I let out a sigh of relief, but he doesn't immediately return to his task. "So you're close, hmm? Again?" He leans in close, nipping at the soft skin by the crease of my thigh. "It would be fun to tease you, like you teased me earlier. Do you know how long I spent talking myself down from that? I didn't want to jerk off. I wanted to save it for you. And I did, eventually. But I had to stroke it a few times. I had to. Even though I knew it would be almost impossible to stop, I couldn't help myself." He sighs. "But you're such a good girl, asking permission, it's not fair to make you wait any longer."
I moan, my inner muscles contracting just at the thought of him with his fist clenched around his cock, forcing himself to stop. Then his mouth is on me again, and I tumble into ecstasy.
He makes it seem so easy. It would be infuriating, if it wasn't so wonderful.
"I love the look on your face when you can't tell where I am," he says, his voice delectably sex-roughened. "But I miss seeing your eyes."
With that, he unties the makeshift blindfold, letting it slither to the floor. I blink a few times, and when I open my eyes all the way, he's lying on the bed.
"Climb on," he says, with a halfway grin.
With my hands bound, my balance is thrown off more than it usually would be, in the afterglow. I focus on climbing up, straddling him, and his hands on my hips steady me. His cock slides in like it was meant to be there. I sigh, almost forgetting that he's getting a damn good view of me from the least flattering angle possible. But he clearly loves it. As much as he's trying to keep on a stern Dom Face, probably the way he imagines Dirk looks while he's getting fucked, he can't quite erase the edges of a smile. That I can't believe this woman's really on top of me right now smile. That I'd be high-fiving myself in a mirror right now, if there was one handy smile.
"What so funny?" he wants to know, gripping my thighs so his fingers sink into the soft flesh.
"Nothing." I want to lean down and kiss him, but with my hands tied in front of me, I can't figure out how to work it. "You look smug."
"You're goddamn right I'm smug," he sighs, his hips arching to meet me. "Took me five years to crack this one. I've got the right to be."
I laugh. He hasn't actually been trying to fuck me for five years, has he? I would have noticed. Surely.
"I love the way you come for me," he says, suddenly. Seriously. "Almost on command. You know I always dreamed of training a woman to do that? Ever since I found out it was a thing. But you're at least seventy percent there."
"It's just with you, you know," I tell him, because it seems pointless to pretend otherwise.
"I know," he half-whispers. "I can tell by the look on your face. Every time, it's like it surprises you."
With a little grin, his fingers find the spot where we're joined. Touching me just the way I want. Just the way I need.
We hit that peak almost at the same time, bodies undulating, almost laughing a little, at ourselves - at each other. He unfastens the belt, and I lean forward, letting my hair brush against him. He makes a face as it tickles his nose.
Our fingers intertwine, like our bodies are determined to be as close as possible, even if our hearts and minds are still stubborn as hell.
And for right now, I'm tired of fighting.
Chapter Eleven
One thing I failed to notice, when I went over the schedule, was that the big send-off party at the conference had a theme. A costume theme.
I'm staring at it now.
The infographic looks like something out of Boogie Nights, and it says 80's Prom Night in big neon letters.
"I think they got some wires crossed here," I point out. "This is clearly a '70s design. Also, a bunch of writers don't know where the fucking apostrophe goes."
Adrian shrugs, picking at the fruit salad that came with his room service breakfast. "I think it officially goes before the S now," he says. "Language is a living, breathing thing, you know."
"You would smack my ass so hard if I let that slip by in one of your letters." I laugh at him. "If you're not going to eat the fruit, stop poking at it. I'll finish it."
"Fine." He pushes the dish across the little table. "So is that an official thing, now? I can spank you at work?"
I grin at him, taking a bite of cantaloupe. "You're my boss, Mr. Risinger. You can do whatever you want."
He lets out a noise that's half-laugh, half-groan. "I'll end up arrested if you keep saying things like that. We both will."
"Don't be ridiculous. It's private property." I lick my lips. "You could send everybody home and fuck me in every single floor, every single room of that building, and not a law in the land could touch you."
He raises his eyebrows slightly. "And once again, having too much money just robs me of all the usual thrills in life." Moving lightning-fast, he snatches a grape out of my hand and pops it in his mouth. "What's the fun of having sex at work if you can't get in trouble for it?"
I'm giggling. "Uh, there's still a lot of fun. But okay. Fair enough."
"I should spank whoever came up with this fucking '80s prom theme," he grumbles.
My eyes snap to his. "Don't you dare."
He smiles, grabbing a piece of pineapple. "I like it when you get jealous, you know."
"Now, suddenly, you want the fruit?" I push the bowl back across the table. "Ugh. Just take it."
"Only because you wanted it," he says. "I hear there's a thrift shop down the street. Might still have something, if we hit it early."
"We're not seriously going, are we?" I'm already preemptively bored and irritated at the thought. "I mean, come on. '80s Prom?"
Adrian shrugs. "Everyone else is going to be there. All the cool kids. Come on - it'll be fun. I'll help you find something really hideous, lots of ruffles."
"They won't have anything in my size."
He rolls his eyes. "You can't possibly know that, until you try it on."
***
I'm flipping through the racks at the thrift shop, which is crawling with conference attendees who didn't prepare for the party either. Pickings are slim. Adrian finds a powder blue tuxedo in about six point three seconds, and of course it fits perfectly, and I don't want to admit how good it actually looks on him.
"Great," I tell him, when he models it for me. "You look exactly like Marky Mark in Boogie Nights."
"Well, I don't fill it out quite as well," he says, glancing in the mirror. "But thanks anyway."
I shrug. "Anyone can do that with a prosthetic. You're all natural. Be proud."
Finding something for me is a little more difficult, as I imagined. Adrian's hanging by, just close enough to snark, but not close enough to actually help me look.
"So do you only like big girls? Or what?" I don't know why I'm asking this question. I don't know why I want to find out, except that maybe if it's some weird fetish thing, I'd rather not be involved. But it's clearly too late for that.
He licks his thumb and pages through the massive booklet we were given in our welcome bags. "Not only," he says. "Just mostly. Why do you care? It's not like it's unusual. Surely you're aware of that."
"It's unusual for people to be this secure about it," I tell him. "And this unapologetic."
"Why should I apologize?" He lets his eyes wander over my body. "Although, I will say it's difficult at first. When I was a teenager, I thought there was something wrong with me. Eventually I just realized it's the rest of the world that goes through these bizarre phases of obsession with different body types on women - society's the crazy one, not me."
"Wow, that's an inspiring story." I pull something hideous and lavender-colored off the rack. "You should get Macklemore to write a song about it."
Adrian snickers. "That's it. You found it. It's perfect."
"Really?" Glancing at it, I can tell it's roughly the right size. I hold it up next to his tuxedo. "We're going to look like a pastel nightmare."
"It's like I said." He smiles. "Perfect."
***
Despite Adrian's repe
ated insistence, I do not feather my hair. However, I do pull it into a sideways ponytail before we walk into the party.
I don't want to be here. I want to be with him, in his room, where I have in fact "moved my stuff" because I've given up on pretending. I want us to spend our last few hours together at this conference in each other's arms, because I have a a feeling when we get home, everything is going to change.
It's not exactly a question I can ask. If this was supposed to just be an out-of-town fling, I'm not going to be the dork who acts like I've been planning our wedding. But now that we've gone this far, I can't imagine backtracking. How can I just return to our usual thing, when I've spent the last week memorizing every inch of his skin?
"This mix seems very Prince-heavy," Adrian comments, as we wait for the bartender. Right on cue, "When Doves Cry" thuds to a stop.
I shrug. "It makes sense, thematically. Every Prince song is about sex."
"Every song is about sex."
"That's ridiculous." I pick up my beer. "You're ridiculous. What about this one?" I glance up at the ceiling, indicating the ballad that's currently taking over the speakers.
He snorts. "Are you kidding? 'Take My Breath Away?' It might as well be called 'Make Me Come.'"
"I'm pretty sure I still breathe when I'm having an orgasm."
Adrian raises an eyebrow. "I've had my doubts." He reaches for my beer, and I almost successfully dodge him, but I don't want to spill it. Setting both of our drink down on the table, he takes my hand.
"Come on. It's not a prom if we don't dance."
My heartbeat quickens, even though I'm pretty sure he just wants to outdo that cover model. Most people here are dancing solo, or sock-hope-style with their friends. But Adrian, of course, knows how to dance.
With his hand on my waist, he leads me around the room, and I don't know what kind of dance this is but I clearly don't need to.
"You're good at this," I murmur, because clearly what he needs is another ego stroke.
"I know." He's very close to me, and he smells like thrift shop, and that's got to be the first time that's ever been true of Adrian Risinger. But I lean in closer, anyway. "I've had lessons."
"Really? I just figured you were naturally a genius at everything."
"Yeah, I've got everybody fooled. I'm going to dip you. Just hold on."
Before I have a chance to protest, he does. The head rush if spectacular, and as he pulls me back upright, I hear a few people tittering and clapping quietly.
"To impress the kind of people I need to impress, you've got to leave the impression that you popped out of the womb sounding like Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross," he says, with a grin. "We all know it's not true, that it can't be true, but it's a shared delusion we all participate in. Learning how to do something isn't sexy. Knowing how to do it is."
The song ends, and my head's still spinning. I don't really want to examine why.
"I'm gonna sit down for a while," I tell him, and he follows me.
Something seems to have subdued him, and he sits quietly with his drink while I scan the room. Izzy's managed to bend the ear of some big-deal agent, so I'm not going to blow up her scene.
"I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," I comment, glancing around the room again. "It's just an iPod and a bartender with a one-free-drink limit. Not exactly my idea of a party."
Adrian sets his glass down. "Well, it probably helps if you already know all these people. There are convention cliques. They hang out at every conference and plan out their coordinating costumes and who knows what the fuck else."
He knows about this, I realize, because of Kara. She's the one who's kept him informed about all of this stuff, and I kind of hate the idea of him looking to her for guidance.
"I used to always try and start a game of truth or dare at boring parties," I comment. "Probably not a good idea here, though."
"I'm game," says Adrian, smiling again.
"Ugh, no. Definitely not."
"Come on." His foot nudges mine under the able. "Keep it PG-13 for the benefit of the other guests."
"Okay. Fine. I dare you to tell me one weird-as-fuck thing about yourself that will make me do this face." I give him the best impression of my own what the fuck, Mr. Risinger? expression. Over the years, I've perfected it, but it's hard to do on cue.
"Fine." He grins. "I only fuck in hotels."
I blink a few times. "You mean, only when you're out of town?"
"God no." He frowns at me. "I mean, if I'm going to have sex with someone who doesn't want to host, I get a hotel room. They don't come back to my place. I don't think it's that odd, but I've gotten some reactions before."
Shrugging, I pick up my drink. "Well, you probably have a lot of valuable shit. Don't want some stranger in there while you'll sleeping. That doesn't seem too weird to me."
"That's not why, though," he says. "It's not about them spending the night. No one except me, my housekeepers, and a few very select people have even seen the inside of my bedroom. I like it that way." He shrugs. "Sleep better. Do I get the look yet?"
I'm laughing now. "Honestly, this is getting kind of creepy. If I'd known how much you want the look, I never would have offered it in the first place. Want me to tell you what a bad boy you've been, too?"
"Oh, I think you know my tastes don't run in that direction." He leans across the table slightly. "I don't know if this has caught your attention yet, Natalie, but we happen to be in a hotel right now."
"Yeah, and you're wearing a powder-blue tuxedo." I smirk at him. "Pass."
"I will astonish you with how quickly I can make it disappear," he says. "Promise."
Suddenly, I feel a distinct presence. Glancing towards the doorway, I see Kara drifting into the room. She's wearing leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt - Flashdance, I realize belatedly as she gets closer. Not exactly 80's prom, but I'll give her points for effort.
She gives us both a look, and then slides into the chair next to Adrian's. He glances at her sidelong, but doesn't say anything.
"Having fun?"
The question is clearly directed at me.
"Yeah, thanks," I tell her. No idea what I'm supposed to say, but that seems good enough.
"I hope we're getting some networking done," she says. "That is why we're here, after all."
Adrian sighs a little. "I told you, there's nobody here who can give me a push that I don't already have."
"You're wrong." Kara's shaking her head, and my jaw drops. I've never heard anyone talk to Adrian that bluntly - except maybe me. "The old publishing structure is dying out. You've seen the pricing disputes. We need to court all the influential bloggers. The top reviewers on Goodreads. They're the ones who can sustain us through any kind of behind-the-scenes changes. The publishing arm of Risinger is already the redheaded stepchild - I don't have to tell you that."
"Yes, but I can keep it going," he says, stubbornly. "That's my prerogative."
"You've already lost twenty percent of your authors this year to self-publishing," Kara says. "How much collective bargaining do you think you'll really have, when it's just you and a tired old backlist nobody wants?"
A heavy silence reigns.
"I'm sorry if I was supposed to be doing something and I didn't," I interject, softly. "I've been trying to talk to people…"
Kara makes an irritated gesture, hushing me. "It's not your fault. You didn't know. He was supposed to give you the down-low while I worked other angles, but I have a feeling he's been busy with something else."
Her eyes flick between us, like she's trying to ferret out whether her assumption is correct.
"Kara." Adrian's voice has a warning - a subtle one, but I can hear it, and I'm sure she can too. "I've got thirty business cards in my suitcase already. Natalie's made some new friends. This has been a productive trip, and if you don't agree, I'm sorry. But it's a bit late to do anything about it now."
"Well if you're just going to sit here playing
footsie, then I'm not even sure why you're at the party at all." Kara stands up, bristling. "Why don't you head back to your room and continue the important work you've been spending all your time on?"
"Kara." Adrian's eyes turn to stone. "Stop it."
"Sorry," she says, not looking sorry at all. "I'll withhold my advice until it's more welcome."
As she disappears, I look at Adrian with my eyebrows raised. "You still think she's not jealous?"
He lets out a little humorless laugh. "Maybe a little."
"Maybe a lot."
"I knew things would get complicated once you were involved," he admits. "I guess I just didn't realize how complicated."
I'm not sure if he's really talking to me. "Complicated. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be complicated."
"I know you don't," he says. "Complicated's not bad. It's just…complicated."
Chapter Twelve
Complicated.
I'm complicated.
When we get back from the party, I start drifting around Adrian's room, gathering my belongings. He reminds me I can pack in the morning, that the jet will wait for us, because of course it will. But I tell him I need to unwind. What I really need is to get away from him for a minute, to clear my head, but here I am, with my stuff in his room. Everything. Including my toothbrush.
I wonder if the maids notice my bed hasn't been slept in. I wonder if they care.
"I'm just going to make sure I didn't leave anything behind," I tell him, walking through the connecting door. He nods.
I close it, and I walk into the middle of my empty room and stare at nothing.
The chair's still by the sliding glass door, where I left it. My striptease certainly had the desired effect, but what was my long play? Do I really want something ongoing with Adrian Fucking Risinger?
Really, I can't believe I've let my hormones get the best of me like this. I should know better. There's no good outcome here, though…is there?
Why did I walk into the pool?
If we leave all of this behind in Austin, if we go back home pretending it never happened, I'll be devastated. But if we carry on…what'll happen then?
His Secretary: Undone Page 13
