by Alex Wolf
“Good for you. I do believe I understood your elaborate and much-appreciated guidance. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with things.”
His face hardened as if his someone had just killed his dog. Had nobody ever told him to stop hovering before? No wonder his house staff looked so damn ragged all the time. Did he never think that maybe his employees would like to just do their work?
“I suppose I’ll let you get on it then.” He showed her a devilish grin. “Get on with it, I mean.” He snatched the bottle of brandy out of the room and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
She stared at the door for a short while. His obvious innuendo at the end, what did that mean? He was hitting on her. She was sure of it, but at the same time she wasn’t sure. He had to just be fucking with her for fun. It’d been too easy to get him to leave. But it was easy the first time, and he’d returned to bother her all but five minutes later. She wasn't going to get too optimistic.
As the day rolled on, though, she didn’t see him again. Usually, she would be pleased her client was gone. But somehow, she wasn’t. It annoyed her.
Anytime footsteps passed in the hallway, her head would snap up, and butterflies would swarm into her stomach. She’d curse them, get pissed at her body for betraying her.
He’d practically stalked from the room the last time, like a teenager who’d been told to stop doing stupid shit. And, much like that sort of teenager, she suspected he was going to try and find a loophole to do as he pleased, regardless of any of her suggestions. Maybe he was mad at her. Good, if it allowed her to do her job more effectively.
As the sun slowly set and she carefully put the papers to one side, ready to continue organizing them the next day, there was a soft, polite knock at the office door. It creaked open and the butler peered through the crack.
“Mr. Spencer wishes to see you before you leave, Miss.”
Christina nodded. “Now is good. I’m done.”
“No, he asked me to bring you to him.”
“Okay.” She nodded once more and looked over the table. It should be fine. She was at a good stopping point and would be able to carry on where she left off. Walking up to the door, she smiled at the butler. He stared, turned around, and walked down the hallway.
Christina followed through the house. It felt like being walked through a modern art gallery. The ceiling was tall, the marble floors gleamed, the clicking of her heels echoed across the huge empty spaces.
“In here, Miss.” He made a sweeping gesture. It felt like being transported back to Victorian times. Surrounded by polite, tired, sour-faced servants who did anything their master asked of them. Who even had a butler these days? And how did someone manage to replicate the structure of a Victorian house without keeping any of the order and efficiency? The world Matty Spencer lived in was a strange combination of modern and old.
The room she walked into, on the other hand, was very modern. Maybe a little bit too perfect for her tastes. It was like a bedroom taken directly from a designer's magazine. The four-poster bed was made of twisted steel and covered in delicate floral patterns. The red velvet bedding matched the immaculate curtains, already drawn over the windows. It was barely lit by a faint orange glow from an array of industrial-style lamps.
She turned her head and tried to tamp down her anger. Her entire body heated at once.
Matty Spencer lay right in the middle of it. He was on top of the covers rather than under them. He was completely undressed and lounging there in nothing but boxer briefs.
Christina wasn’t sure what to do. Her usual response would be to tell him to fuck off and walk right out of the room, however, she thought maybe that was the reaction he was after, judging by the grin plastered across his face. For some reason, Mr. Spencer’s primary occupation seemed to be one of making her uncomfortable.
“I just need a report so that I can rest easy. Know I’m in good hands.” Matty grinned.
Christina stared off at the wall and tapped a foot on the ground. “I’ve organized about a third of what needs to be done in the office. It will take a week before I can create a schedule for your household.” Her words came out fast and on each short breath of hers.
Don’t fucking look at him.
“Just don't get distracted.” His grin widened farther. “By all the paperwork, that is. Nor forget that I have other things which need addressing.”
Christina bit the inside of her cheek and did her best not to throw something at him, or glance over at the sleek contours of his finely-toned body. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m not easily distracted.” Her words came through her gritted teeth.
“Come here.” He patted the bed.
Christina thought her heart might leap through her chest. Her breathing became labored, palms slickened, and it took everything in her power to compose herself.
She hated that he affected her this way. Why couldn’t he cease being ridiculous for all of five minutes, and let her do her job and leave?
He picked up his cell phone. “So I can show you my schedule.”
She should just tell him to email it to her. That was what she always did. Why was she walking over to his bed to look at his damn phone? Her body was betraying her brain.
She needed to show some self-control, some professionalism. Her face needed a slap, or a bucket of ice water thrown on it. She made her way over and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the phone from his hand and glancing at it. She couldn't help but notice that the butler had left and shut the door behind him.
Matty's hand rested against her stockinged thigh as she scrolled through his weekly schedule. Excitement built in the pit of her stomach. The tips of his fingers were like fire on her leg. Electricity coursed through her, and her mind went to complete shit. It took everything she had to will herself to focus on the screen.
She should stand up, give his phone back, and walk out.
Without thinking, she uncrossed her legs and felt his hand glide up her inner thigh. Her breath hitched.
It only took a moment, but his hands slid to her waist and pulled her back against his hard chest. His skin was warm and smelled of body wash.
As his hands slipped around her, she knew she should’ve slapped him—told him off like she always did when clients got handsy. How could he be so forward? Confident? Act like she was nothing more than his property, to do with as he pleased?
But she didn't stop him. She couldn’t.
The tension between them all afternoon had been palpable. He locked eyes with her as she was nearly seated in his lap.
His hand slid up her thigh again, finally resting on the top of her stocking. He grazed her exposed flesh at the line where the elastic ended with his fingertips.
His hand dug firmly into her thigh. “What do you say then?”
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