His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection)

by Melanie Marchande

  “What?” He frowns at me, his arms still wrapped around my waist. “You’re telling me you haven’t fantasized about this? I’ve seen the way you look at me when I lick envelopes.”

  “You have never, not once in your life, sealed a piece of outgoing mail,” I protest, almost forgetting to be anxious while I laugh at him. “I always do that for you, remember?”

  “Oh. Right. Maybe that was my fantasy.” His mouth curls up into a wicked grin. “We’ll get to that later.”

  Heart pounding, I stare at the bed. “Maybe I should…”

  “Hmm?” His lips make their way down my neck, to my shoulder, pushing the borrowed shirt out of the way. “Maybe you should lie down and get comfortable.”

  “Take a shower first, is what I was going to say,” I admit.

  He shakes his head, still kissing his way down my body. “Please don’t. I want to taste you, not hotel soap.”

  Taking my hand, he sits down on the edge of the bed, guiding me forward until I’m kneeling on the mattress, straddling him. His teeth graze along the sensitive skin of my breasts, and my nipples pucker sharply. I’ve never been particularly sensitive there, but now they’re begging for his touch.

  “So responsive,” he murmurs, running his thumb in a circle around one of them. He smiles. “Are you always this excitable?”

  I shake my head.

  “Can’t hear you,” he whispers, moments before suckling me into his mouth. I moan softly, clutching his shoulders.

  “No,” I exhale, my eyes falling closed. “Just with you.”

  He releases my nipple with a soft pop. “Just with me,” he says. “Well, well, well.”

  When he blows a puff of air on my still-moist skin, I gasp.

  While he gives the same treatment to the other breast, I try to focus on calming my heartbeat so I don’t shatter to pieces. It feels like a very real possibility. His hands run lightly up and down my back, and he makes a soft, contented noise.

  “This is nice,” he rumbles, when he releases me. “Remind me how much I like this, next time I get insufferable at work.”

  I’m giggling, in spite of myself. “You know that means the next time you raise your voice to me, I’m just going to whip my tits out and shove them in your face.”

  “That sounds terrible.” He nuzzles between them, sighing. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  With a sudden movement, he flips me over so I’m sprawled on my back. I’m laughing, then he kisses his way down my stomach and I’m not laughing anymore.

  He situates himself off to the side, so we’re perpendicular to each other, and I must give him a weird look because he says: “Trust me.”

  I do, somehow, so I just lie back with my head on the pillows. Relaxing.

  Not for long, though.

  His tongue swipes across me from side to side, and my whole body arches off the bed. I curse, clutching the sheets, and stare at him.

  “Told you,” he says, before dedicating himself to his task.

  I can’t speak. I can’t think. Why has no one told me about this before? Has someone alerted the media? People need to know. I’m squirming and thrashing, moaning, and if I had the capacity to wonder anything anymore, I’d wonder why such a minor change in angle could change absolutely everything.

  I sort of hate the way my orgasms just fall out of me, when Adrian’s around. I feel like he should have to work for them. He, of all people, does not need one more reason to think he’s the world’s biggest stud.

  But I can’t control it. I’m coming, I’m shouting his name, my heart’s seizing up with pleasure and I might actually die. Probably will die. It’ll be worth it.

  Nope. Still alive.

  I open one eye, and then the other, experimentally. He’s standing up, and he’s grabbing my hand to pull along. He doesn’t want me sitting on the mattress, of course, no. He wants me kneeling.

  Well, that’s fine with me.

  The post-climax eagerness makes me fumble at his zipper before he even gets there, pulling him out and sighing at how fucking good it looks. I want to say beautiful, but I think he’ll be offended. I want to taste him so badly, so I do.

  He gasps, fingers gripping my hair. His hips twitch and I can tell he’s putting in a massive effort to hold himself back, because all he wants to do is fuck my face senseless.

  As much as that idea appeals to me on a primal level, I want to be in control of this. For once, I’ve got him by the short hairs. Almost literally.

  His voice is low and gravelly, traveling straight through me with a palpable warmth. “I always thought the first time you sucked me off, you’d be under my desk.”

  I feel like I should be offended by this. But I’m not. I’m so fucking far from offended, we’re not even in the same area code.

  Pulling back with a soft pop, I stroke him with my hand while I talk. “You thought about this a lot?”

  “Every fucking day.” His eyes darkened. “Does that bother you, princess?”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m feeling pretty damn bothered right now, Mr. Risinger.”

  I rock back on my heels, looking up at him. He’s impatient to get back in my mouth, but he’s not demanding. Not yet.

  “I just gave you the best orgasm of your life, and you’re hungry for more already?” He licks his lips, a shudder running through his whole body as I lean forward and kiss his tip. “God damn, Meg, I never had you pegged for a shameless -”

  Leaning forward, I swallow him down to the hilt, and his last word is lost in a groan.

  He’s never called me Meg before.

  I’m forcing myself not to read too much into this. It’s just sex. It’s just incredibly hot, incredibly emotionally charged sex with the man I’ve been loving to hate for the past five years of my life.

  But it’s just sex.

  I pull back for long enough to say: “Keep talking. Tell me how you pictured it.” Then I’m back to my task, and his eyes are protesting that I’m not the one who gives orders around here, but then I’m swirling my tongue just right and he does what I ask.

  “Laundry day,” he sighs, and for a second I’m confused. Then he goes on: “So you wear something to work you wouldn’t normally, something you think’s too small, or too sexy, it really hugs your curves. The top button on your shirt keeps popping open and showing too much cleavage, and when you bend over the skirt rides up on your ass, and it’s definitely not workplace appropriate. So I call you into my…mmm. My office, and…”

  I’m marveling at the complexity of the backstory. I never would’ve guessed he was so imaginative.

  Once again, I’ve momentarily forgotten he’s a writer.

  “…and…” He’s lost his train of thought, eyes unfocused. It’s a struggle for him to return to the story, but he does. “And you’re so embarrassed at first, but of course there’s a tiny part of you that’s flattered that I noticed. I tell you that your outfit’s caused a big problem and it’s your responsibility to solve it now. You say of course, anything, just hoping you’ll keep your job and you won’t get written up or anything. That’s when I roll out my chair and I tell you…” His breaths are coming hard and fast now, but he keeps it going. “…I tell you…to come around and kneel. I’m unzipping and now you know what’s going on, but you’re drooling for it now even though it’s so wrong, so you don’t say no. You just do it. You suck my cock like your job depends on it.”

  He draws in a sharp breath. “Fuck. I’m almost there. You do it. You kneel under my desk and suck while the rest of the office walks by and has no idea what’s happening. Meg, I’m gonna…” He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, body tensing, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. “I’m gonna come,” he manages, finally, groaning around the word. “You ready for me, baby?”

  Fuck if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

  I answer him in the only way I know how, by grabbing his ass and pulling him deeper.

  He floods my mouth, and his knees buckle sl
ightly, and for a second I think I might actually take him down. That would be a fucking sight to behold. But he recovers, grabbing into my shoulder for balance.

  When his eyes open, he licks his lips, and smiles.

  I release him slowly, and he shudders as my tongue slides along the over-sensitized head. “Next time I’ll have you sit down, so you don’t hurt yourself,” I tell him, smiling cheekily.

  “Hmm. Keep on looking so smug. You’ve got my come on the side of your mouth.” He takes my hand and hoists me to my feet, then catches the spill with his thumb and pushes it between my lips. My teeth have dug into them and left little raw spots, and my tongue is tired, but I suck happily nonetheless, letting my eyes fall closed as a soft, pleased sound vibrates in my throat.

  “Christ,” he mutters. “You love this, don’t you?”

  I nod. No point in denying it. “Now you know,” I say softly, when he withdraws his thumb.

  “You know, I think I’m going to take full advantage of this.” He strokes my hair back from my face. “Every day, I’m going to call you into my office first thing. But not to bring me coffee - to get on your knees under my desk. Start the morning right.”

  “Okay.” I know it’s just a fantasy, or at least, I’m pretty sure it is. But hell, I’d do it. That’s the effect he has on me. “But my technique’s only mediocre at best when I haven’t just had a great orgasm. It’s not intentional, but I’m afraid you’ll notice the difference.”

  “Oh, so I’ve got to hoist you up on my desk and devour you first? What a hardship.” He smirks. “That might get tricky, though. I’ll have to find something to gag you with.”

  I laugh at him. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  I walk into Adrian’s bathroom, stopping at the sink and staring. When I was in here earlier, my eyes were still blurry with sleep and I must have missed an important detail: namely, that there are now two toothbrushes sitting on the counter.

  And one of them looks decidedly familiar.

  I stand there, stock-still, for a few moments.

  “Adrian?”

  He walks over, pausing a few feet from the doorway. “What?”

  “Did you bring my toothbrush in here?”

  I can see his reflection in the mirror, fighting back a smile. “I want you to know it’s physically paining me not to give you a sarcastic response to that question.”

  Whirling around, I glare at him. My gut reaction is irrational, there’s no doubt about that, but then again, this is Adrian Risinger we’re talking about. Give him an inch, or, you know, about eight inches or so, and he’ll take a fucking mile.

  “Don’t touch my stuff.”

  His eyebrows go up, a fraction of an inch. “You didn’t mind me touching your stuff earlier.”

  “Wait. The connecting door was locked.” I stare at him. “I distinctly remember that.”

  “Was,” he agrees. “But you also had your key in your pocket.” He gestures at my pile of discarded clothes.

  I blink a few times. “Wow. Okay. I know this is going to be tough for you, because you’re so rich nobody’s ever called you on this shit, but down here in the real world, that is extremely fucking creepy.”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets, taking a step back. “You know, you’re so beautiful when you’re angry.”

  “Oh, my God.” Rolling my eyes, I grab the toothbrush and make my way to the connecting door. “I’ll see you at the afternoon sessions, Adrian.”

  He follows me to the doorway, sliding his foot in when I open it, so that I can’t just slam it behind me. I do consider it, but I’m not that cruel.

  Yet.

  “I just thought it would be more convenient, that’s all,” he says. “Also, don’t you want your clothes?”

  He’s got to be fucking kidding. But, nope, my bags aren’t where I left them either.

  “Kindly put all of my belongings back where you found them, Mr. Risinger.” I stalk into my bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. The nerve.

  I mean, I was going to spend the night with him. And every night for the rest of the conference.

  But that’s not the point.

  When I get out of the shower, there’s a room service tray sitting on my bed. A little note’s scrawled on the hotel stationery, tucked under the plate.

  Mea culpa, darling. Mea maxima culpa.

  - Mr. R

  My bags are exactly where I left them, to the point where I wonder if he took Polaroids for reference. I lift up the metal lid on the plate, and my nose twitches.

  It’s a massive helping of biscuits and gravy, and I know I shouldn’t, but my mouth’s watering before I even take a bite.

  I pick up the bedside phone and punch in the room number adjacent to mine.

  “What are you wearing?” Adrian asks, in that low, dulcet tone.

  “How’d you know?” My mouth is full of biscuit, but it hardly matters. “It’s my favorite.”

  “You’re a southern girl. I took a wild guess. They don’t serve anything with grits, believe it or not, so there weren’t a lot of options.”

  I swallow a mouthful, and smile. “I am not.”

  “Sure you are. But that drawl only comes out when you’re very angry.”

  I laugh, because of course he’s right. I tried to leave as much of my old life behind as I could, coming to New York. And not just because I hated the way people talked about my accent, how it was cute, and adorable, and very much not the kind of accent that you take seriously.

  “Of course, what really betrayed you was the first time I told you my coffee had too much sugar in it, and to go and get another cup.” He’s smirking at the memory, the asshole.

  “Told,” I echo. “More like ordered. Like a drill sergeant.”

  “Uh huh,” he says. “Potato, potahto. Point is, you set that coffee down on my desk and managed to get in a bless your heart before you walked out the door. That’s when I really knew.” There’s real warmth in his voice, and it goes straight to my chest. Or maybe that’s the gravy. “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

  “Bless your heart.” I take a sip of my orange juice. “I’m going to gain thirty pounds on this trip, and it’s going to be your fault.”

  “Hmm.” He’s very close to the door, and I can almost hear his voice through the crack, as well as through the phone. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure you’ll wear it very well.”

  I set my fork down. “Well, you’re obviously not very picky.”

  At that, the phone suddenly disconnects, and the connecting door pops open. I didn’t lock it, of course, and I knew I didn’t lock it, but it’s still a surprise. I clutch my robe around my chest, for some reason. “I could’ve been naked, you know.”

  “Oh, how awkward that would have been,” Adrian says, dryly, striding into the room. He sits down on the bed, jostling the tray as he does, and I grab my orange juice with a frown. “I have a new policy. Every time you make a negative comment about your own appearance, I’m docking your paycheck.”

  “You have called me a hag,” I point out, one eyebrow raised. “On multiple occasions.”

  “Yes, well, you’re obviously not a hag, are you?” he counters, impatiently. “That’s a joke. That’s different.”

  “Wow,” I say, drawing out the word as long and sarcastically as possible. “That’s some hard-hitting satire, my friend.” I take a sip of my orange juice. “The implication, of course, being that while I’m not a hag, I am fat.”

  His eyes darken. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll turn you over my knee again.”

  “It’s not a dirty word, Adrian. Relax.” I set my juice down on the bedside table. “I don’t really need your help with my body image, thanks, I’ve got it all under control.”

  “Not picky,” he says, fixing me with a gaze that won’t let me look away. “Those were your exact words, Meghan. Don’t pretend like you didn’t mean what you meant.”

 
I just shrug. I really, really don’t want to have this conversation with him.

  “I’ll have you know,” he says, sliding over slightly to close some of the distance between us, “I’m actually very picky. I don’t just toss my dick at anything that crosses my path. You run into a lot of trouble that way.”

  “So you like big girls.” I shrug. “What do you want, a round of applause?”

  I’m being incredibly fucking bitter right now, and while he certainly deserves it in general, he doesn’t really deserve it right now. Not in this particular case. He’s actually trying to be nice, but that’s more unnerving than the alternative. It’s true, he’s never poked fun at my weight. I’ve never thought to wonder why, until now.

  “I like women,” he says. “All sorts of women. Confident women. Smart women. Sharp-tongued women. Women who know how to manage difficult men.” He reaches forward, catching my chin with his finger, gently lifting my face higher. “And yes, voluptuous women. At the moment I’m particularly intrigued by one woman who embodies all of those qualities, yet insists on calling herself names and then pretending that she isn’t.” He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “You’re right, it’s not a dirty word. Except when it is. Which is most of the time. I can see the cloud pass over your face when you say it.”

  I can’t argue with him, as much as I want to. I’ve come to terms with my body, I’ve learned to love my curves, I’ve cranked “All About That Bass” and followed all the body-positive Facebook pages. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do, but yes, the word still echoes in the back of my head, not as a schoolyard taunt, but something much worse.

  You’re going to have enough trouble finding a husband with that poison tongue of yours, now you’re getting fat on top of everything else?

  I only want what’s best for you, Meghan…

  No daughter of mine should be shopping in the plus-size department.