His Secretary: Undone

by Melanie Marchande

  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 slightly, 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 m
y 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.

  "You know if you actually dock my paychecks, I'll go to the labor board." I swallow down the lump in my throat, forcefully.

  "Ah, but you won't." He grins. "Because if you go and do a spiteful thing like that, I'll never put my tongue anywhere near your beautiful pussy again. And trust me, that'll hurt me more than it hurts you." He kisses me hard and fast this time, and although I part my lips, he doesn't deepen it before pulling away. "Now, are you going to behave yourself?"

  "Probably not." I reach for his belt buckle. "We've got two hours before my panel, think you can teach me a lesson by then?"

  Dodging my grasp, he stands up. "You know, if I were a cruel man, I'd spend every moment of that time devouring you, but never letting you come. Bringing you right to the edge, and then back again. And I'd make you do your panel appearance as a sopping, incoherent mess. But lucky for you, I'm not."

  I swallow hard, my fingers twitching with the need to touch him. But he's heading for the door.

  "Wait," I plead, but he's already turning the handle.

  "Sorry, Ms. Burns. You'll have to live with only having me once this morning. I trust you'll endure."

  "But…"

  The door slams.

  I pick up the phone and punch his room number in, angrily.

  "Adrian Risinger speaking."

  "Get your ass over here!" I shout down the receiver.

  There's a moment of silence.

  "Sorry, who is this?"

  I throw the phone at the wall.

  Chapter Ten

  It's like my college literature classes, all over again.

  "What do you think, Natalie?"

  I clear my throat. "Well, you know, it's important to distinguish between fantasy and reality when it comes to this stuff. Most readers, and do pay attention to the operative word there, want to read about the kind of guy they can't have in real life. Not because he's inaccessible, but because he'd be a terrible partner in real life. So you create this fantasy of the controlling bad boy who becomes something else, during the course of the story - but without losing his teeth. He knows exactly when to be pushy, and exactly when to back off."

  I am completely talking out of my ass. The last time I was this full of shit, I was using my memory of a Wishbone episode to convince my professor I'd actually read The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Don't ask me why the fuck The Legend of Sleepy Hollow was in a college curriculum in the first place, but thank God for small mercies.

  The audience member at the microphone pipes up. "But don't you think things are changing? Is the age of the bad boy on its way out? I keep seeing more and more people talking about how they want to read about nice guys."

  Someone coughs.

  Izzy glances down the row of panelists. "Anybody have any thoughts on that?"

  "Well," I hear myself pipe up, "I think of course there's always going to be room for something different. But it's not like alpha bad boys are some new phenomenon. That don't-give-a-shit attitude, pardon my French, always has been and always will be sexy. It telegraphs power and control. It sends the message that he's a man who will fight for you, and stand by you, even if the rest of the world turns on you. And if he wants something, he'll go after it. If you look at those few popular books that do feature nice guys, they still have those qualities. They're just a little bit softer around the edges."

  "Great point," says Izzy. "We're just about running out of time, I think we can take one more question."

  I look up, just in time to see Adrian - who's appeared out of nowhere - sweet-talking the next woman in line into handing him the microphone.

  Oh, for fuck's sake.

  "I'm curious about the billionaire phenomenon," he says, locking eyes with me. "I see a lot of readers saying they're tired of billionaires and they just want to read about regular guys, to the point where they'll avoid anything that has "billionaire" in the title or description. Have we reached the point where it's more of a harm than a help?"

  Izzy glances at me, like she's wondering if I planted him. I shake my head a little.

  "Well," she says, "not to call on you again, Natalie, but you are the billionaire romance expert here. What do you think?"

  I shrug. "Plenty of books have billionaires, they just don't put it out there. I guess you could argue in some cases it's better to be subtle about it now, but the tropes still apply. They're powerful, but they're isolated. A bit weird, at best. 'Eccentric' is just weird with money, as we all know."

  The audience titters.

  "We just found a new word for it. Today, Mr. Darcy would be a billionaire. All those dukes and lairds and roguish princes from the old Harlequins - same deal. They snap their fingers, you come."

  Adrian smirks.

  "But I think the readership is still there," I go on, ignoring him - even as a deep blush spreads across my chest. "You can't please everybody all of the time, but the billionaire readers aren't going anywhere."

  He's still smiling at me.

  Izzy announces the end of the panel, and we all get a round of applause. I can see Adrian making his way up to me, and before I can stand up, he lays a hand on my shoulder. It would look friendly to anyone else, maybe bordering on intimate, but I can feel the power and control that it signifies.

  "A bit weird, am I?" he murmurs.

  "You better believe it," I tell him, without looking up. "I think I want to go to that serials workshop, for the last session. Unless you had other plans."

  "Go ahead," he says. "I'm heading back to the room for a bit. Have to make a few phone calls."

  I'm irritated, but I don't show it. I no longer feel out of my element, and the sour taste in the back of my mouth from implicitly lying to all of these people has started to fade. After all, he hired me to do it. It's not like I stole someone's identity.

  I wonder who he needs to call, that's so important. Kara has been noticeably absent from our big events. I'm glad for it, so I haven't questioned wh
y, but he always has a sour expression on his face when he's just been talking to her. I wonder if she's heard about my panties. I was worried when I first walked into the room, but so far, nobody's mentioned anything, or even given me a sly look. Maybe the cover models did something really crazy after I left, and eclipsed the whole thing.

  Normally I'd be upset to miss it, but I can't say I regret my decision to let Adrian drag me back to his room.

  No, not by a long shot.

  ***

  The serial workshop turns into a terminal bore, so I sneak out the back and return to my own room. Adrian said he needed to make a phone call, after all, so I figured I'll let him have his privacy. Anyway, I'm not sure exactly how much he wants me hanging around when we're not either fucking or sleeping. Kicking my shoes off, I throw the curtains open to let some light in. I wonder if Adrian's discovered his balcony. A quick peek out the glass tells me yes, he has.

  One hand has his phone glued to his ear, and the other is resting on the railing as he looks out over the city. I watch him for a minute before I start to feel creepy again, and return to flop down on my bed.

  He could easily walk over and see me. I'm not sure if he's realized yet that he can. A wicked idea starts to grow in the back of my mind, and the more I try to suppress it, the more it grows. I sit up on the bed and peer out again. He's still there, more or less where I left him. But maybe he's a bit closer - or is that just my imagination?

  Smiling to myself, I drag a chair over from the corner and situate it right in front of my doors. If he turns around, he'll see me lounging there. I pop a few of the buttons on my blouse and let my legs splay open, a little more than is proper for this skirt.