by Cris Anson
“Oh, I’m sorry. I should have been more clear. I’m Robert Savidge’s assistant. He’s Mr. Bowers’ partner. If we knew the nature of your concern, perhaps Mr. Savidge could help. He happens to be in the office this afternoon. I’m sure he can spare a few minutes to straighten this out.”
“Thank you. Please tell him your company’s client is reneging on a clause in the divorce settlement that couldn’t come at a more inopportune time. My daughter is leaving for Dartmouth in two days—she’s a freshman. We were just informed this morning that George is unable to meet his obligation. Which means she won’t be able to matriculate.”
“I see. Why don’t you have a seat here. Let me locate Mr. Markham’s file and see if there’s something Mr. Savidge can do.”
Lyssa murmured another thank you and marveled at the way the woman seemed to glide out the door. She oozed a sensuousness—as opposed to the receptionist’s blatant sensuality—that was all the more seductive because it seemed unconscious.
“What are you, an idiot?” she muttered. “You’re in enemy territory. Don’t start empathizing with them.” Still, she wondered if all the women in the law firm were chosen more for their looks than for their ability.
The conference room, the size of a small dining room, sported a round cherry table and four armchairs padded in forest green paisley. Lyssa studied excellently executed prints of leaf silhouettes in myriad shades of green on the walls. Idly she wondered if the law firm was one of Kat’s clients.
“This way, please, Mrs. Markham.”
The assistant led her down the hall and into an open area with a well-appointed workstation, then knocked on an ajar door. “Go right in.”
“Thank you,” Lyssa said yet again. Taking a deep breath, she nudged the door with her palm. It opened onto a spacious room dominated by a massive walnut desk. On one corner she noted two wooden file trays holding stacks of papers. An opened file lay on a blood-red leather blotter. Behind the desk, a long credenza held a computer whose screen-saver showed a sailboat slowly gliding through calm waters. The high-backed, well-padded executive chair was empty.
As she took a few nervous steps into the room, Lyssa felt her high-heeled sandals sink into an Oriental rug, its blues and reds and creams glowing with the soft patina of age. Behind her she heard the door close with a solid click, the well-trained admin giving the client privacy with her attorney. It was a corner office, she noted, unadorned windows revealing a clear view of the venerable City Hall, with its verdigris statue of William Penn jutting into the hazy blue of the sky. Against the brightness of one window near the corner she saw the silhouette of a tall man with broad shoulders, apparently mesmerized by the skyline. Hesitantly, she approached. Still he didn’t turn.
“Excuse me,” she finally said.
She had to skirt a seating arrangement of leather club chairs in order to get close enough to snag his attention. “Mr. Savidge?”
He turned then, the window light revealing the sharp planes and angles of a face that could have graced a Roman temple. Long, thin blade of a nose, dark hair curling around his ears, eyebrows arched like a raven’s wings, lips as sultry and ripe as a GQ model’s. Lyssa’s heart stuttered. He looked like…
The corners of his mouth turned up. A smile lit his night-dark eyes.
“Lift up your skirt.”
“Wh-what?” It couldn’t be!
He took two steps toward her, like a panther stalking a gazelle. “I said, lift up your skirt…Salome.”
Lyssa felt her cheeks heat like molten lava. The gladiator!
“You-you’re Robert Savidge?”
He made a sweeping bow. “At your service.” He took another step forward. Although totally intimidated by his approach, she was rooted to the spot. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his mouth, the mouth that knew her so intimately…
“And you do know what kind of service I provide, do you not?” His voice, a low, sexy hum, vibrated through her very bones.
“You’re even more beautiful without a mask,” he murmured, lifting his right hand to stroke her cheek with a knuckle. “I wonder how you taste.”
His thumb caressed her lower lip. Involuntarily, she licked the spot he had touched and a shiver coursed through her. She thought she heard him groan, but it could have been her imagination. He bent his head and flicked his tongue over the spot hers had just dampened.
Her knees threatened to buckle. Her gladiator was doing it again, robbing her of sanity, bringing her to instant lust like Pavlov’s dog salivating at the ring of a bell. She grabbed him by his biceps to stabilize herself. Strong, flexible muscles under soft, summer-weight wool, she vaguely noted, her gaze trapped at the sight of the full lower lip, the tanned skin making his teeth seem whiter. She lifted her gaze to his eyes.
Mistake. In their dark brown depths she saw a searing desire that made her moist between her legs. How could he do this to her with just a glance, when she’d been unable to please George in even the most basic way?
His face hovered over hers, only inches away, as if awaiting permission—or inviting her to act. She couldn’t stand it a moment longer. She followed a sudden whim and licked his jawline, inhaling a subtle fragrance that was part citrus, part fresh air, and part aroused male. Then she lifted up on tiptoe and captured his earlobe with her teeth.
He inhaled a harsh breath then placed his hands on her waist, lifting her high enough to fit his mouth over her breast. With a whimper, she arched her back, clenched fistfuls of his curly hair as she strained to pull his head closer. He suckled and pulled at one breast through the thin silk, then moved to the other, leaving its mate damp, cool, puckered—and wanting more.
As if of their own volition, her legs wrapped themselves around the gladiator’s waist. He shifted his arms to her butt cheeks, pressing her closer to what she immediately perceived was a very large erection. In some needy corner of her mind, Lyssa gloried in the fact that she was able to bring him to such a tumescent state in what seemed like only a minute.
But she had no time to ruminate on that fact. She felt him moving, striding across the room, to the massive desk. He placed her on the outer edge, leaned behind her and swept the file folder to the floor, then forced her down until her back rested on the blotter. He pulled her legs from around his waist and lifted them, draping her knees over his shoulders. Her dress slid up to reveal high-cut, lace-trimmed panties. With a groan he pulled the crotch roughly aside, bent his head and licked her slit, sliding his tongue up and down, thrusting it between her engorged lips to taste her essence, then suckling on the nub that contained, it seemed, every nerve ending she possessed.
Suddenly Lyssa found herself bucking her hips into his face. Again. With a last bit of sanity, she remembered there were people outside that door, and bit her lip to keep from crying aloud. She grabbed his hair to hold him between her legs while she felt spasms rock her, felt heat burst from her center down to her toes and up to her hairline. Oh God, he’d made her come in less than five minutes! And she wanted more. Much more. But there was something she’d come here to do.
She languidly tried to see through the lingering haze of sensuality to remember what it was, when she heard a muted click, then a tug, a whisper of sound, and the pressure from the elastic in her panties ceased. In her dazed state, she decided this masterfully Alpha man would be the type to simply cut away an offending garment. Before she could follow that train of thought, she heard the hiss of a zipper, the crinkle of foil.
Then he loomed over her, grabbed her hips with two strong hands. “I’ve thought of nothing but this since Saturday night,” he rasped as he thrust a hard, hot cock into her sheath.
Lyssa stifled a cry as pure lust shot through her. This was what she’d come for. She abandoned herself to the sensations exploding within her, the exquisite feel of him plunging and withdrawing, the searing heat radiating between them. He bent over her, pushing her legs up so that her knees touched her shoulders. The movement lifted her hips off the desk, allowing
him to sink even deeper inside her. She could swear his cock touched all the way into her womb.
He leaned forward and moved his hands up to grasp her shoulders, holding her in place as he pumped hard, harder and yet harder still into her, savaging her mouth with his. She felt the pressure build within, the delirious climbing to a higher level of ecstasy. Her hands scrabbled for purchase against his clothing, wanting, needing the feel of his skin against her palms. Finally she settled for reaching behind him to grab his firm ass cheeks through the supple wool and bring him even closer. He made one long, low moan, lifted his head and went rigid. Their eyes met.
The connection sent electric explosions through Lyssa. She felt her sheath violently contract around him, squeezing his cock rhythmically as his own spasms rocked them both, until she subsided into a nether world where nothing existed except the scent of him, the heat, the feel of them wrapped around each other.
After a time, she heard him say, “Don’t move.”
As if she could.
Gradually Lyssa’s awareness returned. Legs up in the air, dampness between her thighs, hard desk under her back.
Oh God. She was in Robert Savidge’s office, her twat exposed to anyone who might walk in. She tried to lever herself onto her elbows, but her muscles refused to cooperate. She’d been laid, good and proper, unlike anything she’d experienced in her life, and wanted nothing so much as to lie still and savor every delicious memory.
“Here, let me do this.”
Lyssa turned her head to see the man she’d just fucked—there was no other word for it. It had been just like Erica Jong’s zipless fuck with a stranger. Suit jacket hung impeccably on his broad shoulders, striped tie knotted to perfection, wavy black hair flawlessly combed—God, what hers must look like!—he looked ready for depositions instead of the man who’d given her the most memorable orgasms—orgasms, plural, she marveled—she’d ever had.
Then she felt the warmth of a soft, moist cloth cleansing her slit and she fell apart.
“I’m sorry about your panties,” he said, touching a dry towel to the area he’d just cleaned. He offered his hands to her and helped her sit up.
Embarrassed to look him in the eye, she quickly stood. Then realized what he’d meant about her panties. The shredded crotch dangled down the back of her thighs. He had cut the offending garment! She blushed and averted her head, futilely brushing her palms down the front of her skirt to remove the telltale wrinkles.
He tossed towel and washcloth to the floor behind his desk, then bent down to retrieve the papers he’d scattered when he’d positioned her on the desk.
The papers. The divorce decree.
Oh God. He was the enemy. His idea had undoubtedly been to distract her until she forgot she needed a check for fourteen grand to pay for Michelle’s tuition. One lawyer watching out for another lawyer’s client and never mind who gets hurt along the way.
And he’d done a bang-up job distracting her. How could she have been so bedazzled by the man? How could she have done this with a stranger? Not once, but twice? She couldn’t face him, not now, maybe not ever. She had to leave. This minute. She’d call the receptionist from home and insist on having Mr. Bowers call her whenever he returned, no matter how late. She couldn’t, could not, spend another minute in this man’s presence, could not sit down and talk to him rationally and coolly as if they were merely attorney and aggrieved party.
Frantically she glanced around. She’d had a purse when she walked in the door to this lion’s den. Ah, there it was, on the sofa. She’d obviously dropped it when he picked her up and snuggled her to his…
No! Don’t think it. Don’t. Even. Think. It.
She grabbed the purse while his attention was still diverted to the papers on the floor and strode to the door. She wrenched the knob, wondering if his assistant had locked it, a conspiracy between them to muddle her brain into acquiescing to George’s machinations.
It opened. Heat flooded her face. What if that woman in the Donna Karan suit had interrupted them while they were—?
Taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, Lyssa marched out of the office, her eyes looking neither right nor left, averted her glance from the administrative assistant’s work station, marched down the hall past the receptionist, and out through the double glass doors into the elevator lobby. And did not look back.
Chapter Three
Lyssa stood at the butcher-block counter, slicing the chicken breast into slivers while her daughter set the table. As soon as Lyssa had gotten home from the law office, she’d stripped off the yellow dress and tossed it in the laundry hamper, shimmied out of her unsalvageable panties, stuffed them into a plastic baggie and buried them under a week’s worth of garbage in the kitchen trash bin. Then she’d taken a long, hot shower, scrubbing the scent of him from her skin. She thanked the gods that she’d been able to get her emotions under control before Michelle had been dropped off by her new roommate after spending the weekend getting to know her and her parents. She’d decided she wouldn’t upset Michelle needlessly. She wouldn’t tell her about George’s crying poverty unless and until it was unavoidable.
Perhaps Mr. Bowers would return her call this evening, especially after Lyssa had impressed upon the receptionist in her phone call how urgent the matter was. Thankfully the young woman hadn’t thought to ask why the other partner hadn’t been able to help her.
“How much more packing do you have to do?” she asked, pleased that her voice sounded calm and normal.
Michelle shrugged. “Just my makeup and stuff.”
“Stuff” had a way of adding three suitcases to the mix, Lyssa knew. “I assume this ‘stuff’ will fit in the Honda? Last I looked, we’ll be lucky to be able to see out the rearview mirror.”
“Oh, Mom, this is nothing. Ginger’s dad has an Expedition. You should see all the stuff she’s taking.”
Lyssa poured a dollop of oil into the heated wok. “Are you about ready to eat? I can start stir-frying any time.”
Michelle opened the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of iced tea. “Okay. Go to it.”
The chicken slivers hit the wok with a sizzle. Lyssa deftly stirred while her daughter poured tea over ice cubes in two tall glasses, then returned the pitcher to the fridge. Lyssa tossed the julienned veggies into the wok. The timer dinged.
“Could you drain the noodles, ‘Chelle?”
“Sure.”
As Michelle scooted to the other side of the stove, Lyssa smiled to think how well they worked together in the kitchen. She was glad her daughter had absorbed her own love of cooking. Too bad she hadn’t learned to clean up the kitchen after herself.
Lyssa was splashing soy sauce into the mix when the front doorbell rang. She jumped. Jack Bowers, she thought. Who else could it be at seven-thirty in the evening? Hurriedly she turned off the burner. “The stir fry’s ready, honey. You sit down and eat. I’ll be right back.” She rubbed her damp palms on her apron while she strode down the hall to the front door.
Wondering how she’d explain Mr. Bowers to Michelle and wishing he’d called first, she pulled the door open without looking through the peephole. The breath whooshed out of her.
“You.”
He looked even more impossibly handsome in well-tailored khaki trousers and a light blue silk shirt, long sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows, top two buttons undone. Lyssa swallowed hard, resisting the temptation to pat her hair into place, to remove the ruffled apron from around her neck, to wish she hadn’t donned comfortable, ratty shorts after her shower. The sudden heat that zapped through her body had nothing to do with the August temperature or the lingering warmth from the stove and everything to do with images of his mouth, his hands, all over her eager and welcoming body.
“Good evening, Mrs. Markham. May I come in?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, blocking the doorway like a sentry on duty.
Robert Savidge pointed to the attaché case at his feet. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home
, but Jack Bowers’ paralegal asked me if I could take care of this, since time seems to be of the essence and Jack is tied up in a major trial all week.”
He seemed to be acting as though this afternoon hadn’t happened. She supposed she should be grateful for his sensitivity, but some small part of her felt disappointed that their primitive coupling had meant so little to him that he could sound so aloof and businesslike.
“Why didn’t you call instead of coming here?” It came out a rough whisper. She didn’t want Michelle to see this man, to pick up on her weak knees, the lust in her eyes even now, when she knew he’d done what he’d done only to distract her from pursuing their client.
He raised a dark, perfectly arched eyebrow. “Would you have listened to me?”
Lyssa glanced behind her. She hoped Michelle couldn’t hear them from the kitchen. “Look, can I call you later? My daughter and I just sat down to dinner—”
“And you don’t want her to know there’s a problem, right?”
A relieved sigh escaped her. “Yes.”
Savidge gave her a long, hard stare that she was hard-pressed to meet, but determined that he blink first. He did.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “My home number’s on the back. I’ve read George Markham’s file. Call me later tonight. I think I might be able to help you.”
“Why should you help me? I’m not your client.”
He stared at her long enough for the unspoken message in his eyes to resonate inside her chest. Because I want to fuck you again. Then he turned on his heel and strode down the walkway to the Porsche Boxster at the curb.
Lyssa couldn’t help herself. She watched the movement of his tight ass underneath the form-fitting khakis as he walked. Then, furious with herself, she spun on her heel and tried to think up a plausible fib to tell Michelle.
* * * * *
“This is Lyssa Markham. You have a solution to my problem?”