His Secretary: Undone

"You were about to tell me all the reasons why we can’t keep doing this," I tell him, before I have a chance to rethink my honesty. "I don’t really want to hear that. I don’t want to think about it."

Laughing, he winds his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. "If you think I’m not going to find a way to keep fucking you, you couldn’t be more wrong, kitten. I’m just saying we need to be careful. That’s all."

Something unspools in my chest. "Oh."

"That’s right." He gives me a dark look that makes my core clench. "Oh. Now get in there and bend over. I’ve half a mind to teach you a lesson with my belt."

My stomach flip-flops. I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know if I’m ready for the intensity, the sting. I much prefer the way his hand feels. The intimacy of it.

Because, sure, getting intimate with Adrian Risinger is obviously a great long-term goal for me.

But hey, it seems to be working well so far. With my little "per diem" from the conference, I’ll have enough to get some nicer furniture. Or maybe I should think about socking it away, and saving up for a new place.

Or maybe I should think about buying a headboard to my bed, so Adrian has something to tie me up to.

Okay, well, this is just getting out of hand now.

"Stop thinking," he orders me. "Strip."

Um. That wasn’t part of the command before.

I freeze in my steps. "Right here?"

His eyes blaze into mine. "You know what? Yes. Here. Now. Strip."

I swallow hard. No matter how many times he sees me, there’s still going to be a part of me that hates doing this. One by one, I undo the buttons of my blouse and let it slip from my shoulders. I can hear his breathing quicken as I unzip my skirt and step out of it, and my mind flashes back to the fantasy he told me about in the hotel. The one where I have to come to work in revealing clothes, and he makes me suck him off under his desk. I’ve thought about that one quite a bit, touching myself in the shower where the sound of the rushing water will drown out my moans. As if it matters. As if that makes it any less real, how much I want him.

I wonder if we’ve ever done it at the same time, thinking about each other.

Fuck. The thought of him jerking off, to me, has me throbbing all over. I’ve never thought of myself that way, really, and I know he has. This isn’t some fleeting fancy, he’s wanted me for a long time. Like some idiot kid pulling pigtails on the playground, he’s been trying to tell me, in the most fucked-up and juvenile way possible.

Like he can read my mind, he’s palming himself through his pants, almost as if he’s trying to calm it down while he watches me. Yeah right. I smirk a little to myself, unhooking my bra and taking my time in letting the straps fall down, without revealing my breasts.

He squeezes. "Get on with it," he growls.

"I want to see you touch yourself."

Holy shit, did I just say that? Out loud?

Adrian smiles. "Since you asked so nicely."

At moments like this, sometimes it hits me hard and fast that he’s still my boss. That I am, in fact, watching my boss unzip and and take himself out and stroke, in my hallway, and for a moment I feel like I’m actually going to pass out.

Instead, I step out of my panties and walk over to him.

I need him to touch me. I don’t care if he thinks I’m impertinent, if it means I’ll get a harder spanking later (in fact, yes please). The way he’s looking at me makes it impossible for me not to want him even more than I already do.

He locks eyes with mine, and I grab his hand away from his cock and shove it between my legs. Because I need him. Damn the consequences.

I could have used his other hand, of course. But that’s not how this works. It never is, with us.

His whole body reacts when he feels how wet I am. How hot and wanting. I can see it work through him like a slow shudder, and he touches me just like I want him to, because for a moment I’m the one in control.

You always are.

I don’t know where that thought comes from, but it hangs thick in the air between us as he curls his fingers deep inside and finds the spot that I used to think was a myth.

I whimper, knees buckling, but he catches me with his other arm around my waist. His fingers make an obscene sound as he yanks them out, then he lets go of my waist and grabs my hair at the roots, steering me towards the wall. I understand. I plant my hands firmly against it, presenting myself to him, like he needs any further indication of what I need. His fingers slip into my mouth, moments before he grabs my hip and slides in deep.

I’m expecting him to say something, to call me names or to criticize my forwardness. But he just fucks me. He fucks me like it matters.

Really, I don’t know how else to describe it. I wouldn’t have the audacity to call it making love. Because it’s not. It’s something, though. All I can do is gasp and moan, my body clenching around him, the heat rising between us until sweat drips down the bridge of my nose and lands on the carpet underneath me.

He stops.

"Turn around," he rumbles, slipping out of me. I whimper in protest at the loss, but I do what he asks. The look on his face isn’t anything I’ve seen before, and for a moment he seems on the verge of saying something else. But he doesn’t. For a moment, we’re both just searching each other’s faces silently and I wish I had any clue of what was going through his head.

Instead of talking, he puts his hand behind my thigh and lifts my leg up, up, higher still, wrapping it around his waist. Then he grabs my other thigh and hoists me up, and at least part of my weight is on the wall still, but the adrenaline’s pumping through me anyway and I’m struggling to cling to him, not to fall. My arms surround his shoulders.

"Shhh, I’ve got you," he whispers, and for some reason I believe him.

His hands grip my ass while he slides into me again, and it feels so different this time. Just the position, surely. But my whole body is tingling, and I don’t want to think it’s because I can see his face. I don’t want to know that it’s because of our foreheads touching, because his pace has slowed, because now we can kiss.

"Sweet girl," he whispers, and it’s a complete sentence. That’s all he wants to tell me. Not a command, just a statement of fact.

When we come – yes, we, our bodies are so ridiculously in sync I could almost laugh – something bursts inside my chest. Butterflies flutter through my stomach and I try to tell myself I’m not feeling what I’m feeling.

Because I cannot have those feelings for Adrian Risinger.

***

"Here."

I’m sitting on the bed, towel-drying my hair, when Adrian finally hands me the box. Smiling, I reach over and pull it into my lap. "I almost forgot about this."