A Valentine for His Secretary (His Secretary: Undone)

by Melanie Marchande

  "But I think they know," he goes on. "Don't you? It's so primal. It's impossible to miss. You wear my scent on you like a brand. We're always connected, no matter what happens. And someday..." He inhales sharply. "Someday, maybe...there will be visible proof."

  I know exactly what he means. I've had the same thought, and found it just too strange to voice. By the way, I love the fact that your sperm and my eggs are co-existing for a little while inside my body, even if my birth control pills are having a hell of a time busting up the party. It really means a lot to me. Hallmark doesn't make a card for that.

  Laughing softly, I fight the urge to open my eyes. "Are you trying to make knocking me up sound erotic, Mr. Risinger?"

  Swiftly, he smacks my ass - with his bare hand, this, time, the way I like. I make an embarrassingly pleased sound.

  "Trying and succeeding," he shoots back. "You know why I got you these shoes?"

  I bite back a smile. "Because they make my legs look fantastic?"

  "Also because it puts you at a better height for this."

  And just like that, his cock is nudging at my entrance. Gasping, I instinctively widen my stance, mindful of not losing my balance. With my arms bound it's difficult, but his embrace holds me steady.

  "Open your eyes," he whispers. "And keep them open."

  I do.

  He's slightly hunkered down to get the right angle, but only slightly. I watch the muscles in his legs clench and tremble, watch his hard length disappear inside me, inch by inch.

  Oh yeah - it bears mentioning that he's naked now.

  And he fucks me like that, gentle and slow, his fingers returning to the place where we're joined, touching me just right. I feel myself start to clench and I try to stop it, choking out an apology as he works his magic.

  "Stop." His voice rumbles straight through his chest and into my bound arms, my back, my heart. "I know you can't help it, love."

  And that's when something inside me cracks. I can't even begin to explain it, but as I start to come, some overwhelming, pent-up emotion bursts the surface and I cry. Just like that, as my body quivers with pleasure, hot tears start to slide down my cheeks. He pauses just slightly in his movements to lock his eyes with mine, an unspoken question.

  "Don't stop," I beg him, and miraculously, he doesn't.

  I watch him, blinking the tears away as they come, wanting to see his face change as he loses control. When he comes, he bites my shoulder, and I shudder from head to toe.

  He pulls away then, and I'm left there standing, every muscle tense and sore, wetness trickling down my legs, tears streaked across my face. With one swift movement, he literally sweeps me off of my feet.

  It's only so he can deposit me gently on the bed, lying on my side, so he can make short work of the ropes. But still. He's never picked me up before, not like that. Like I weighed nothing at all.

  My arms released, I go completely boneless on the sheets. He climbs in after me and settles in, playing the big spoon like he does so well.

  "Meg?" His tone is soft and recognizably Ryn, and I melt even more. His voice hums against my ear, so that I almost feel the words more than I hear them. "Good tears, yes?"

  "Yeah," I whisper, grasping his hand where it rests on my stomach. I hate crying after sex, mostly because it seems like something boss-Adrian would've mercilessly mocked me for. It's bizarre, but I hate the idea that he's somehow censoring himself now, to try and deal with my delicate feelings.

  I suppose I hate it because it makes me feel like an inconvenience. Like eventually, he'll get sick of me. The mask will slip.

  But now, for the first time, I realize what I should've known all along. This is real. The rest was an act. It came naturally enough, and it was easier than risking the pain of allowing himself to care. Watching him slip back into that role, like a well-tailored suit, makes the truth so obvious.

  "God, I love you," he sighs. "But sometimes I miss seeing that fire in your eyes."

  I laugh softly, the tears starting to dissipate. "You'll always be able to piss me off. Don't worry."

  "Yeah, but not like before." His teeth graze my earlobe, and I shudder. "It's fucked up that I miss it, right?"

  "Yeah. Get your head examined, Risinger." I twine my fingers with his, holding on tight. "I really need a shower, you know that?"

  "Hmm," he chuckles. "You do reek of sex."

  "Wonder why."

  For a while, all I hear is the ticking of the clock in the corner.

  "Listen, that thing about..." I clear my throat. How on earth do you ask so, does the fact that your dirty-talk includes getting me pregnant mean that you see a serious future for us together? "...I mean, you know. Were you...?"

  "Might have to be a little more specific," he says. "Also, I have to be honest, I thought you were going to be lot angrier about the scavenger hunt."

  Truth is? I sort of forgot about it. But I can't just reinforce the idea that it's so imminently possible to distract me with sex, so I just make a non-committal noise. "It fits. I don't know why I would've expected anything but a massive troll from the likes of you."

  "Indeed," he says. "To wit, I know exactly what you're asking me about. I'm just very conscious of the fact that there's many more potential wrong answers than right ones."

  "Then just tell me the truth," I insist.

  "The truth is I can't imagine my life without you." He's silent for a moment, his lips just resting against my cheek. "That's all I know for sure. The truth is, I had five years' lead time in the realm of having feelings for you, and I realize that's creepy enough already without leaving you with the impression that I've been planning our wedding since our second date."

  More and more, I'm beginning to realize how much I really did care for him, back then. I didn't see it at the time, of course. I couldn't put a name to it. But the rift between us back then wasn't as big as he imagines.

  "Okay." One last band of tension in my chest slowly releases, and I close my eyes. "You know I think I've been in love with you since that time in my apartment. When we pulled the all-nighter working on those proposals for the board and you made me drink whiskey with pickle juice."

  "Made you," he repeats. "I dared you, that's something entirely different."

  "You try refusing a dare from your boss," I shoot back. "Anyway, when we were standing by the door I had this weird feeling like you were going to kiss me."

  He lets out a small, bewildered laugh. "I almost did. Can you imagine?"

  "I would have been confused," I admit. "But I like to think I would've warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. I mean, I was pretty drunk and delirious from a lack of sleep."

  "That's why I couldn't do it," he says. "But I don't know if you would have been half as confused as I was, in the pool."

  "Really?" I giggle. "That whole thing wasn't specifically orchestrated to seduce me?"

  "My hand to God," he says. "I was born this hot. It's not my fault if I can't have a little swim without women exploding in clouds of sexual frustration."

  "That's actually kind of embarrassing, you know. Now I feel like I took advantage of you." I'm joking, mostly, although it's a little humiliating to imagine that I completely blindsided him with my sudden, raging horniness.

  "Trust me." He kisses my temple lightly. "When you grabbed my hand and put it - just, right there on your tits, it was by far the best thing that had happened to me in at least a decade."

  I snort. "Don't call them that."

  "What, tits? Would you prefer boobs? I'm not twelve."

  Sighing, I stroke my thumb against his. "Fine. But now I'm kind of curious what happened in the last decade that was so great."

  "Absolutely not," he says, firmly. "I'm not falling into that trap."

  "You're no fun," I pout.

  "Right." He chuckles. "No fun at all. It's all work and no play with me, isn't it?"

  "Come on," I needle him. "What was it? Losing your virginity to...I'm going to guess a drama club girl who wore a lot
of tights with holes in them, and ended up dumping you for the captain of the football team? A pool party with Torrid models? Come on. I promise I won't hold it against you."

  He's rolling his eyes at me. I don't have to look at him to know that. "You know I'm going to make you pay for this tomorrow."

  "Yeah, that's Tomorrow Meg's problem." I still feel a little giddy, and a lot in love.

  "So it is." He rolls over, just enough to look at the clock. "Are you hungry?"

  I suddenly realize that I really, really am. "I could eat," I reply casually, as my stomach growls. "But a shower first, probably."

  "You go on," he says. "I'll call room service. What sounds good?"

  "Anything," I say, dreamily, as I start to prop myself up on the bed. "Everything. Valentine's Day stuff. Steaks, chocolate, strawberries, champagne. Make it happen for me, Mr. Billionaire."

  "Sure," he says, grinning. "But I feel obligated to inform you that none of those things cost a billion dollars."

  "The fact that you even know that is kind of ruining the fantasy for me," I inform him. "Are you even a real billionaire?"

  "You caught me," he says, flipping open the menu. "What gave it away?"

  "The fact that you do your own laundry, mostly," I tell him. "Also the fact that you're looking at a menu instead of just demanding whatever you want."

  With a sigh, he stands up, stabbing a few buttons on the phone and picking up the receiver. "Yeah. Room 605. Send up a strip steak and a ribeye, both medium rare, with mashed potatoes and asparagus on the side, a dozen chocolate-covered strawberries, and the most expensive champagne you can get ahold of in the next twenty minutes. Just knock and leave them outside the door. I swear to God if the asparagus is limp I'll have everyone in this place fired. All right?"

  I'm just barely stifling my laughter when he hangs up.

  "How's that?" He comes over to me swiftly, his arm surrounding me and pressing me against him for an all-too-brief kiss. "Demanding enough for you?"

  "It's nice to know you can still be a dick," I tell him, and I actually mean it. God only knows why.

  "Especially if you put me up to it," he says. "Now get a move on, Ms. Burns. Shower. Your naked body's not going to ogle itself, and I'm running out of patience."

  Laughing, I walk into the bathroom, with him hot on my heels. "I'm already naked, have you not noticed?"

  "Yeah, but wet, soapy naked is a whole different class of naked. Here. I'll demonstrate." Reaching past me to turn on the taps, he very deliberately brushes his body against mine. "But I'll have to make it quick. I'd hate to let the steaks sit too long and get to medium. I'd have to fire the whole management chain."

  I just shake my head at him. "Sorry, you were saying something about wet, soapy naked?"

  "Oh, well if you wanted me to put on a show, all you had to do was ask." He steps under the water and reaches for the bar of soap. "But this is probably going to be more fun if you join me."

  "If I join you, it's going to take a lot longer than twenty minutes." But I step in, all the same.

  My once and former boss, hair plastered down from the rivulets of water cascading down his maddeningly perfect body, holds out the bar of soap and winks. He actually fucking winks at me.

  "Lather up," he says.

  And that's exactly what I do.

  ***

  Thanks for reading! Melanie Marchande is a New York Times bestselling author who loves creating fun, flirty, and occasionally steamy stories about two people realizing they just can't live without each other. If you'd like to read more from her, please leave a review letting her know what you liked about the book so she knows what to write next.

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  For the beginning of Meg and Adrian's story, pick up her New York Times bestselling romance novel:

  His Secretary: Undone

  I'm about to throw an ashtray at my boss's head.

  Turns out, the mind behind my favorite, steamy romance novels...the ones I only read in private...the ones that are my only escape after a long day of dealing with The Boss From Hell? It's not Natalie McBride, the sweet, rural housewife.

  It's him.

  That's right: my boss, Adrian Risinger, the thirty-three-year-old, maddeningly sexy, pissant billionaire "bad boy" who thinks he runs my life. He is also the author of all my deepest, most secret fantasies. And to make matters worse, he needs me to impersonate "Natalie" at a series of book signings and conventions. But, of course, that's only if I want to keep my job.

  On second thought, I'm going to need something heavier than an ashtray.

  Read it now!