Bad Boss: A Steamy Romantic Comedy

by Liv Lane

  I should do the honorable thing and back away. Like he asked me to—so she doesn’t feel the need to enter presentations at the last minute to avoid speaking to me. I’m pretty sure Andrew’s still suspicious. He wasn’t subtle on Monday morning when he told me not to go there.

  Then I went and fucked her on this table, and I know I won’t be able to help myself from doing it again.

  My attention returns to the meeting as Rex is wrapping up.

  All in all, it’s an excellent presentation. I have a few questions, most are answered easily by the team, and there are a couple of points that they will need to take away and work through.

  The room begins to empty, and I can see Emma eying my file.

  I should give her the book back and put her out of her misery.

  But I’m not going to.

  She’s torn. The need to demand it back warring against the need to flee the room. For a woman who’s so addicted to dirty-girl porn books that she needs to bring one to work, she’s doing an impressive job of faking embarrassment. I still can’t get the image of her sitting on the train reading this while nearby mothers cover the eyes of their innocent young lest they be corrupted by the naked male flesh on the cover.

  “Emma, I’d like to see you in my office, please.”

  Her mouth hangs open before she remembers to shut it.

  This whole experience since I met her has been refreshingly fun.

  So much fun.

  When have I ever had ‘fun’ with a woman that wasn’t the naked kind? Never is the answer. I date women, I enjoy women, and I have done a great job of learning as little as possible about them.

  Somewhere along the way, I’ve gotten jaded. Asking a woman questions leads to them thinking we have a relationship.

  Yeah, I really am a dick.

  “I—” She turns toward Andrew, who is giving me a death glare and a slow shake of his head.

  “I’ll send her down shortly, Andrew,” I say, cutting both of them off.

  Andrew isn’t happy, but I dare say he senses I’m resolved to this course of action, so he stalks out the door.

  Then the door is closing, and we’re finally alone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TODAY HAS BEEN one long nightmare, and it is only ten AM. I’m standing in Matt’s office like a wayward pupil hauled to the principal’s office. I was an exemplary student as a child; seriously, they used to sit the naughty kids next to me, hoping my behavior would rub off.

  I’m wondering where this is going, and whether he’s going to give me the book back now, or have the discussion we might have had yesterday had I not fled the scene.

  “There are rules against this kind of thing in the office,” he says.

  So, it’s the ‘book’ talk and not the ‘I screwed you in the boardroom’ talk. That presentation was an exercise in torture before the book fell out of my bag and onto the floor.

  He has the book in his hand now, handling it with a casual disregard that’s making me nervous. What if the door opens and Susan decides to pop in? My eyes don’t know where to settle and play ping-pong between his stern face, the book, and the closed door that I’m expecting to burst open at any moment so someone else can witness my demise.

  He slaps it on his desk. I jump and realize I’ve not been paying attention to what he’s saying. A long tapered finger rests over Jacob’s ripped torso.

  I swallow as I meet his censorious gaze. “Rules?” I stammer. I’m confident there was nothing in my contract expressly forbidding personal reading material in the office. Then I remember the cover and how it might be considered to objectify men, and I’m suddenly confident I’ve violated a dozen HR policies with a single biker romance book.

  “You will need to be—disciplined,” he says, his gaze turning predatory.

  I swear we’re having two different conversations, and I don’t understand either of them. That word, discipline, from Matt’s lips, is making me feel a little tingly, and my panties are definitely getting wet.

  I think he’s joking. This is like when Betty teases me, and I realize how ridiculous her statement is once my brain catches up. His lips tug up on one side in a sexy smirk that confirms he’s joking.

  “Yes, Emma, I’m going to need to discipline you.” His smile drops. “Lock the door.”

  Ohmygod! He isn’t joking!

  I bite my lip and cut a glance between the door and Matt.

  I remember Charlotte getting ‘disciplined’ in chapter twelve, and damn that scene was hot.

  The air in the room has taken on an electric charge, an invisible thread connecting the two of us. My pussy throbs and my breasts become heavy.

  I always thought sensuality was about the connection and the touch, but I suffer a sudden epiphany that much more of it is in the mind. Maybe all of it... How is it possible to be aroused so wholly and deeply by mere words?

  They aren’t just any words, though, they’re Matt’s words, spoken to me, and they carry both a promise and a threat. He makes no mention of how he’ll discipline me, but I can see he has a plan, and this knowledge is scorching hot.

  I shiver. I think I’m more aroused at this moment than I’ve ever been in my life, which is impressive given how explosive our last encounter was.

  “Do you want to leave, Emma?”

  These words polarize his last, a feather where the previous was a hammer battering my will. It’s like a switch taking pressure away in an instant. He doesn’t move, and yet I feel the disconnect of his strong presence. He’s watching me, and he’s not forcing me.

  I think I’m falling in love with this aspect of him, the way he has of giving me space and time. I don’t want either. I want everything he has to offer me now.

  This is it.

  My opportunity to enact a fantasy right here in an office while people are working on the other side of a door.

  I don’t overthink it. I walk over and flick the lock before returning to his desk.

  At his soft curse, my eyes fly to meet his. He wasn’t sure of my commitment to this, but now he is, and unmasked hunger shines.

  His fingers touch my hair, lightly, then they fist it, and his mouth is on mine. The kiss is searing. I open to it, feeling my stomach dip like I’m falling. When he stops, our ragged breaths mingle.

  Rubbing the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, he leans once more to press his mouth to mine.

  “If you want me to stop, just tell me to stop, Emma.”

  I nod, and a lump of emotion too raw and intense to understand, settles in my throat. Matt is a big man, many times stronger than me, and holds power in his very presence that could easily overwhelm me. Yet, I have never felt so safe with a person before. The power is like a baton being handled with care, passed back and forth between us. When he holds it, I’m his captive, but this measured pause for verification—to confirm—has a beauty of its own.

  When he takes me to the low couch, I’m confused. His fingers shackle my wrist as he points at his lap. “Over you go.”

  What? Is he joking?

  No, this is real. This is happening.

  This is his discipline of choice. This is what he was thinking about, putting me over his lap and spanking me…like Mitch did to Charlotte at the end of chapter twelve.

  I’m so wet, I can’t deny the thought of this, of being over his lap while he spanks my bottom, excites me wildly.

  He gives my wrist a gentle tug, encouraging me to follow his command. Desire darkens his eyes. He wants this too, wants to put his hands on me in this way, to feel me squirming and gasping under his stinging blows.

  He waits, the baton is once more in my hands, but I don’t want it or need it. I trust him, more than I think I’ve trusted another person in my life.

  As I settle into position, I feel very small.

  His hand rests over my ass, and he gives a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Emma,” he says, and this admission, along with the feel of his hand smoothing over me, brings an unexpected sensation of peace.<
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  The moment of peace is broken when he tugs my skirt up. There is nothing gentle in this. His fingers are rough and impatient, and as soon as my ass is exposed, he rips my panties down.

  “I could get addicted to putting my hands on your ass.” He sounds like he’s in pain, and I delight in being the cause. “Have you been spanked before?”

  Oh god, why would he ask me that?

  I gasp when his palm connects with the right cheek; the clap of flesh meeting flesh sounds unbearably loud. My eyes flash toward the locked door—I’m praying the barrier muffles the sounds.

  “Answer me,” he demands.

  “I—no, never.” Not even as a child. I’ve always been exceptionally well behaved. I can’t begin to understand why the idea of being disciplined is exciting me so much.

  I think he groans, but it’s quiet, so I can’t be sure.

  “I’ll keep it light, but it’s discipline, so it’s supposed to hurt, understand?”

  I nod, face pressed into the soft leather of the couch, my hands are screwed up into little fists to either side of my face.

  He slaps my left ass cheek. “Use the words, not a nod when you answer.”

  His voice is stern, and I fear that I might embarrass myself and come.

  “You’re going to keep your hands there while I spank you. Ten times, but if you move, I’ll start the count again. After, you’ll be getting on your knees and learning how to suck my cock. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you come after.” His fingers stroke over my stinging bottom, and I’m sure I’m about to combust from the heat rushing through my blood. “You want to be my good girl, don’t you, Emma?”

  I nod, then realizing my mistake I stammer a quick, “Yes.”

  His laughter instills a sense of warmth; he’s enjoying this. His warmth spills into me, settling in the pit of my stomach.

  Then his hand moves away…and reconnects with a thunderous slap.

  This is nothing like the first two smacks, which were almost playful. This stings—a lot.

  “Count for me, baby.”

  Count? I’m still reeling from the blow, and from his endearment, but I stammer out the word.

  When his hand lands again, I forget all about what he said, and I’m trying to get up, to block further blows.

  “Hands back where they were or tell me to stop.” His voice has a whip-like quality to it that shocks me back to the moment. My bottom is stinging, but that’s a minor consideration. I feel hot like someone set fire to my blood.

  “Do you need me to hold your hands out of the way?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  I’m over his lap, exposed, vulnerable, and so aroused I can barely see straight.

  He gathers my hands, shackling both my wrists within his larger hand against the couch above my head. Instinctively, I try to pull them away. A long moan escapes my lips when his hold doesn’t give.

  “Let’s start again,” he says, that rich voice setting a flutter low in my belly. “And don’t forget to count.”

  The blows come sharp and fast. I count, clinging to those rising numbers like a beacon on a dark night.

  When it’s done, I’m a hot wriggling mess of need and confusion.

  “Good girl. It’s over now.” He doesn’t release my wrists, but his other hand pets and pinches my burning ass. “Open for me.” I react without thought and part my thighs so his fingers can trace along the seam. I’m so wet, and I hear his tut as he discovers this. My entire focus is centered on those fingers sliding through my slick folds. They leave a trail of throbbing nerves in their wake. Back and forth, over and over. Rimming the entrance to my pussy slowly, before sinking a thick finger in.

  I’m lost, and his touch grounds me. The need to come consumes me, a growing ache that turns into desperation.

  Fingers withdraw, and I’m gripped by the arm and directed to the floor.

  I’m disorientated and pulsing with the need for more of his touch.

  His cock strains the material of his pants when he stands, and I feel so small and needy kneeling at his feet. He seems god-like, staring down at me. His hands are on his buckle, easing it open and the zipper down. Groaning as he takes his cock in his hand and begins to pump.

  “This might get…rough,” Matt says, and I’m so mesmerized by his cock, all I do is nod.

  Taking the back of my head in one hand, he draws the tip of his cock against my lips with the other. I open, running my tongue over the thick ridge.

  Tipping his head back, he groans. I have never seen a more glorious sight. I’m doing this to him—I want to do more, to make him come so hard he forgets who he is.

  His eyes lower to meet mine, so dark and intent that a frisson of fear unfurls in my core. He takes my face in both his hands, the touch oh-so gentle, the tip of his cock jerking inside my mouth. Then he surges deep.

  My hands fly to his wrists—I need an anchor. I can’t breathe, his cock fills my mouth and throat. As my panic flutters, he pulls almost out.

  Shock weighs me down. We stare at one another, while the palpable threat of what he will do next hangs between us. His hand braces my face, and his cock fills the entrance to my mouth.

  Strength, domination, power.

  He wants to do it again, to choke me, but he’s waiting—once again.

  The swipe of my tongue over the leaking tip is all it takes, and I snatch in air before he plugs my throat again.

  “Ah fuck,” he mutters, as his face contorts in ecstasy.

  Face caged between his big hands, he uses me for his pleasure. Fucking my mouth with the same brutality that he used my pussy yesterday. I choke and gag around the thick invasion, and use my tongue as best I can to show him I want more.

  Spit leaks around my lips—I am ravaged, and he fills every corner of my awareness. The rhythmic surge and withdraw, the snatched breaths, and the hoarse sounds that fill the air.

  It’s a raw, sensual feast; I’m the food, and he’s gorging upon me.

  “Fuck. Christ, that’s so good. I’m going to come.” His words are desperation and rapture, and are exquisite music to my ears.

  He comes. His cock is so deep down my throat that I don’t have a choice but to swallow.

  His moan of pleasure is liquid heat pouring into my womb.

  Eyes never leaving mine, he withdraws slowly. His thumb shakes as it skims over my cheek and swollen lips. “That was insane,” he says, and I can only agree. I’m a mess, saliva dampens my chin, but he doesn’t care, and his lips take mine in a kiss that steals the last of my breath.

  He puts himself away, and like a spell lifting, I remember where I am. I’m wondering what to do with myself when he picks me up and carries me to the bathroom. Here he sits me on a wide vanity unit, opposite a shower. The bathroom walls are a smoky-brown marble and the light subtle everywhere except over me.

  Dampening a cloth, he wipes my face with a gentle touch. When he’s done, I lower my head, feeling his study.

  “You okay?” he asks. His fingers tip my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

  “Yes,” I say, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay again. He has the power to destroy me. He’s addictive, everything about him is addictive, and my whole body thrums with a desperate need.

  I rub my thighs together, and his gaze lowers—he knows. My skirt is bunched around my hips. I’ve no idea where my panties are.

  I watch his hands slide from my knees to the apex of my thighs, and I shift parting them for him.

  “You want me to make you come, Emma?”

  His voice is low, and his focus absolute as he slips his fingers through my wet folds.

  I suck a sharp breath as his finger penetrates me and begins to slowly pump. “Yes.”

  Palming my throat with his other hand, he pushes me roughly against the mirrored wall.

  My pussy spasms as his lips take mine.

  His fingers pump wetly in and out. His lips drug me, and the warmth of his fingers against my throat adds to the sensation overload. Shifting
, he presses me deeper against the wall, as the pad of his thumb finds my clit swiping over it with every thrust.

  I come. There is no build-up, no warning. The pleasure rockets from blissful to sublime in an instant.

  He swallows up my wild moans that I cannot hope to contain.

  My body trembles, and my fingers clutch his wrist because I can’t take anymore.

  He breaks the kiss, and his forehead presses to mine. “You’re hot as fuck when you come,” he growls and presses a chaste kiss to my temple.

  Somehow I put myself back together after that tsunami. He’s gentle with me, helping me straighten out my clothes…to find my lost panties. My face is still a little flushed, and my lips are swollen, but unless someone stares, I think I will pass.

  Outside I’m calm and collected, inside I’m a stormy sea.

  I’m at the door when I remember the book, which is impressive given how much the damn thing has been plaguing me. “Can I have the book now?” I ask.

  He gives his head a slow shake, and his grin is wicked enough to send heat licking through my core.

  “How much have you read?” He begins flipping through the pages, sparing a brief glance for me.

  “Ah—none,” I say, and his head snaps up. “My neighbor’s a care worker, and reading biker romance is her vice. She’s taken it upon herself to share them with me as she finishes them.” I take a moment to compose myself, strangely, my confession feels worse than telling him I read them all the time. “I don’t normally read them. I—keep them for a bit, and then I hand them back. I prefer thrillers, but I’d run out of books, and it was sitting there so I—” He’s staring at me intently and it’s making me nervous. “I started reading…and it was actually very compelling.” My face heats to supernova levels, but my rambling mouth is in charge. “I was late for work this morning…I—ah—didn’t sleep very well. And I bumped into her as I was leaving. She was insistent that I should have the book…and I didn’t have time to take it back to my apartment.”