“Oh, I’m in awe of your mind, boss. Really I am. Why else would I so enjoy working for a woman? With anyone less smart than you, it’d be irritating…and against my nature.”
Frowning, Miranda tried to absorb what he was saying.
“You’re a dominant?”
His smile was slow now, and narrow. Not threatening, but certainly possessed of power.
“Of course.”
He worked for her. He took her orders. Yet all the time, his natural inclination was to give her orders. What an irony. What a performance. He never showed it, nor any sign of irritation. What a tour de force.
Miranda fell silent for a while, as Patrick negotiated what was becoming an increasingly twisty lane. They were out in the country now, in the wilds, and he controlled the car with only the lightest touch, effortlessly and economically.
Just the way he was completely controlling her.
“So what do you want me to do now?”
He changed gear before he answered, rounding a bend.
“How about showing me your pussy?” He didn’t look at her, but he smiled, how he smiled.
There weren’t many vehicles about around here, but occasionally they passed the odd one. Miranda realized her alarm must have shown on her face, because Patrick spoke again, almost immediately.
“Okay, that’s a bit too extreme, for now…. So how about just the tops of those delicious stockings you wear. Mmm, lace…I love it.”
“How do you know I wear lace-topped hold-ups?”
He laughed again, a free, happy sound. A little like the way Miranda was starting to feel.
“A man can sometimes catch a sly glimpse when a lady is reaching for something.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “And then there’re the couple of spare pairs you keep in the filing cabinet…I’ve dreamed about them.”
Along with my pussy, and my breasts, it seems.
She didn’t speak, but she edged the hem of her skirt up her thighs, inch by inch. He’d told her to, after all, and even if a passing motorist got an eyeful, it could be attributed to inadvertent creep of the fabric, not a deliberate act.
Patrick scored a quick glance, then bit his lip, looking pleased as punch with her.
Again, they drove on for a while, in companionable yet dynamic silence. Miranda had never felt this excited and needy in her life before, even after hours of diligent foreplay by previous lovers. It was a state of peaceful desperation. High lust, but almost restful, too.
He’s going to fuck me. And touch me. And do things to me. It’ll make things hellishly complicated and awkward back at work, but I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!
* * *
Eventually, they pulled up in front of a timber-built cottage, the last one in a small row, built alongside a lazy, leafy canal bank. They were clearly holiday homes, but Miranda could see no sign of life in any of them. Maybe they were weekend occupancy, and stood empty in the middle of the working week?
“It belongs to my gran. She likes to come here for little breaks, and she lends it to anyone in the family who wants a few days peace and quiet,” said Patrick conversationally, nodding toward the blue painted door of the quaint little structure. “No one’s here now, though…it’s all ours. We have total privacy.”
Total privacy. What did that mean? Miranda shuddered, not afraid, more excited.
“Come on. Let’s go inside.”
She nodded, her heart racing as he leapt of the Citroën. Shoving at her skirt, she caught the top of one of her stockings and it slithered down her thigh. She was still hitching at it when the passenger door swung open.
“Let me…”
The contact of Patrick’s fingers on her bare skin was like a jolt of sweet energy barreling through her. Kneeling beside the seat, he smoothed the lace up her thigh again, deftly righting it, then slid his hand beneath the hem of her skirt for just a moment, touching the soft hair at her crotch and brushing his thumb over it.
Miranda moaned. His touch was fleeting, barely there, and yet her clitoris leapt and her sex rippled as if he’d been fondling and fondling her and almost brought her to the point of orgasm. Maybe he had brought her to it, just with words, with his glances, and with his presence.
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