His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please, Book 3)

by Ward, Deena

  He ran his palms up my stomach, then slid his hands under the remains of my bra, covering my breasts, sending the lacy fabric down past the sides of my chest. I arched up into his hold.

  His hands traveled over my breasts, down my sides, under my back. One hand lifted me while the other pulled my bra out from under me.

  Dangling the ruined garment before my face, he cocked an eyebrow at me. Then he took the scissors, and starting at the bottom of the hanging fabric, snipped off about a three-inch-long piece. Then another piece. Then another, until my bra lay in a pile of small pieces on my chest.

  All the safety pins in the city wouldn’t be able to put that humpty-dumpty bra back together again.

  He piled the pieces into a neat stack, then leaned forward, laying the pile on the corner of my desk. He settled back down on my thighs and began toying with my nipples, running one finger over each hard peak, back and forth, back and forth.

  I said, “I can’t believe you did that. I’m a professional, you know. I can’t be walking around the office without a bra.”

  “Then you should have taken it off when you had the chance.”

  “Quit acting like I’m a welsher. I would have taken it off,” I said, though it was hard to think straight with his fingers on my nipples.

  “If you say so. It’s inconsequential now.”

  He pinched my nipples, squeezing gently at first, then harder, then gentle again. I panted, couldn’t look away from what he was doing.

  He spread his hands over my breasts, dug his fingers into my flesh, squeezed until I gasped. Then he returned to tormenting my nipples with meaner, nastier pinches. I writhed underneath him, trying to move my hips, but got nowhere under his weight.

  On and on it went, driving me wilder and wilder. I moaned softly, never so far gone that I forgot I was in my office, that I had to restrain myself.

  I closed my eyes, as Gibson worked his magic on me, an enchantment of non-stop pulses of pain and pleasure. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to never end.

  But it did end, eventually. One moment he was pulling on my nipples and the next moment he wasn’t touching me at all.

  I opened my eyes, looked at him. I was panting. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  How perfectly Gibson that was. It frustrated me that he could make me so crazy while he remained detached. I glanced down at his groin and was appeased to see a clear sign of his arousal. The outline of his cock pushed against the fabric of his slacks. Good. There was that, at least.

  He met my gaze. Maybe there was a glimmer in those dark eyes, a glimmer of something, maybe. He held my gaze as he rose up a bit, moved backwards, pushed my legs apart and kneeled between my thighs.

  My breath caught in my throat. I watched his face as his hand slipped under my lacy panties, I felt a pull, heard a ...

  Snip!

  What the hell? My head snapped up and I stared down at myself. The bastard had cut clean through one side of my panties.

  Snip!

  He cut the other side of my panties, then yanked them out from underneath me and dangled them in front of me like some kind of demented trophy.

  It took everything I had not to yell. I gritted my teeth, then said, “I cannot believe you just did that!”

  He proceeded to cut the ruined thing into small pieces, the same way he did with my bra.

  He said, “This is for the rude way you dismissed me Friday night.”

  “Oh! My! God! You’re a lunatic. Seriously? Do you think I’ve got spare sets of underwear stashed in the back of my desk or something? I’m at work.”

  He tidied up the pile of white lace on my stomach, then set them next to the other scrap pile on my desk. “I don’t think that. I’m counting on you not having spares.”

  “You think this is funny, don’t you?”

  He said, “No. I think it’s sexy.” His hand drifted over my mound, skimmed between my legs, his fingers sliding into my folds, gliding easily from the moisture he found there. He watched his handiwork, and said, “And obviously so do you.”

  I sucked in a breath when he pushed a finger inside me. So hard to concentrate with him doing that. I said, “You completely ruined my stuff. Lingerie doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

  He appeared unconcerned. “How much could that have cost? A hundred dollars or so? It’s nothing.”

  I thought, try twenty-five bucks for the set at the outlet mall, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  I said, “Nothing to you, Mr. Gates. And that’s the second pair of my panties that you’ve trashed.”

  He slid a second finger inside me and I held back a moan.

  He glanced up at me, a look of mild surprise on his face. “That’s right. The night I met you. Except I had to tear that pair off of you. They were blue, I think.”

  Were they blue? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t think. His fingers were moving inside me, doing things fingers shouldn’t be able to do. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to him.

  So good. So good, the feel of him inside me, the quick thrusts, the twist and grind. Ahh. Do it again. And he did. Over and over.

  He said, “Look at me.”

  I raised my head and looked into his dark eyes as he lowered his head and licked across my mound. I shuddered. Held his gaze when he teased me with his tongue and when he closed his lips over my swollen clit, nearly cried out loud when his tongue drew tiny circles around and around. So warm, so wet.

  And his fingers moved inside me. My skin was on fire, and I knew that in a few minutes I would come.

  I whispered, “Please.”

  He gave a small shake of his head. Kept up with the torment on my clit, inside my pussy.

  I tried again. Spread my legs as wide as they would go, laid myself as open as I could, made my invitation unequivocal. I looked into his eyes and said, “Please.”

  He made a low sound deep in the back of his throat. Then he rose up between my legs, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket hanging on the chair next to him, pulled out his wallet, dug out a small package, a condom, I knew. Yes. Thank you.

  Then his pants were undone and around his knees and I was staring at a truly magnificent cock, hard and long, with satiny skin I wanted to stroke, a huge head that he hid too soon under the thin rubber sheath.

  He lowered himself onto me, guided himself against the opening of my pussy, and I wrapped my legs around him. I wanted him inside me now. Do it now, I thought. Now.

  He held most of his weight on his elbows, but he leaned down over my face, kissed me, captured my mouth with his own. I tasted myself on him and it was fine. Then he pushed inside of me, nudging further and further, deeper inside me until he shoved all the way to the hilt.

  I cried out into his mouth, knowing he was muffling the sound, knowing he had everything in hand. And he pulled out of my pussy then drove his cock back inside me. Once. Twice. Oh God, it was too good. Too perfect.

  One more time ... and I came. My body shuddered and quivered under the onslaught of pleasure, every nerve ending alive and pulsing. On and on it went, and he never stopped kissing me, never stopped moving inside me. So good. So long.

  When the height of my orgasm faded away, and my cries dwindled to tiny whimpers, Gibson kissed his way across my cheek, then down to my neck, nuzzling me, up to my ear, his breath warm, his lips moist, his tongue wet on my skin.

  He settled his weight on me as he reached up past my head, released me from the leg of my desk, but left my arms bound at the wrist. His dick buried in my pussy, he deftly rolled us onto our sides, then on over, reversing our positions so that now I lay on top of him.

  I sat up, straddled his hips, pressed my hands against his chest for leverage, and began to ride him, slowly. His hands held my hips and assisted my lifts, cushioned my descents.

  I was washed in the wonder of how perfectly he filled me, how he was the tiniest bit too much for me, a smidgen too wide, a fraction too long, all the better to stretch me.

  I loved seeing
my bound hands on his chest, how powerful he felt under my fingers, the silky fabric of the dangling remainder of his tie a splash of color that draped across the tanned skin of his firm stomach.

  I took my time, took my pleasure, until I was moving faster without thinking about it, that familiar pressure growing inside of me again, taking me higher and higher, building and building. Gibson’s fingers were buried in the flesh of my hips, and he breathed hard, like me, getting closer.

  Then he rose up, wrapped his arms around me, and again he flipped us over, me on my back and him between my legs. He closed his mouth over mine, and pistoned his hips against my pussy. His groin ground into my mound, agitating my clitoris. He was so deep inside. So deep.

  And I came again, harder than before, louder than before, and I didn’t care if anyone heard. Gibson pumped into me, swallowed my cries as I shivered and shook underneath him, as my bound arms dug into the back of his neck and mashed him hard against me.

  Then he stiffened, drove into me once, twice, a third time. And he came. His body shuddered all over. I thrilled inside. So good. Too good.

  When the best of it passed, and the aftershocks still spasmed through my clit, Gibson collapsed on top of me. He was heavy, but it was a sweet weight. We panted and huffed together, his heartbeat quick on top of mine.

  He didn’t remain on me for long. Shortly, he pushed himself up onto his knees, raised me up into a seated position, then took his suit jacket off the chair and wrapped it around me. He untied my hands, rubbed my wrists, checked them front and back. When he finished and let go of my hands, I pulled his jacket tighter around myself, enjoying the burst of spicy scent that rose from the collar.

  I sat there like a dumb thing while he removed his condom and wrapped it in a handkerchief after he wiped himself off, then considerately stowed it all away in his pants pocket once he had his pants done up.

  Then he sat down on the floor, his back leaning against my desk, and pulled me onto his lap, cradling me in his arms, my head tucked under his chin, one of his hands slowly and gently stroking the length of my calf.

  I could have drifted off to sleep right then and there. I wasn’t thinking about how I was at work, that we had been closed up in my office for a long time now.

  I didn’t think ... not until my phone rang.

  I jerked upright, instantly alert. Holy crap. I leapt off Gibson’s lap and sprung for my phone, took a split second to calm myself, then picked up the receiver.

  It was Stephanie, the receptionist. “Hey, Nonnie. They were just wondering how much longer you might be with Mr. Reeves. They’re waiting on him for a meeting with sales.”

  I said, “Hang on, I’ll check.”

  I grinned down at Gibson. “Are we about finished, Mr. Reeves? Have you seen everything you wanted to see?”

  He shook his head, a definite “no,” and smiled. He said, “Tell them I’ll be with them in a few minutes.”

  I gave Stephanie the message then hung up.

  I tossed Gibson’s jacket back over the chair. “I don’t think I have anything left that you haven’t seen.”

  He stood up then said, “I can think of a few things. Turn around.”

  I did, looking back over my shoulder at him.

  He glanced at my ass then back up to me. “That’s one.”

  He moved in behind me, cupped my butt cheeks in his big hands, then turned his palms so that his fingers pushed into my crack and spread my cheeks apart, his fingers pressing just outside the bounds of my puckered hole.

  He said, “There’s another.”

  My breath hitched.

  He said, “But I don’t have enough time for a thorough inspection of that today. Unfortunately.” Then he gave my ass one last squeeze before he stepped away from me.

  I turned around and smiled at him. I probably looked all daffy and mussed as hell, but I didn’t care. A couple of incredible orgasms can do that to a woman.

  He tossed me my clothes while he went to work on his shirt.

  What with having no underclothes, it didn’t take me long to get dressed. I gathered up the two little piles which were all that remained of my panties and bra and shoved them into my purse. I found my shoes and put them on.

  I stood there, trying to smooth my clothes, staring down at my chest, all of my earlier silly happiness being dampened by the chagrin of having a pair of ridiculously hard nipples.

  I said, “Look what you’ve done. It’s completely obvious that I’m not wearing a bra.”

  He didn’t even glance over at me, his focus on smoothing out the wrinkles in his tie. “I know.”

  I poked at one my nipples. “Go down, damn you.”

  He gave a brief laugh. I thought, wow, two in one day.

  “That won’t help,” he said.

  I sighed.

  He said, “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about whether or not it’s windy outside.”

  On instinct, I flattened my hands against the sides of my skirt. I hadn’t thought about wind. Why hadn’t I worn a heavier skirt today? Well, at least this one wasn’t very short, reaching right around my knees. Wait. My knees. Were they redder than usual?

  Well, hell. That scratchy carpeting had roughed up my knees when I was on top of Gibson. Wasn’t that terrific?

  I sat down behind my desk and said to Gibson, “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  I watched him finish buttoning his jacket, pushing his hair back into place with a casual flip or two. I was thoroughly disgruntled that he looked as put together as he did when he first walked into my office. How had he gotten the wrinkles out of his tie?

  I patted my hair. A tangled mess, especially in the back. I dug my brush out of my purse, and went to work detangling my hair. When I finished, I had one last thought. I found the small perfume atomizer I always carried. A few quick squirts to cover Gibson’s scent on me, and I was as ready for prime time as I could get for now.

  I looked at Gibson, who apparently had been standing there watching me futz around with myself.

  He came around my desk, leaned down to me.

  I said, “I kind of don’t want to kiss you right now.”

  He didn’t reply, simply cupped my face gently in his large hands, bent down and kissed me softly, with one tickling sweep of his tongue across my lips before he left me.

  He headed off, pausing briefly to put my chairs back in order before opening my door. He stopped just over the threshold, turned back to me.

  He said in a clear, carrying voice, “Thank you, Miss Crawford. You’ve been most helpful.”

  I said, my voice polite but my face stern, “You’re welcome, Mr. Reeves.”

  He turned around and strolled away.

  As soon as he was gone, I opened one of the bottom drawers of my desk. I pulled out a sweater I kept on the off chance I might get cold. It didn’t compliment my outfit, but who cared. I quickly pulled it on and buttoned up the front.

  I looked down at my chest and when I saw how well it camouflaged my braless boobs, I thought, “Thank you, baggy old sweater.” I could still kind of see my nipples, but at least it wasn’t so obvious anymore.

  The rest of the afternoon dragged by, and with the steady flow of people coming in and out of my office spreading the latest gossip or seeking reassurances that the gossip was or was not true, I didn’t get much accomplished.

  The sweater was too warm, but there was no way I’d remove it. My nipples were a terrible distraction as well. Gibson’s rough handling had left them super-sensitive to the tiniest stimulation. Every movement, every brush of fabric set them to tingling, aching, standing up all perky again. Ugh. It was awful. Awfully bad and awfully good.

  And I was pretty sure that was exactly how Gibson meant it to be.

  I didn’t see him again, only heard from others when he and his team left the building. I hadn’t expected a second goodbye.

  When it was finally quitting time, I was thrilled to discover that it was not, in fact, windy outside, and I
managed to get home without any unfortunate incidents. Once I was safely inside my apartment, I ripped off the hot sweater and dropped on my sofa.

  What a day. A very, very long day.

  I hadn’t lain there ten minutes when a knock sounded on my door.

  I thought, hell, what now? Someone come to tell me I was being audited by the IRS? My car had been stolen? Someone wanted to share stories about his personal savior?

  I heaved myself off the couch and went to the door. I kept the swing bar in place and opened the door a crack.

  A young man waved a package at me. He said, “Delivery for Nonnie Crawford.”

  Okay then. I’d open my door for a package.

  After I signed the kid’s papers and was settled back onto my sofa, I tore the brown wrapping off the package.

  It was a pale pink box, with fancy script on the top, spelling out the name of a French boutique I had never been inside, but had passed on my occasional window-shopping excursions downtown.

  I opened the box, pulled back the tissue paper. Well now. Nestled in the paper were the most exquisite pink lace panties and bra I’d ever seen. I almost didn’t want to touch them, they were so delicate and pristine.

  I gently lifted the panties out of the box. They were so soft, so light, and the pattern of the lacework was beyond intricate. Beautiful. And they were high-cut bikini style, the way I liked my panties, not an irritating thong.

  I held up the bra. Also beautiful. Exquisite. I could tell it would fit perfectly.

  Definitely not a twenty-five buck set from the outlet mall.

  I shuffled through the paper in the box, looking for a card. No card. Oh well. It wasn’t like I didn’t know who sent it.

  I was surprised, though, to find another layer under the paper. And another pair of panties. Blue silk panties. I smiled.

  I didn’t want to be pleased. I wanted to stay at least partially disgruntled with Gibson for leaving me at work with no underclothes. But it was hard to stay annoyed when I was holding the most gorgeous lingerie I’d ever owned.

  I tried, “Hey, he did owe you something for destroying your personal property,” but even that didn’t help much.

  I was pleased. Pure and simple.