped. Then he swept his hand down her side, over her thigh, and—under her skirt.
Without even a moment’s pause, his hand cupped her through her satin panties. She gave a choked cry. She was already so wet he had to be able to feel it. If he touched her for even a few more seconds, she’d come, and then—
And then what?
She’d return the favor? They’d screw on his couch? He’d say she really was a slut after all?
As his fingertips stroked her, feeling the dampness beneath the satin, he gave a desperate groan that sizzled along all her nerves. He pushed his other hand beneath her skirt, where he hooked both his thumbs into the waistband of her panties and began to tug them down over her hips.
Sandra’s breath caught. She wanted to let him touch her. Just a few more seconds and she wouldn’t be able to stop it, not all the alarm clocks in the world could stop her from coming once his fingers were on her bare flesh. It would feel so good, better than anything had ever felt.
“No,” she sobbed, grabbing his wrist. He went rigid.
Then he slid his hand out from beneath her skirt and backed away from her as fast as if she really was on fire.
Sandra slumped back against the couch, her head reeling. The world spun right back around her in a big hurry. Away from Mr. Magister’s heat, nothing felt good anymore.
In fact, everything felt terrible. Her arousal drained away. Maybe she was about to be sick to her stomach. What had she done?
She had a boyfriend. His nephew was her boyfriend. He was working a few floors below them right now. She must have gone out of her mind.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, sitting up, tugging down her skirt. Her blouse fluttered open, and she saw the buttons all over the floor. She clutched at the material, the crumpled silk, and covered herself from his gaze. It was like they were in the bedroom all over again. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.”
He said nothing. He merely stared at her, breathing harshly, his face still red.
“I, um, it’s my fault,” she babbled, although was it really? Who had done what? She’d wanted to tempt him, so it must have been her fault. She couldn’t think straight. “I’ve never—I wouldn’t ever—” Ever what? Ever cheat on Bradley? She’d just done that, with a man she hardly knew. She’d begged him to touch her. “God. I’m sorry. I have to go, I…”
“Do you have a coat?” he asked.
“Do—huh?” She stared at him as her thought process screeched to a halt. Out of all the responses she could have expected from him, do you have a coat would have been at the bottom of the list.
“Do. You have. A coat?” he asked through his teeth, and she cringed at the blaze in his eyes. Mr. Magister looked like he wanted to chew her up and spit out her bones.
“In the lobby,” she croaked. “Um, Violet—”
Without another word, he rose to his feet and strode to the heavy doors, flinging one of them open as if it was made of balsa wood. It banged on its hinges, and Sandra cringed again. She had to get the fuck out of here. Her nervous breakdown would have to wait—she wasn’t about to have it in front of him.
What was she going to tell Bradley? She had to tell him, right? They’d promised to be honest. That’s what couples did. Couples were honest, and they compromised, and they were happy when life was just fine, because it was when you wanted more than fine that you got into trouble.
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth while she took a deep breath, and then reached for her tote bag. The opened Cartier box lay on the coffee table next to the leather portfolio. The barrette was on the carpet, surrounded by some of her buttons. Dammit, if she’d just kept the stupid thing and not said anything to anyone, then maybe that little sin wouldn’t have snowballed into this huge one.
Mr. Magister stalked back into the office. She jumped to her feet and saw that he was carrying her coat. “Cover yourself,” he said, slamming the door shut again. “You can’t leave like—” His eyes widened as he saw her standing there with her blouse open again. “Like that.”
Sandra grabbed her coat and struggled into it. The fur rustled and tickled against her neck. Her blouse stuck to the sweat in the small of her back. She couldn’t bear to look at him.
“This never happened,” he said.
Sandra froze. Fitting, since his voice was colder than it had ever been.
“It never happened,” he continued, and he sounded like a completely different man than the one who’d just been moaning in her arms. “Do you hear? Not as far as you and I are concerned, nor anyone else, and certainly not Bradley.”
That made her look up. “What? I have to tell him!” Mr. Magister’s eyes widened again. “We’re honest with each other. I can’t lie to him about—”
He closed the distance between them with one long stride and grabbed both of her arms, leaning in until their faces were but inches apart. She gasped. His voice might be cold, but his eyes burned.
“Bradley lies to you,” he whispered. “He lies and lies.” She couldn’t move. She felt like a mouse in front of a snake. Mr. Magister flexed his fingers, digging into her arms. “And he doesn’t love you.”
“Let go of me.” She tried to pull free, but his grip was too strong. “Let go of me right now.”
“This never happened. Say you understa—”
“Let go of me or I will put my knee in your balls.” She wondered if she was about to cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I swear to God.”
It actually worked. He released her and stepped backward, although the fire in his eyes didn’t die down one jot.
She grabbed her tote bag. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I don’t. What do you know about my relationship? And I’ve got my own reputation, thanks, and I’m not going to wreck it because of some, some control freak who doesn’t even know what love is!”
She didn’t know why she’d said that. It wasn’t true. Mr. Magister had loved his wife, and he had to care about his family, even Bradley. That was his whole deal, being the paterfamilias. That’s who he was. And yet he could say such terrible things about his only heir?
Why did he have to be the most compelling man she’d ever met? He was awful. He was off-limits.
He began, “Miss Dane—”
That tore it. She said, “I’m out of here,” and stormed to the doors without giving him another look. As she rushed through the lobby toward the elevator, she saw Violet rise to her feet. But Mr. Magister didn’t follow her, Violet didn’t say anything, and as the elevator doors closed behind her, Sandra dared to think she’d made a clean escape.
Or an escape, anyway. Filled with self-loathing, she closed her eyes and admitted the truth. Nothing about her was clean.
She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on her skin, and she trembled at the memory of fire.
CHAPTER NINE
He’d been sure she was faking.
Too overwhelmed to do anything but sit behind his desk and stare at the wall, Charles returned again and again to the only thought he could manage: he’d been sure Miss Dane was faking. Even as he’d begun to lose himself in her, he hadn’t been able to shut off a small, persistent voice. It told him: This can’t be real.
She’d blamed herself for their encounter, but it was his fault. She had tried to return the gift, his gift, reminding him yet again that she had another man. He’d meant to take it back. He had. But he moved in too close, and then he saw her pulse beating rapidly at her temple.
She hadn’t encouraged him. She hadn’t even looked at him, but he couldn’t help himself. It
was impossible that he should be so close to her and have nothing. He could feel her heat and smell her perfume, and he had touched his lips to the one visible sign that he affected her.
It was sort of a blur after that. She had been in his arms, melting against him and more perfect than he could have dreamed. Just when he might have come to his senses, her mouth had softened, invited him in, and he was lost all over again. She had gasped, Please, begging him to touch her—begging him! He’d exposed her, tearing her shirt open, and found that her lace-covered breasts were even more beautiful than he remembered. She lay before him as luscious as his wildest fantasy. And he’d thought, with his last breath of sanity, This can’t be real.
He had to prove it to himself before it was too late. It had seemed rational at the time. He’d shoved his hand up her skirt like some teenage boy behind the bleachers, thinking it would settle the matter, prove she was faking, and—
Wet. So wet he could feel it through the satin. As wet as if he’d been making love to her for hours. Had she been sitting in his office, growing aroused before they’d even touched?
The memory heated his blood. The actual moment had burned him alive. What had he intended to do? He couldn’t remember now. He’d tried to peel off her underwear. And then perhaps he would have stroked her, or licked her, or fucked her, or done anything else that would have pleased her. Anything she wanted, he would do.
What she’d wanted was for him to stop touching her. She’d pushed him away. Then she’d looked at him as if he was a monster. She had spoken of her feelings for his nephew, the need to be faithful and honest.
Charles had perhaps not reacted as he should.
Blinking, he looked at the clock on his desk. She’d arrived in his office approximately twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes was all the time he’d needed to betray his principles, his family, the memory of his wife, and his common sense.
The door opened without a knock. Violet stepped in. Charles blinked at her, too.
He couldn’t read her expression. That was probably bad.