How to Sleep with the Boss

by Janice Maynard

  When he flexed his hips, he managed to erase the smile from her face. “How about now?”

  Libby tipped back her head and sighed, arching into his thrust. “Don’t ever stop. What time is checkout tomorrow?”

  The random conversation confounded him. As a rule, his bed partners were not so chatty. “Eleven. Twelve. Hell, I don’t know. Why?”

  Green eyes, hazy and unfocused, gazed up at him. “I want to calculate how many more times we can do this before we have to go home.”

  * * *

  Libby was in deep trouble. She’d been lying to herself so well, she didn’t even see the cliff ahead. And now she was about to tumble into disaster. Again.

  At sixteen there had been some excuse. Not so much in her current situation.

  Patrick was big and warm and solid, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration the body part currently stroking her so intimately. He surrounded her, filled her, possessed her. The smell of his skin, the silky touch of his hair against her breasts. She could barely breathe from wanting him.

  “Hush now, darlin’,” he groaned, his Southern accent more pronounced as he ground his hips against hers. When he zeroed in on a certain spot, she cried out, her orgasm taking her by surprise.

  The flash of climax was intense and prolonged, wave after wave of pleasure that left her lax and helpless in his embrace. But Patrick was lost, as well. His muffled shout against her neck was accompanied by fierce, frantic thrusts that culminated in his wild release.

  When the storm passed, the room was silent but for their harsh breathing.

  Coming back to New York had triggered an avalanche of feelings. And not only about her father’s fall from grace. There was that other business, as well. The thing that still shamed her and made her question her judgment about men. She had never wanted to be so vulnerable again. But Patrick wouldn’t hurt her, would he? At least not the way she’d been hurt before.

  Thirteen

  Libby was having the most wonderful dream. She was floating in the ocean, the sun beaming down in gentle benediction. The temperature was exactly right. A warm blanket cocooned her as the breeze ruffled her hair.

  Some sound far in the distance brought her awake with a jerk. Every cell in her body froze in stunned disbelief. Patrick Kavanagh lay half on top of her, his regular breathing steady and deep.

  Holy Hannah. What had she done? Other than make it perfectly clear to Patrick that she was ready for dalliance with no expectation of anything more lasting than a weekend fling...

  She eased out from under her lover, wincing when he muttered and frowned in his sleep. Fortunately, he settled back into slumber. He wasn’t kidding about the nap. On the other hand, he probably needed it. The preceding week hadn’t been a walk in the park. Maybe Patrick had experienced the same disturbing nightmares she had.

  Caves with endless tunnels. Suffocating darkness. Musty air. Crypts and death. That’s what came from having a too-vivid imagination.

  Tiptoeing around the bed, she made her way into the other room and found her carry-on with her toiletry bag. Since she was naked as a baby at the moment, it also seemed prudent to locate her gown and robe. Patrick didn’t stir when she quietly opened the bathroom door.

  Once she was safely on the other side, she exhaled shakily. Nothing in the course of her admittedly limited sexual experience—much of it negative—had prepared her for Patrick’s lovemaking. He was thorough. And intense. And enthusiastic. And generous. Did she mention generous? She’d lost track of her own orgasms. The man was a freaking genius in the bedroom. Who knew?

  She wrapped a towel around her hair to keep it dry, and took an abbreviated shower. The thought of getting caught in the act was too terrifying to contemplate. The man had seen her naked. But that didn’t mean a woman didn’t like her privacy.

  When she was clean and dry, she put on her silky nightwear. The soft ivory gown and robe were old, but still stylish and comfy. The fact that they were very thin gave her pause, but it was better than being nude.

  Her hair did well with nothing more than a good brushing. Now all she had to do was pretend to be blasé, make her way through a fancy dinner and convince Patrick to sleep on the sofa.

  She needed to put some distance between them. A barricade against doing something stupid. He’d already told her that marriage wasn’t in the cards for him. Which meant this relationship was going nowhere.

  If she let herself share his bed again, all bets were off. She might end up begging, and that would be the final indignity. He’d already called her a misfit once. She was sure as heck not going to let him pity her for crushing on him like a teenage girl.

  She sat on the edge of the bathtub for ten minutes, trying to decide how to stage her return to the bedroom. In the end, Patrick took the matter out of her hands. He jerked open the door without ceremony and sighed—apparently in relief—when he saw her.

  “I didn’t know where you were,” he complained.

  The man was stark naked, his body a work of art. His penis—she could whisper that word in the privacy of her own head—hovered at half-mast, but was rapidly rising to attention. And apparently, the man had no modesty at all, because he stood there in the doorway, hands on hips, and glared at her. Not seeming at all concerned with his nudity. His spectacular, mouthwatering nudity.

  “Where would I go?” she asked, trying not to look below his waist.

  He ignored the question and strode toward her, dwarfing the generous dimensions of the bathroom. “I fail to see why you’re wearing clothes. Aren’t you the one who was doing mathematical calculations about potential episodes of sexual activity per hour?”

  “That wasn’t me,” she lied, leaning back as his stuff practically whacked her in the nose.

  His good humor returned. Without warning, he scooped her into his arms. “For future reference, no pj’s unless I say so. And now that I think about it, no pj’s at all.”

  Her cheek rested over the reassuring thump-thump of his heart. “These aren’t pajamas. It’s a peignoir set.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Queen Elizabeth’s royal dressing gown. Ditch it, my love. Now.”

  He set her on her feet and, without further ado, lifted the two filmy layers over her head, ignoring her sputtering protests. “Patrick!”

  He tossed the offending garments aside and ran his hands from her neck to her shoulders, to her breasts, and all the way down to her bottom. “God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered.

  “Oh, Patrick.”

  “Oh, Patrick.” He mocked her gently. “Is that ‘Oh, Patrick, I want to have sex with you again’ or ‘Oh, Patrick, you’re the best lover I’ve ever had’?”

  She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, torn between honesty and the need to keep his ego in check. “Well, both. But to be fair, you’re only number two, so there’s still room for comparison down the road.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Only number two?”

  “I’m barely twenty-three.”

  “Yes, but a lot of girls are sexually active at sixteen.”

  “Not in my family. You do remember the nuns, right?”

  “There you go again. Mentioning nuns at inappropriate moments. For the record, I knew one or two good little Catholic girls who taught me a lot about life. And sex.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Well, not me.”

  * * *

  He thumbed her nipples, sending heat streaking all the way down to the damp juncture between her thighs. “You were amazing, Libby. Who taught you that thing you did there at the end?”

  She shrugged demurely. “I read books.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You’re awfully talented for a relative beginner.”

  The compliment was unexpected. “That’s sweet of you
to say.”

  “You want to tell me about number one?” Patrick seemed troubled, though she couldn’t understand why.

  She didn’t. Not at all. The memory made her wince. “Maybe another time.”

  “Fair enough.” He tipped his head and nibbled the side of her neck. “This will be slower, I promise.”

  She shuddered, her hands fisting at her sides. “I had no complaints.”

  Again, he scooped her into his arms, though this time he sat on the edge of the bed and turned her across his knees. “Do you have any spanking fantasies?”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “I can’t say that I do, but feel free to test the hypothesis.”

  The sharp smack on her butt shocked her, even as the heat from his hand radiated throughout her pelvis. “That hurt, Patrick.”

  He chuckled. “Isn’t that the point?”

  The truth was, there was more to the sharp-edged play than hurt, but she didn’t want to give him any ideas. She wriggled off his lap and knelt on the floor, resting her elbows on his bare knees and linking her hands underneath her chin. “I’ll bet you know all sorts of kinky stuff, don’t you?”

  He grabbed handfuls of her hair and tugged gently. “Like the scenario where the desert sheikh takes the powerless English woman captive.”

  “I’m not English,” she pointed out.

  Patrick smiled tightly, sending a frisson of feminine apprehension down her spine. “We’ll improvise. For the moment, let’s see how you do on the oral exam. If you don’t object, how about getting a washcloth and cleaning me up?”

  “You mean so I can...?” Her voice trailed off. His erection bobbed in front of her. “Um, sure.” She scuttled to the bathroom, painfully aware of his gaze following her progress. When she returned, he had leaned back on both hands. He didn’t say a word.

  But his challenging gaze tested her mettle. The balance of power was already unequal. He saw her as naive. Susceptible to being charmed by a man of experience. Though any and all of that might be true, she was determined to knock him off his feet.

  Feigning confidence she did not possess, she sat at his hip and ran the washcloth over his intimate flesh, squeezing lightly. She smiled inwardly when he gasped, even though he tried to pretend it was a cough. “Too hard?” she asked, her expression guileless.

  “No.” Sweat beaded his forehead.

  She continued to do her job, around and around, up and down. When she was finished, his flesh had turned to stone, and his chest rose and fell with every rapid breath.

  Dropping the wet cloth on the floor, she bent, placed a hand on each of his thighs and took him in her mouth.

  * * *

  Patrick was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven. He’d had blow jobs before. But none like this. His skin tightened all over his body. Libby’s mouth was in turns delicate and firm. He couldn’t predict her next move, and the uncertainty ratcheted up his arousal exponentially. He had promised her slow this time around, but already, he was at the breaking point. “Enough,” he said, the word hoarse.

  She looked up at him, her wide-eyed innocence no doubt damning him eternally for the lustful thoughts that turned him inside out. Putting his hands under her arms, he dragged her up onto the bed and kissed her recklessly. “Tell me what you want, Libby.”

  “I’ve never been on top.”

  Sweet holy hell. He swallowed hard. “Is that a request?”

  She shrugged. “If you don’t mind.”

  He took care of protection and moved onto his back. “You’re in charge,” he said, wondering if it were really true. He would hold out as long as he could, but the odds were iffy.

  Libby seemed pleased by his gruff words. “I don’t feel very graceful,” she complained as she attempted to mount the apparatus.

  “The view from this side isn’t bad.”

  When she slid down onto him without warning, he said a word that made her frown. “That’s what we’re doing, but you don’t have to call it that.”

  She leaned forward, curling her fingertips into the depressions above his collarbone. “Don’t you like this position?”

  No one could be that naive. He gripped her firm ass and pulled her against him more firmly. “I’ve got your number now, Libby. You think you can drive me insane. But that’s a two-edged sword. Wait until later when I tie your wrists to the bedposts and tickle you with a feather. You won’t be so smug then, now will you?”

  Her mouth formed a small perfect O. Her eyes widened. “Isn’t that kind of advanced? We haven’t known each other all that long. I think we should take things slowly...you know, get comfortable with each other before we branch out.”

  “I’m pretty damn comfortable right now.” He put his hands under her breasts and bounced them experimentally. “These are nice.”

  She flushed. “Why are men so obsessed with boobs?”

  “Maybe because we don’t have any. I don’t know. But you have to admit, they’re beautiful.”

  “Now you’ve made me all weepy.” Suppressing a smile, she leaned down and rested her forehead against his. “I didn’t know it would be like this with you.”

  “Like what?”

  “So easy. But so scary.”

  “I scare you?” He lifted her and eased her back down, making both of them gasp.

  Without warning, she went for the dismount, nearly unmanning him in the process. She bounced off the bed and stood there, arms flung wide, her expression agitated. “You’re ruining me for other men. I won’t be able to find a husband after this.”

  He frowned. “I thought you were concentrating on rebuilding your life. That you didn’t want a husband.”

  “Not today. Or tomorrow. But someday.” She shook her head. “Now every guy I go to bed with is going to have to measure up to that.” She pointed at his erection, seeming aggrieved by its very existence.

  “You’re overreacting. My co—” He stopped short. “My male appendage is perfectly normal,” he said. “And people have casual sex all the time. Once we leave this hotel, it won’t seem like such a big deal.”

  She folded her arms around her waist, apparently forgetting that she was bare-ass naked. “You know this from experience?”

  “I have more than you, apparently. So, yes. And PS—it’s bad form to walk out in the middle of the performance.”

  “I’m sorry.” But she stood there so long he began to be afraid that she was actually going to call a halt to their madness.

  He sat up and held out a hand. “Come back to bed, Libby. Please.”

  Her small smile loosened the knot in his stomach. “Well, if you ask that nicely...”

  When he could reach her hand, he tugged, toppling her off balance and happily onto his lap. Libby sputtered and squirmed and protested until he flipped her and reversed their positions. Staring down at her, he felt something break apart and reform...a distinct seismic shift in his consciousness. Fortunately, he was good at ignoring extraneous details in the middle of serious business.

  “Tell me you want me,” he demanded.

  “I want you.”

  “That wasn’t convincing.”

  She linked her hands at the small of his back. “Patrick Kavanagh...I’ll go mad with lust if you don’t take me...right now.”

  “That’s better.” He shifted his weight and slid inside her, relishing the tight fit, the warm, wet friction. This was rapidly becoming an addiction, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. His brain wasn’t in the driver’s seat. “I want you, too,” he said, though she hadn’t asked.

  Libby’s expressive eyes were closed, leaving him awash in doubt. What was she thinking? In the end, it didn’t matter. His gut instincts took over, hammering home the message that she was the woman he needed. At least for now.

  He felt the inner f
lutters that signaled her release. At last, he gave himself permission to finish recklessly, selfishly. Again and again, he thrust. Scrambling for a pinnacle just out of reach. When the end came, it was bittersweet. Because he realized one mind-numbing fact.

  Libby Parkhurst had burrowed her way beneath his guard. And maybe into his heart.

  Fourteen

  “Hurry up, woman. We have dinner reservations in forty-five minutes.”

  Libby laughed, feeling happier than she had in a very long time. “I’ll be ready in five.” She leaned toward the mirror and touched up her eyeliner, then added a dash of smoky shadow.

  After asking her preferences earlier in the day, Patrick had made reservations at an exclusive French restaurant high atop a Manhattan skyscraper. The evening promised to be magical.

  She resisted the urge to pirouette in front of the mirror. The dress Maeve had bought for her was sexy and sophisticated and exceedingly feminine. The fabric was black lace over a gold satin underlay. The skirt ended modestly just at the knee, but the back dipped to the base of her spine.

  Patrick rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed the nape of her neck, his hot gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “We could skip dinner,” he said.

  He was dressed in an expensive, conservative dark suit. The look in his eyes, however, was anything but ordinary.

  She put her hand over one of his. “We need to keep up our strength. And besides, it would be a shame to waste all this sartorial splendor on room service.”

  “I could live with the disappointment,” he muttered. He lifted the hem of her dress and stroked her thigh. “You can’t go bare legged. It’s cold outside.”

  “I thought you would be a fan of easy access.”

  “Maybe in July. But not tonight. I care about you too much to see you turn into a Popsicle.”

  Despite her distaste for the hosiery, she knew he was right. With that one adjustment to her wardrobe, she was ready. At least her black coat was fairly dressy. At one time she had owned an entire collection of high-end faux furs. But those were long gone.