She nods wildly, trying to push herself onto my hand again, seemingly desperate. ‘Okay, okay—I promise.’
‘And don’t make any noise when you come,’ I demand—partly because I don’t want the people on the other side of the door to hear her, but mostly because I want to own this orgasm. I want her to do as I fucking well say in order to get it.
She nods again, seemingly unable to form any words in her state of frantic need, and I begin the deep push-pull of my fingers inside her again, increasing the pressure on her clit with my thumb with each stroke.
I half expect her to defy me, and groan out loud when she orgasms, but I’m surprised and elated when I see her jerk beneath me, biting down hard on her bottom lip and screwing her eyes shut as she starts to come around my hand. I feel her internal muscles spasming, squeezing me hard, and I experience a sort of brain orgasm at the sight of her losing herself but obeying my command.
My whole body heats at the sight of it, sending a wave of profound satisfaction through me as she keeps on jerking against my fingers, as if the greedy sensations have her entirely in their grip and are refusing to let go.
It takes a long time for her to stop moving and sink heavily against the table, as though her bones have melted, and when she does I’m finally able to tear my eyes away from the most erotic sight I’ve ever experienced and breathe again.
And that’s when it hits me—what I’ve just done.
I withdraw my hand, hearing her drag in a breath of surprise as if we’ve become one and I’ve torn away a part of her. I want to get the hell out of there, away from her compelling presence, but I know I can’t do that. I won’t do that. So instead I lift her feet off the chairs and tug down her skirt to cover her.
She sits up, propping her hands on either side of her. ‘Thanks, I needed that,’ she murmurs.
I don’t look at her. I can’t. If I do I think I might say something I’ll regret later. Instead I nod, then walk away, skirting the desk, and sit down in my chair.
She slides off the table and turns to look at me, her head held high as if nothing untoward has happened. As if I haven’t just taken advantage of her in the most lewd way possible.
‘You can leave now. Remember what you promised me,’ I say to her, determinedly keeping my voice steady.
I fold my arms again, so she doesn’t see how much my hands are shaking. I’m sure she’s going to get angry, tell me I’m a monster to dismiss her so coldly after what has just happened between us, but she doesn’t. Instead she pushes back her shoulders and gives me an obedient nod.
‘Yes, sir, Mr Chivers,’ she breathes in that delicious husky voice of hers.
Turning gracefully on the spot, she heads for the door—but before she leaves she turns back and flashes me one last guileful smile, letting me know that this thing isn’t over between us, then lets herself out of my office, closing the door quietly behind her.
I drop my head into my hands and let out a low groan.
Well, that didn’t exactly go as I planned.
Fuck!
I’m supposed to be looking out for her while her father’s in New York. He specifically warned me not to let her get into my head and twist me around her little finger and I laughed, telling him there was no way that would happen, thinking I could handle her.
Well, I guess I did handle her. Just not in the way I intended.
We’ve crossed a line now, though, and I know there’s no going back. But at least I know what I’m up against.
Anyway, she won’t be working here for long, and judging by her reputation for short, sharp relationships she isn’t looking for anything serious from me.
I certainly don’t want a serious relationship right now—not that she’s the type of woman I’d expect to settle down with anyway...if I ever do.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy what just happened between us. She certainly is a fascinating woman...
I rub my hands over my scalp, feeling frustration flood through me.
She’s the very last person I should be letting get under my skin right now. It’s okay for her—playing at working here, then swanning off to fritter away her trust fund on some vanity project—but it’s my career and reputation at stake and I have to put my business first.
If she thinks I’m going to carry on playing her sexy little power games she can bloody well think again.
Maya
I PUT A brave face on it as I saunter out of Benedict’s office, pretending I’m still in control of the situation and my response to him—but, Jesus, what happened back there has rattled me well and good.
I went in there intending to get his attention, but I had no idea just how far I was willing to go in order to get it until the intensely erotic promise of the situation seduced me into total abandon.
That was pretty extreme, though. Even for me.
Not that I didn’t love every single second of it...
The rest of my afternoon is spent in a brain-addled haze, and I stumble home feeling the kind of euphoria I can normally only procure from a dealer.
I’m not usually one for repeat performances—famous for it, in fact—but as I sit in my father’s kitchen, gulping down a humongous glass of wine like it’s water, I can’t get Benedict Chivers out of my head.
That should be enough for me—that breathtakingly sexy culmination of our mutual attraction. It should be, but it isn’t. Because he demonstrated something I’ve been looking for for a long time—a strength and self-possession I’ve been unable to find before now. Normally when I force my admittedly sometimes overwhelming personality on a man he either turns into a gibbering wreck or blows it by getting selfish and carried away with a sense of his own importance. But not Benedict Chivers. He somehow managed to give me exactly what I most needed. Despite him maintaining strict control over the situation I still felt powerful, wanted and majorly fucking sexy.
And sitting here, humming with echoes of the pleasure he gave me, I know for sure that I definitely want to feel like that again.
Unfortunately, it seems we’re not on the same page where that particular want is concerned.
I turn up at the office the next day, looking my absolute sex bomb best, only to find to my screaming frustration that he’s not in, and all my tasks are to be passed on through tersely worded emails or by word of mouth from one of his other PAs.
By the time I get home I seriously wonder whether I’m going to spontaneously combust from sexual tension. Is that a thing? Is it possible my body will actually catch fire and I’ll be found in the morning, just a pile of ash and false eyelashes?
It’s not as if I don’t have other options to satisfy this weirdly consuming need. I’ve cultivated a comprehensive book of contacts for fun, no-strings sex over the years and, believe me, I’m not afraid to use it. So I call up Freddie Valentine—a semi-regular hook-up of mine who fronts the indie band Blues and Dues, who’ve been getting a lot of press lately for their wild partying.
Mercifully, he’s free and tells me to, ‘Come right over and sit on my face, babe.’
But for some reason, it’s not happening for me, and when he leans in to kiss me and slides his hands around my waist, pulling me against his rock-hard body, I freeze.
Usually I love having sex, because in those moments I can dodge the strange restlessness that follows me around like a toxic cloud and escape into pure, beautiful sensation. My thoughts are centred entirely