by Alix Nichols
“Will you show me an interesting passage from your new chapters?”
Every time he asks me to do that, I get inexplicably excited.
So I pretend to be miffed. “Are you suggesting my thesis has passages that are boring?”
“Yes,” he says, unfazed. “If it didn’t have any, it would be a Stephen King novel.”
He does have a point.
I open my laptop and scroll through my new chapters.
Hmm…. All of it looks interesting to me…. OK, how about this one?
I turn my screen toward him and point. “Read this bit.”
In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the sex worker had no legal status and wasn’t even allowed to speak for herself in court. But her right to be paid for her services was firmly established and protected in Norman laws. The influential English canonist Thomas of Chobham, who had studied in Paris in the 1180s, wrote: “It is wrong for a woman to be a prostitute, but if she is such, it is not wrong for her to receive a wage. But if she prostitutes herself for pleasure and hires out her body for this purpose, then the wage is as evil as the act itself.”
“Ha!” he says, looking up at me. “So this Thomas is basically saying it’s a mild sin if a woman has sex for money, but it’s a really nasty sin if she does it for pleasure. Right?”
“That’s not exactly what he says, but you aren’t far off the mark.”
“Well, I’m glad medieval canons are dead and buried now, at least in this part of the world.”
“I’m not so sure.” I narrow my eyes. “What do you pay an average male auditor versus an average female auditor?”
“At DCA,” he says with visible pride, “male and female auditors get equal pay for equal work.”
“OK, then how about male and female staff, all categories included?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “That wouldn’t be a fair comparison.”
“No? Why?”
“Because…” He hesitates for a second. “OK, I’m going to be blunt about this. We don’t have any women in the top management. And we don’t have many male assistants.”
I nod. “Still a long way to go even for this part of the world, huh?”
He chews his sandwich in silence.
I study his serious face. “You’re suspiciously thoughtful.”
“I’m trying to picture myself living in medieval France where all pretty young things who don’t sell their bodies are chaste.”
“And?”
“It’s terrifying.” He widens his eyes in mock despair. “As a man who’s not interested in marriage, I’d have to either grin and bear it or pay for sex.”
“Something tells me you’d go with the second option.”
He smirks. “I’d probably have loyalty cards from brothels all over the country.”
“What if you were a medieval woman and you weren’t interested in marriage?”
“I’d become a harlot,” he says without hesitation.
Of course.
“What about you?” he asks.
I don’t hesitate either. “I’d become a nun.”
“Really? I didn’t realize you shared your mother’s passion for Jesus.”
“I don’t, even though I do think he was an admirable individual.”
“Then why a nun?”
“Well, for starters, taking the vows was the best escape route for a woman who didn’t want to marry the man her parents had chosen for her—or any man at all.”
He nods. “I see.”
“But it isn’t just that. Career options that were open to a nerdy medieval woman—even wealthy ladies of the manor—were extremely limited.”
He slaps his forehead. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? A woman wasn’t supposed to be smart, right?”
“Right, unless she became a religieuse.”
I pick up the last crumbs of my brownie and then lick my fingers.
He opens his water bottle.
“A religieuse,” I continue, “could read philosophical treatises to her heart’s content. She could have opinions, and write, and engage in intellectual debates.”
“I get it, really,” Raphael says. “What I don’t get is that you’d forego sex for intellectual debates.”
“No pain, no gain,” I say.
“Your life credo?”
“Not a credo, more like a rule of thumb.”
“My life is ruled by a finger, too,” he says. “But it’s not a thumb.”
I screw up my face, expecting the worst.
True to form, he holds up his middle finger. “It’s this one.”
“Prick,” I say.
“And proud,” he says with a grin.
Chapter 11
Raphael locks the door of his office behind me. “Should I have a word with Pauline?”
“What for?”
“So she’d let her assistants take credit for the sections they compile.”
I stare at him as I process his suggestion.
“I checked your contract,” he says. “Your pay grade requires only proofreading and formatting.”
“I’m happy Pauline gives me more challenging tasks,” I say.
“Yes, but the bulletin still has your name only next to layout.”
“And that’s perfectly fine by me.”
He looks taken aback. “I’ll be very diplomatic if you’re worried about raising her suspicions—”
“It isn’t just the suspicions,” I say. “Honestly, I don’t care how I’m credited in the bulletin. I’m here only until I get my PhD and find a job in the academia.”
“I know that.” He frowns. “Still, it isn’t right that someone should take credit for your work.”
“Your concern for your foot soldier is commendable.” I give him a wink. “How about you extend it to the ones you aren’t sleeping with?”
“I discussed Sandro Marnier’s case with my aides,” he says. “I might give him a second chance.”
I beam.
He smiles back and pulls me into his embrace. “We have two hours before I head out of town.”
His hands begin to stroke my back. Palms flat and fingers splayed, they travel up to my nape, slide down my shoulder blades, press against the small of my back, and cup my ass. While his hands roam at will, leaving no inch untouched, his lips brush my face, hungry and demanding.
I love this part.
That is not to say I don’t love what follows more, but there’s something about Raphael’s touch that hits all the right spots. Even the ones I didn’t know I had. It’s as if his hands have the exact size, warmth, and strength that my nerve endings require. And it always feels as though he has more than two—like a Hindu deity—when he caresses me like this.
As he backs me toward his massive oakwood desk, I feel him harden against my tummy.
My eyes close. “Will I see you this weekend?”
“I’m afraid not.” He trails hot kisses along my neck. “I’ll be away all weekend and all of next week.”
I dare not ask where he’s traveling to.
Or with whom.
Is it because I’m awed by this man? Bearing in mind he’s only twenty-nine, it’s hard not to be impressed by what he’s achieved. It’s hard not to be affected by his status and wealth, not to mention his blue blood and crazy good looks.
But it isn’t those awe-inspiring features that got me stuck on him. Whenever I forget to be wonderstruck, Le Big Boss disappears and a sweet, carrot-nosed snowman takes his place.
Lovemaking achieves that every time.
Raphael hooks an arm around my waist as he pushes the files on his desk to the side. I expect him to lift me and sit me facing him as we’ve done before, but he turns me around instead. Before I realize what he’s up to, he has me bent over the desk. Placing a hand between my shoulder blades, he nudges me lower until my cheek is pressed against the polished wood.
He holds me firmly in place, pushing my hem up with his other hand. I’m wearing a tight pencil skirt toda
y, so Raphael’s task isn’t as easy as it sounds, especially when performed single-handedly.
But he keeps at it until, finally, my skirt is bunched at my waist and my panties are around my right ankle.
He groans as he strokes my bared flesh.
I feel exposed and vulnerable, with my ass sticking out like this.
We have, of course, done it doggy style before. But we were in bed and it was different. The room was much darker, and I was completely relaxed and uninhibited after the exquisite wine and even more exquisite tonguing he’d treated me to.
I’d had none of that today.
And this office is flooded in light.
Raphael glosses the back of my thighs and my derriere. Murmuring encouragements, he grasps my hips and pushes my butt higher while his knee nudges my legs wider apart. I let him. His right hand reaches around me and his fingers rub, then delve inside. Just as I begin to moan with need, he takes a step back.
The ticking of the clock on the wall and his ragged breathing are all I hear. And I don’t need to look at his face to know what he’s staring at.
“You’re a joy to behold, Mia,” he says.
I flush.
Part of it is gratification.
His compliment is my reward for the dreadful Brazilian waxing appointments I’ve been putting myself through since January.
I hear him unbuckle his belt and draw down the zipper of his pants. By the time the sound of a condom foil being ripped reaches my ears, I’m not just ready for what’s coming—I crave it.
He grasps my hips once again and plunges into me.
The sweetness of it wrings a low-pitched, raspy aah from somewhere deep in my chest.
Raphael begins to pound into me.
I push back to meet his thrusts and help him penetrate me even deeper. My breasts are crushed against the warm surface of the desk, and my mind is wonderfully empty. My body is so drunk on what he’s doing to it, I find myself wishing he could go even deeper, fill me even more completely.
I’m wild with lust.
“Oh oui,” I breathe out with every push. “Oh oui. Oh oui. Oh oui.”
“Sounds like you like it,” he grunts, leaning forward.
Like it? I think I might die with pleasure.
He straightens up, and then a sharp smack lands on my backside.
“What about this, Mia?” he asks. “Do you like that, too?”
Actually, I don’t.
But there’s a lump in my throat preventing me from uttering those words.
He smacks me once more.
I stiffen.
He stops thrusting.
A few seconds later, he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the desk and me ensconced on his lap.
“Mia, baby, are you OK?” He strokes my face, holding me to his chest. “You didn’t enjoy the spanking, did you? Was I too heavy-handed?”
He wasn’t. His taps were light and playful. They were certainly not meant to hurt. They didn’t hurt.
So, why did they kill my arousal?
And why do I feel so… cheap?
Maybe it’s because of the calamity, coupled with my being his subordinate, bent over his desk, and clueless as to with whom he’s going to spend next week…
Raphael tips my chin up so that I’m forced to meet his eyes. “Please, Mia, I need to know. Was it the spanking?”
I nod. It’s easier to say yes than to try to explain what I don’t really understand myself.
His expression becomes solemn. “Hit me.”
I blink at his strange offer.
“Kick me anywhere you want, twice,” he says.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Please.” He gives me a pleading look. “We’ll be even, and we’ll both feel better.”
Will we?
Oh, what the hell.
I draw back and slap his face.
“Ouch.” He rubs his cheek.
“Give me your arm,” I say archly.
He holds his left arm up.
I run my hand over his bulging biceps—any pretext to touch his biceps is always welcome—and then pinch as hard as I can.
He winces.
I let go of his arm. “I’m done.”
“Do you feel better?”
“Surprisingly, I do.”
“Good. Me, too.” He delves his fingers into my hair and strokes. “Next time I wanna try something kinky, I’ll be sure to ask if you’re into it first.”
“Do you enjoy kink?”
“No,” he says before adding, “Thing is, I’ve never been with a woman this long.”
“We’ve hardly been together five months.”
“As I said, I’ve never been with a woman this long.”
“How is that related to kink?”
“I thought I’d spice things up a bit.”
My heart sinks. “Are you getting tired of me?”
“Not at all.” He searches my face. “I had the impression you were getting tired of me.”
What? “Why would you think that?”
He shrugs. “You’ve been reserved and… a little distant lately. I thought you were cooling off.”
I sigh. If only he knew how far that is from the truth!
My being reserved is the result of the growing preoccupation with the Australian letters. I can’t help it. Every time I open my mailbox or check my office pigeonhole, I expect to find a new letter. What will it say? Will my “secret admirer” state what he wants from me? Will he ask for money? How much? Will I be able to afford it?
I wish I could tell Raphael about my looming blackmail. But that would require explaining the grounds for it.
And I can’t.
Telling him about the calamity would push me even lower than I already am on the social food chain. I’d plummet from the “little assistant with academic ambitions” whom he bangs when he has a spare moment straight to the slutzone. And not just your average garden-variety slut, but an advanced one with a gang bang and a sex tape under her belt.
That sort of confession won’t just widen the gap between us. It’ll turn that gap into a chasm.
“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing a smile. “You’re still as attractive to me as when I first saw you in your fleece onesie.”
He smiles back, but the crease between his eyebrows doesn’t go away. “Then what is it? What’s bothering you?”
Maybe I can give him a part of the truth. “It’s my finances,” I say. “I need to find a second job.”
“I can lend you—”
I clamp my hand over his mouth. “No way.”
“All right.” He nods, sucking his teeth. “How about I offer you that second job?”
I wrinkle my nose. “As what?”
“Waitress.” He gives me a bright smile. “Seb and I own a bar in central Paris, Le Big Ben. It’s an English-style gentlemen’s club.”
I smirk. “How chic.”
And how revealing that he’s never mentioned it before. Or taken me there.
“The manager said the other day he was looking to hire another server for the evening shift.”
“So you plan to go nepotist on the poor man and impose me?”
“Have you waitressed before?” he asks.
“Plenty.”
“Then, yes, I’m going to go nepotist on him.”
I open my mouth to say he shouldn’t when we hear loud voices right outside the door.
It’s Anne-Marie and a man.
They’re arguing.
Chapter 12
“I’m sorry, Monsieur d’Arcy, but Monsieur d’Arcy isn’t there,” Anne-Marie says from behind the door.
I give Raphael a puzzled look.
“It’s Seb,” he explains.
Woah.
Standing behind the door is Count Sebastian d’Arcy himself. Arrogant. Antisocial. Ruthless. A man whose bad side you don’t even want to imagine, let alone be on.
At least, that’s what I’ve heard.
A commanding bass rumble
s, “Oh, I think he is in there.”
“You’re mistaken, monsieur. He isn’t,” Anne-Marie persists, but there’s a quiver in her high-pitched voice.
“Then why don’t you open this door and let me see for myself?”
Sebastian’s tone is so icy it sends a chill down my spine. I don’t envy Anne-Marie right now.
“I cannot do that, monsieur.”
She sounds like she’s about to burst into tears.
“Poor thing.” Raphael screws up his face in sympathy. “I’m not sure how much longer she can hold down the fort.”
I begin to panic. “You think she’s going to let him in?”
“Seb can be intimidating at times.” He pauses before adding, “Frequently.” He sighs. “Always.”
I jump to my feet and begin neatening myself as fast as I can.
“I’m going to open the door,” Raphael says, standing up, “before Anne-Marie has a heart attack.”
“Is there a back door or something so I can sneak out?”
He shakes his head, tucking his shirt into his pants.
I adjust his tie. “I don’t want your brother to see me here.”
“Why do you care? He doesn’t even know you.”
I smirk, decoding the message between the lines: Don’t worry—to Sebastian, you’ll be just another faceless conquest of mine he won’t even try to commit to memory.
To be honest, I’m not sure why Sebastian’s seeing me here matters. Maybe it’s the remains of my dignity thrashing about in final spasms.
“OK, I have an idea.” Raphael points to the floor-to-ceiling closet running along one of the walls. “Why don’t you go hide in there, and I’ll get rid of Sebastian as fast as I can?”
I nod and scurry to the closet.
Raphael opens the office door.
“You’re alone.” Sebastian sounds surprised.
“I was doing some strategic thinking,” Raphael says. “Which is why I had instructed Anne-Marie not to let anyone in.”
“You locked your door to do strategic thinking,” Sebastian parrots with a tangible note of mockery in his voice.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Raphael says.
“OK, whatever.” Sebastian’s tone becomes conciliatory. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
“Why did you come here?”
