by Cris Anson
“Mr. Smith, I think it’s better to keep personal matters separate from the office.”
He stood unmoving behind his chair, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity she’d never seen before. No, that wasn’t true. He’d looked at her like that last night. But this was the office. With staff still coming and going. And no foreplay.
Crap. Cancel that image. To break the spell he’d cast, she bent down and began to unroll the plans, setting his brass pencil holder at one edge to hold the blueprint down.
“Annabelle, look at me.” Usually he phrased orders as a request, but the texture of his voice held an edge of domination, of command. Her head jerked up.
“This office is rather formal in deference to its founding partner. So when we are in business mode, I will continue to call you Miss Fortier and you will refer to me as Mr. Smith. But when I call you Annabelle, it means something else entirely.”
Lowell stepped away from the barrier of his executive’s chair, unbuttoned his suit jacket and stood at the edge of his desk. Annabelle’s eyes snapped to his crotch. To the massive bulge making a tent of the silken fabric of his Italian slacks.
“Yes, you do that to me, Annabelle. Please. Sit down so I can do the same.”
“Mr. Smith, you wanted to discuss the Wesley drawings. Are you ready to do so?”
The twitch of a smile came and went on his face. “Fine.” He gestured to her.
She sat.
So did he. “By the way, Miss Fortier, since you’ve now been here six months, you’ve passed the probationary period. If you stop by the payroll office tomorrow to fill out the new forms, I’ve arranged for a fifteen-thousand-dollar raise effective immediately.”
Outraged, Annabelle jumped to her feet, plunked her palms on his desk, looming over him. “Are you trying to bribe me into—into—”
He stilled, like a predator waiting to pounce. Annabelle wrestled herself back into control. He didn’t mean it like it sounded, she rationalized. He wasn’t suggesting he would pay her to be his doxy. She’d earned this raise, dammit, and it wasn’t fair of him to muddy the waters by discussing two such disparate ideas in the same breath.
But…but…
“Is that what you think?” He’d shifted into a no-nonsense voice, prickling the skin on the back of Annabelle’s neck.
She lifted her chin, straightened her spine. “What should I be thinking? ‘Oh, what an odd coincidence’? Obviously I made a massive error in judgment. You’ll have my resigna—”
“Annabelle.” Standing as well, he held up his hand in a traffic cop’s “stop” gesture. “Annabelle,” he said more softly, almost lovingly. His gaze softened, warmed on her. She swallowed hard. He wasn’t making it easy for her to leave.
“Aha, I thought I might find you in here.”
Annabelle spun around to find the founding partner standing in the open doorway. She hadn’t heard the door open.
Joseph Butler sauntered toward her, liver-spotted hand outstretched, a wide smile on his weathered, creased face. “Just got off a conference call with the Library Board. They are absolutely delighted with the plans.”
Scrambling to shift gears, Annabelle accepted his handshake in a daze. “Uh, that didn’t take long.”
“I knew they’d love it. You’ve been doing a first-rate job, Miss Fortier.” Shifting his gaze to Lowell, he asked, “Have you told her yet?”
“We had just started discussing it,” Lowell said, his suit jacket already discreetly buttoned.
Discussing what? Had he told Mr. Butler about last night?
“Splendid.” Still gripping Annabelle’s hand, the senior partner continued smiling at her. “I had suggested ten, you know, but Mr. Smith held out for the entire fifteen thousand budgeted. And after the call I just had, I’m glad he prevailed. You’ll start seeing the results in this week’s paycheck. Congratulations on passing your probationary period in such exemplary fashion.”
“Thank you,” she said weakly as he finally let go of her hand.
Mr. Butler glanced at his gold watch. It was past six, as Annabelle noted on the pendulum clock on Lowell’s credenza. “Take the rest of the afternoon off,” he said jovially as he walked out into the hallway, leaving silence behind him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I jumped to conclusions.”
“Perhaps I’m at fault as well,” he replied. “I’m not the most tactful person nor the world’s best—what’s today’s jargon?—people handler. I should have made your well-deserved raise the first and only subject. But,” he said as he ran the fingers of both hands through his slicked-back hair, “I take one look at you and all I can think of is having you under my thrall.”
Annabelle felt her pussy spasm, her juices begin to flow. She wanted that too. Wanted to rip off her panties and let him see how quickly he made her cream with just his words, with the anticipation of what he might do to her.
“By the way,” he added. “Since we’re putting all our cards on the table, you should know that the partners made this decision Monday afternoon. Well before I realized I had a conflict in last night’s schedule.”
His eyes bored into hers. “I asked you to the Mischief Night party because I’d been fighting my own inclination. I’ve never been a fan of office romances, but I couldn’t keep my mind on my work for thinking about you.” He distractedly messed his hair up a little more, leaving finger tracks in the rumple, and curls in their wake.
“It occurred to me this could be a sink-or-swim proposition. You’d get a taste of the Platinum Club and you’d either accept it or you wouldn’t, and no harm, no foul back in the office. But it wasn’t until I saw your men’s calendar that I dared invite you in the first place.”
She shifted in her chair, looked down at her twined fingers. “I kept it because Mr. June reminded me of you.”
“I wondered why it was so dog-eared.” He chuckled. Then his eyes darkened. “When I saw you with Chaz, when I saw your legs wrapped around him, it took all my willpower not to deck him. Although that certainly gave me an answer as to your level of sensuality.”
“The mistake I made was perfectly logical,” she argued. “He looked just like you under all the war paint, and he didn’t correct me when I called him Mr. Smith, and—”
“Annabelle.”
She shut up.
“Now I’ll ask you again. Are you wearing panties?”
A line had to be drawn. She knew it. She had to keep her—their—private affairs out of the possibility of discovery. “Mr. Smith, I’m going to close up my computer and have a celebratory drink at The Mojito.” The Mojito was a bar a block from their office, popular with the white-collar crowd. She’d gone there a couple of times after work, but had never warmed to the idea of being a barfly.
“Perhaps Lowell would like to join me in a toast to the milestone of passing my probationary period. I would appreciate it if you would tell him that I won’t be wearing any panties there.”
And she walked out of his office, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chapter Four
“That was quite an exit line.”
Lowell had just walked up to where she was seated at one of the bar stools. Annabelle took a sip of her mojito before speaking. “I’m sorry. I simply couldn’t bring Mischief Night into the office. There’s too much at stake, for both of us.”
“No apology needed. I admire your courage in standing your ground.”
The bartender came by. Setting a twenty on the bar, Lowell ordered a beer then leaned forward to whisper into Annabelle’s ear. “Now you will tell me, Annabelle, if you are wearing panties.”
She swiveled on the stool, letting her knees brush him at crotch level. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”
His eyes narrowed. “Annabelle. You disappoint me.”
She set down her drink and slid off the stool. “Listen to that music. Just made for dancing.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she began to sway to its tempo, brushing her body lightly agains
t him. In her high heels, she was almost at eye level with him. She nuzzled her cheek against his then whispered into his ear, “And you can find out the answer to your question…Lowell.”
Instantly she felt herself plastered to his torso, his hands spanning her waist then running down her hips to her butt and back up again. “I don’t feel a panty line,” he murmured.
“That’s because there isn’t one.”
Lowell’s soft groan made Annabelle smile. Her eyes drifted shut at the heavenly feel of him in her arms, holding each other tight and swaying gently to a Sheryl Crow ballad. She’d dreamed of this too. Not just making love with him, but the closeness, the tenderness.
“One Rolling Rock, no glass.”
At the bartender’s intrusion, Lowell pulled away just enough to see Annabelle’s face but kept his hands on her waist and spoke in a low, hoarse voice. “I wish you were wearing a roomy skirt that you could lift up when you sit down on the bar stool, so your bare pussy touches the leather. It would be almost like you sitting on my chest, your legs spread wide apart and your juices drizzling onto my skin. But in the latter instance, my thumb would be stroking your clit. I don’t think they’d allow me to do that here if you were sitting on a barstool.”
Annabelle swallowed hard.
Lowell’s gaze roamed the perimeter of the bar. “Aha. There’s a group leaving the corner booth. Quickly,” he spun her around and gave her a nudge, “lay claim to it. I’ll bring our drinks.”
She was settling on the padded seat, her back to the wall, when he walked up. “No. Sit on this side,” he hissed as he sat their drinks on the not-yet-cleaned table.
“But this way I can see—”
“So can everyone else. This isn’t the Platinum Society. I’m not going to share you with anyone. Not even let them look.”
“Why? What are you going to—”
“Annabelle, you have already earned a demerit by questioning me. Sit here.” He pointed imperiously. “Now!”
Moisture flooded her pussy as she absorbed his dominant stance, his scowl. She slid out of her seat and into the opposite side of the booth. He crowded into it right behind her.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered, wrapping his right arm around her shoulders. “I’m going to see if you obeyed me.”
Oh God, she would have to have this suit dry-cleaned. She could feel how much moisture was seeping to the lining of her woolen skirt. She moved her knees apart, tucking her thigh firmly against his. And heard his sharp intake of breath. Good.
Breathing softly into her ear, Lowell stroked his tongue around its outer shell, making her shudder. Slowly he ran the fingers of his free hand down her arm, onto her leg, bunching up the material of her skirt until he reached the crease between her torso and leg. With every hard-won breath she fought to stay unaffected.
Until his finger touched her unclothed pussy.
Her hips jerked forward. He laughed softly into her ear. “You obeyed. That deserves a reward.” With the arm he’d already flung around her shoulder he managed to tip her head toward him. He captured her mouth with his, kissing lightly, darting his tongue inside and withdrawing, all the while stroking, stroking her pussy lips, tangling his fingers in her auburn curls.
“Here, let me take these empty glasses,” the waitress said from behind Lowell’s shoulder.
Annabelle stiffened.
“Don’t move,” he whispered against her mouth. “It’s too dark to see. Just stay…absolutely still…” and he pressed his thumb against her clit.
Annabelle made a rough sound in the back of her throat. Lowell adroitly captured it in the continuing kiss and rubbed with the thumb still hidden under her skirt. She squirmed, but whether to move away in embarrassment or to move closer for more of Lowell she couldn’t have said.
“Excuse me, Miss, I’ve got to wipe up this wet spot right by your arm. That last group was a bunch of slobs. Beer can stain your suit in a big way.”
Lowell took that moment to plunge two fingers into her dripping wet pussy. Annabelle’s arms automatically lifted as she turned into him, her right hand reaching for his neck to hold him closer to her, closer to his sucking mouth, his thrusting tongue, his two fingers fucking her pussy right in front of the waitress and all she could think of was more, more, she needed him inside her, needed to come right this minute…
Lowell removed everything, his mouth, his fingers, his warmth away from her. Dazed, she fluttered her eyelids until she could focus on him. “Why didn’t you…?”
Then her focus widened to take in the murmur of voices, the smell of stale beer and whiskey and body odors and perfumes. Oh God, they were in The Mojito and she almost came from a finger-fucking right in the middle of all of it.
Hell, she still wanted to come. “Lowell,” she gritted out. “I need you! Let’s get out of here.”
His chuckle grated on her nerves. “You still need to be disciplined for your error of judgment back in the office.”
Her eyes widened. “We agreed not to mix—”
“Correct. But you did not trust me. That has to be punished. I want you to know, to believe, that I will always put your welfare first and foremost. I was a fool to wait six months to inform you of my interest. No. More than interest, it was an obsession. One that I hope will never diminish. Put your hand on my cock.”
She hesitated, darted a look around.
“Now! Or you’ll get another punishment.”
Gingerly she let her left hand settle on his thigh then creep upward to the bulge under his trousers.
“The zipper. Pull down the zipper and tell me what you find.”
She let out a gasp.
“It’s okay, she won’t be back until I signal her.” He angled his body toward the corner, toward her, and away from prying eyes. “Go on,” he urged.
Annabelle discovered that she needed both trembling hands to finesse the zipper down around the warm, hard obstruction. Then gasped again.
His cock sprang free, huge and hot and…naked in her hand. Her eyes popped up to capture his gaze. Her mouth formed a big round O. “You’re not wearing underwear.”
“That’s right, darlin’. If you could do that for me I will do the same, and more, for you.”
Annabelle’s eyes sparkled. “Then you’d better hold absolutely still, because there’s a favor I want to return.”
And began slowly stroking his throbbing cock with her loose fist, up and down its thick length, her other hand grazing the thick ridge encircling the head, smearing the drop of pre-cum around the silky skin, driving him slowly crazy until he agreed.
They had to get out of there. Fast.
Chapter Five
“I don’t care what you say, Annabelle. This is a special occasion.”
Annabelle looked at the face of her beloved. Six months had passed since Mischief Night, and they’d had a devil of a time keeping their relationship out of the office and in a “Mr. Smith” and “Miss Fortier” mode. No one knew, although many might suspect. The lingering looks, the flushed faces, the opportunities to be alone—they tried to avoid those. As well, he’d asked her to move in with him any number of times, but she’d always refused. She still felt she had to prove herself as a junior staff member and didn’t want anyone to accuse her boss of favoritism.
They were dressed for a party. Tonight was Joseph Butler’s retirement after thirty-one years as an award-winning architect. He would continue as Partner Emeritus, but was turning over the day-to-day running of the offices to his younger brother, the new Managing Partner.
She stood at the mirror in a corner of Lowell’s office inserting her emerald stud earrings. She had brought a strapless cocktail dress to work, a rich emerald green silk with fitted bodice and softly flowing skirt, and changed in the ladies room. Lowell looked devastatingly handsome in a tux that fit him so well it had to be hand-tailored and not a rental. He came up behind her and murmured, “You look ravishing.”
She met his eyes in the mirror. “So do you.”
“Good enough to eat. No one would blame me for trying to kiss you in the office tonight.” He bent down to kiss her bare shoulder, skimming a finger where the edge of her gown exposed the plump tops of her breasts. “Almost too much cleavage for everyone to see.”
She smiled at him, tingled at his touch. But she wore panties. With this dress and in this milieu she didn’t want to risk a wet spot. “Jealous?”
“Maybe. Do you ever think about another go-round with a third party?”
“No. Absolutely not. I don’t want to share you and I don’t want you to share me.”
“Good. Anybody who puts their hands on you in a sexual way, I’ll punch his lights out. I just want to make sure you don’t miss having ménage a trois, the way we did at Halloween.”
Annabelle sighed. “I’ll say it for the hundredth time, I thought that Indian was you. And since I was already, shall we say, wrapped up in Chaz and didn’t know what your intentions were, I went along with a threebie. Yes, I’ll admit I was curious to see what it was like. And yes, it turned me on, but that was because you were the dominant force in that group. I would never have done it with any two other men in the world. Regardless of how many vignettes I saw in the Haunted House.”
“Good,” he said again.
“Of course,” she added mischievously, “if someone wants to watch…”
“We’ll play that by ear. I’m getting pretty possessive.”
“Good,” she echoed.
“And I’ll say it again. This is a special occasion.” He spun her around and pushed her back against the mirror then knelt at her feet. “This is just the kind of skirt I had in mind for you to wear,” he said, his voice muffled under the handkerchief hem of her gown.
“Dammit, you’re wearing underpants.” Undaunted, he licked her clit through the silk. Instantly her pussy flooded, a Pavlovian response because she knew how well he could ravage her with his tongue. She felt his teeth scrape against her pubic bone, felt him pull her crotch aside and thrust his fingers into her.
“Lowell—Mr. Smith, stop it!” She had to brace herself against the wall, her palms flattening, in order to stay upright.