by Chloe Lane
She doesn’t hesitate, bending smoothly over the surface, her breasts brushing against the monthly calendar there.
“Hold the other side.”
Her fingers curl around the opposite edge.
“You’re mine now, Emma.”
Another low moan.
“We’re alone, and I need a response from you. Yes, Mr. Kane.”
“Yes, Mr. Kane.”
I run my hands up her legs, under her skirt, pushing the fabric quickly to her waist and pulling her panties—red, this time, and lacy—down to her knees.
“Spread for me.”
She moves her feet apart.
“Wider.”
Now, with her wet, glistening pussy exposed, her ass pressing back toward me, I have her exactly where I want her. She’s trembling, the movement cascading down toward her kitten heels, and I drag two fingers down the length of her slit. They come away wet with her juices, and I put them in my mouth.
“You taste so good, so sweet, kitten.”
The little intake of breath is all I need to hear. I lean down next to her ear, and give her the next command. “Don’t make a sound.”
“Yes, Mr. Kane,” she whispers, and then I am all motion, all lust.
Unzipping my pants takes no time at all, and my cock is in my hand a moment later, pulsing and harder than steel. There is no time. If anyone tries the locks, if anyone knows that this office was locked and then sees us coming out later, all of this is going to be a catastrophe.
But I have to fuck her, and I have to fuck her now.
I line myself up with her opening, and Emma’s knuckles are white on the other side of the desk, but she’s rocking back toward me in tiny, enticing motions, her panties stretched tight at her knees. She doesn’t make a sound, but I see the words on her lips: Please, Mr. Kane—please, please, please.
The silent begging pushes me over the edge and strips away the last bit of my self-control.
I thrust into her in one powerful motion, all of me sinking inside of her in that one movement, and Emma lets go of the desk to cover her own mouth with her hand.
Jesus, she’s so tight. She wasn’t lying when she said she hadn’t been with many other men, and in the middle of this raw pleasure, I have the fleeting thought that it’s amazing she was able to take that dildo, much less my thicker shaft.
But she spreads her legs wider, presses her ass back another inch, taking me in, taking me all the way until I bottom out, the head of my cock finally meeting resistance.
We have no time, but she’s so tight and ready, and I’m so hungry for release, that I don’t need a lot of time.
I fuck her like she’s mine, and her body underneath me is the picture of submission, the picture of being owned by me, and she’s gasping little gasps with every stroke I slam into her. I tighten my hands around her hips, fucking her harder, fucking her deeper, and the gasps start to turn into little moans, so soft they’re hardly breaking any of the rules. If I had her on her knees, ass up, in my condo, I’d punish her, but the sound is so sweet, she’s trying so fucking hard, her pussy tight around my length, squeezing me in a rhythm that’s too much, it’s too much—
I slam into her one more time and it drives her into her own orgasm, coming hard around me as I come hard into her, so intense that my vision goes dark around the edges.
As soon as she’s stopped quaking, I pull her upright, kiss her cheek, taking a single moment to revel in the satisfied glow of her blue eyes, and reach for the box of tissues on her desk.
We’re going to be late for court.
17
Emma
I’m a mess in the courtroom, no matter how hard I try to focus.
I just got fucked.
By my boss.
In my office.
Bent over my own desk.
It wasn’t tender lovemaking. It was a hard, hot fuck, and it’s what I’ve been craving ever since I stepped out of Maxwell’s apartment on Monday.
Maxwell Kane took over my office, took over my body, and dominated me over my own desk.
I should be ashamed. I should be mortified that in my first job as a lawyer, I’ve already fucked my own boss, already let him spread me out over my own desk. I should be ready to resign, as soon as we get back to the firm. I should be ready to admit that I’ve made a terrible mistake, and that we can’t do this ever again, that I need to focus on my career, focus on making up for what I’ve done.
But every cell in my body wants more.
I’m supposed to be paying rapt attention to Maxwell’s cross-examination of the witness, but I can’t remember the witness’s name, much less the words that just came out of Maxwell’s mouth. All I can see is the way his body moves underneath his suit, the way his muscles work—
The way he thrust into me, again and again, fingers pressing into the flesh of my hips, holding me like I was precious but not fragile, like something that belonged to him so completely—
I want to belong to him completely, and my mind swings between the scene in my office and flickering images of a wedding dress, of holding his hand across the table at some brunch place on Sunday morning, of those blue eyes being the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning.
But what if Maxwell doesn’t? What if he said all those things in the heat of the moment?
It’s too late to go back. For me, anyway.
I squeeze my thighs together under the table and try to focus.
I get three liens of notes in before the words trail off. Maxwell is leading the witness somewhere he doesn’t really want to go, but the poor man hasn’t figured it out yet, it’s so subtle, it’s happening so easily.
Before I know it, the judge is bringing his gavel down hard, calling for a recess until tomorrow, and Maxwell is back at the edge of the table. I slip my notepad into my shoulder bag, standing up to greet him.
“Ready to go?”
“All set.” It’s all I can do to keep myself upright under his gaze, all I can do not to blurt out “Mr. Kane” and beg him to fuck me right here on the prosecution’s table. It’s not the kind of thought that’s becoming for a newly minted lawyer, and I press my lips into a thin line to keep it from escaping.
Maxwell drives us back to the firm. I try to keep the conversation focused on the case, on anything but the sizzling tension brewing in the air between us. None of that was lessened by the fact that he just fucked me like his own personal property.
And I loved it.
“Do you think you’ll need any more research on that witness?”
The corner of his mouth moves upward in a half smile that makes me gush a new layer of wetness into my panties. “No. I think we’re all finished with him.” He glances over at me, then reaches across the console, extending his hand.
My heart turns over with relief. He wants more in the same way I want more. I thread my fingers through his. My hand has never fit in anyone’s this way before. He’s like discovering a new country, a new planet.
He raises my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, then gives it a little squeeze.
“I think we should go on a date.”
It’s like he’s reading my mind.
“We don’t have to do that…Maxwell.” It’s an automatic response, an echo of the worry that came to me in the courtroom—I need to give him an out, just in case he doesn’t want to get in too deep with me, Emma Mason, fresh out of law school and a nobody yet— “I know this could be…this could be a misstep, career-wise, and if you don’t really want to do that, we don’t have to. I’m okay if it’s just—”
He pulls into a parking spot in the ramp a block down from the firm. “A real date. I know the perfect place.”
I’ve got a wide grin on my face as I climb out. “A real date?”
“I’m going to show you a good time, Emma Mason.”
“A good time like the one we had about an hour ago?” I laugh out loud. This is too much. This is too perfect.
“A good time?” He calls,
eyes dancing in the dim light of hate parking ramp. “A great time. A time like you’ve never experienced before. I know that’s every time with me, Emma, but just suspend your disbelief, just let me show you—”
“I don’t know if I can, Maxwell. You’re really nothing—” I take in a deep breath, not quite sure if I want to go there, not quite sure if I’m on that joking level with him, but I think I am, if he’s wanting to take this farther, if he’s wanting to take me on a date, because a date is the first step to making this real in a way that I can hardly hope to dream of.
His voice is rising with the joke, and I’m laughing, adjusting my shoulder bag’s strap over my jacket, and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s stopped talking, that something in his eyes has gone cold.
“What—”
I start to turn, start to follow his gaze, but he stops me with a single word. “Emma. This way.”
18
Maxwell
Of course Denise Johnson would be getting out of her car at the other end of the parking ramp. And of course it’s not the kind of cavernous parking ramp where the other end is three football fields away. No. If I’m not mistaken—and I don’t know how I could be, given the piercing, narrow-eyed look she gave me while she slipped her keys out of her purse and clicked the button to lock her car—she heard everything.
Well—maybe not everything. The one piece of information I’m missing is exactly when she stepped out of her silver Corolla. I swallow down the anxious lump in my throat. There’s nothing I can do about this now.
Emma stays a little farther away on the walk to the firm, her lips pressed into a thin line. I caught myself almost immediately when I realized that seeing Mrs. Johnson was showing in my face, but it wasn’t fast enough to hide it from Emma.
She waits until we’re in my office, the door pointedly open, to ask me about it. I’m just settling into the chair behind my desk, trying my damnedest to keep my movements natural.
“What happened back there, Maxwell?”
What I want to do is go thundering down to Johnson’s desk and tell her that what she saw was nothing, that she shouldn’t even think about breathing a word of this to Pierce or Harwood, and that there’s absolutely no reason to assume that the conversation I was having with Emma was anything other than a friendly chat between colleagues.
Doing that would make it painfully obvious that none of that is true. And Denise Johnson isn’t a fool.
That’s what makes her so damn dangerous.
Up until last week—up until Emma—I kept all my risky behavior strictly outside the office. Maybe I was a little too high-profile, but the truth is that some of the most powerful, most influential people in the city can’t be approached through normal means. More than once, they’ve had information that ends up being crucial to one of my cases. If that means I have to spend a few weeknights drinking at less-than-savory establishments, then so be it. There’s a reason I’m one of the most visible lawyers in the firm—in the state—and it’s because I’m extremely well connected on every level.
None of that will save me from Harwood’s wrath if Denise goes to him with some kind of trumped-up concern at just this particular moment in my career.
Emma’s hands are tight on the strap of her shoulder bag, her knuckles white. My first instinct is to protect her, even if that means lying to her. I just don’t want her to live in a kind of paranoid state, waiting for the other shoe to drop on us.
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
If she was any other woman throwing herself at me at one of the shadier clubs, the words would be rolling off my tongue, easy and convincing, the way they do in the courtroom.
She’s not one of those women.
She’s Emma, and the thought of lying to her on that level—on any level more involved than planning a surprise getaway or a proposal—
A proposal?
The thought takes me by such a thundering surprise that I can feel my eyes going wide. Emma’s expression mirrors mine. “Maxwell, tell me what happened.” Her tone is low and urgent. “What did you see in the parking garage?”
“Not a what so much as a who.” I let out a breath, trying to calm my mind. My heart is about to leap out of my chest. I’ve never considered proposing to any woman, not even in the abstract, not even in passing, and the sheer excitement of it is battling with what to do about Denise. “Denise Johnson was getting out of her car while we were talking.”
Two bright spots of pink appear on her cheeks, and her mouth falls open a bit. “Denise Johnson? From HR? The one who—” She swallows hard. “She hired me.” Her eyes dart from my face to the wall behind me, and I’d bet all the money in my wallet that she’s trying to figure out exactly what we were saying when Denise saw us. “But we were—we were talking about—”
“A date.”
It’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t have to be. It could all have been a friendly joke between colleagues. If Denise Johnson wants to take this to Harwood and Pierce, I can explain it away.
“That’s—not good.”
I can’t bear it. The sight of her, forehead wrinkled with worry, corners of her mouth turned slightly downward, makes me want to sweep her off her feet and carry her out of here, past everyone, and take her somewhere she can feel safe. “Emma, I didn’t want to hide it from you that I saw here there.” I lean back in my seat, trying my best to project an attitude of confidence. “But there’s nothing we said that can’t be explained if—and it’s a big if—Denise Johnson even mentions it to anyone at the firm.”
“If she does that—”
“You’ll be all right if she does. Me, on the other hand—”
“No!” Her voice is a little too loud, and her glance flies to the open door before she clears her throat. “No. I’m supposed to be improving your image, not making it worse.”
“And you are. I bet even Harwood is ready to make me a partner.”
“But more than that…I really wanted to go on that date with you. Now I’m not sure—”
“Oh, no,” I say, using the fierce tone that sometimes surfaces in the courtroom. “Not for a minute, Emma Mason. Don’t think you’re getting out of our little…engagement…for even a minute.” I stand up and lean across the desk, looking directly into her eyes. I can’t have her falling apart.
I know just what to say.
19
Emma
Maxwell’s gaze is electric, and in spite of myself—inside of the adrenaline screaming through my veins—I feel my shoulders relax away from my ears.
It’s not good that Denise Johnson was in that parking ramp. It’s not good at all. But as nervous as it makes me, Maxwell’s deep voice gives me a sense of security that’s too powerful to ignore. My anxiety dissolves into that voice, into the dark blue hypnotic pull of his eyes.
“Not for one minute, Emma, because I’m going to take you out.” His voice is measured, even, each word falling from his lips like raindrops in the desert. “Tonight.”
* * *
At fifteen minutes to eight, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, dressed to the nines and about to lose my mind from the endless waiting.
I rushed home from the firm the moment Maxwell made moves to leave, thinking I’d take my sweet time with getting ready for our date—Wear something pretty and be ready at eight, he’d said, and those were my only instructions—but after an hour, I’d exhausted every single beauty routine I could think of. I killed another thirty minutes choosing my sexiest bra and panty set, and I thought I’d watch TV until he showed up, but the noise of it was so jarring and discordant compared with his low voice that I switched it off after five minutes.
The only thing left to do is to sit here in the nicest dress I own—a little black number with a scoop neck, the midnight-dark fabric falling to mid-thigh. The other non-work dresses I own are all throwbacks to the college club scene. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing one of those in front of Maxwell. He already has to see me as someone young and tot
ally inexperienced, and even if he wants me now—
I shake my head, clearing the thought. Who knows? He might want to see some of those outfits…
A soft knock on the door has me scrambling to my feet, grabbing my little clutch purse, hands flying to my hair one more time to make sure there’s no strand out of place.
Maxwell waits in the hall, standing on the frayed industrial carpet, once a dark green but now trending largely toward gray. His eyes sparkle when he sees me. “You look gorgeous.”
I can’t help blushing. This is a man who has fucked me bent over his desk, but standing here in front of him in this dress feels totally different. “Thank you. You look—” Smoldering hot, as always. Maxwell is wearing tailored pants and a dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows because of the summer heat. All I can do is smile at him. It’s time for our date to begin.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Maxwell raises his wine glass—filled with something deep red and more expensive than I’ve ever been able to afford—to his lips and takes a sip. “Exquisite.”
“The wine?”
“No,” he laughs. “You. The sight of you in candlelight is something else.”
I sip my own wine. “I think the wine’s pretty good.”
“Let me tell you a secret.” He leans toward me across the table. “Once you get above fifteen dollars a bottle, it’s all the same to me.”
I’ve already finished half my glass, and it makes me laugh harder than I should. “Maxwell Kane, you’re such a…person.”
He grins at me, swirling the wine in the glass like an uppity sommelier. “Did you think I wasn’t?”
“No!” I cry as the waiter slips a basket of delicately puffed rolls onto the table between us and disappears. “That first time I saw you on TV, you seemed like…some kind of god.”
“Don’t forget it.” He takes one of the rolls, tears off a section, and pops it into his mouth. “Tell me about you, Emma.”
