by Paige North
I wrap my arms around his neck. His mouth moves to cover mine, and as soon as our tongues meet, I feel my orgasm burst wide, deep inside me. I kiss him like he’s giving me air, grinding against him as I ride every wave.
“Delaney,” Nixon growls, his voice ragged. His entire body tenses, and I realize he’s coming with me. I pull him tight, our hips thrusting into each other. Our foreheads are pressed together, my hand behind his neck, anchoring me to him, or maybe just anchoring me to reality. Because nothing about this feels real. It all feels just too good.
We stay there, him inside me, basking in our pleasure for so long I lose track of time. When he finally stands and slips out of me to dispose of the condom, I realize we’re both slick with sweat. I reach up to my hair and feel the telltale tangles of sex and pleasure.
Nixon returns to his post in front of me, ducking down to hand me my bra and panties, which I slip on. I should feel oceans of embarrassment right now, naked in my boss’s office after he gave me a screaming orgasm. But I don’t. Something about this feels right.
Well, not everything, of course.
Nixon runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He buttons his pants, reaching for the sweater that he discarded at some point during our encounter. Stretching it back over his head, I feel both a sense of disappointment at him covering up that gloriously muscled chest, and lust at seeing the way his body works as he does something as simple as dressing. He’s like a panther, strong yet subtle, handsome yet dangerous.
“Delaney,” he says finally. I like the way he always says my name, like he really knows me.
“Nixon,” I reply, slipping my dress over my head. I give my long blond hair a shake, and give him a smile.
“What we’re doing here …” he trails off, and I can sense the tension returning to his body. I hate to see that, especially after all the work we just did to unwind him, so I step in.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I assure him, and I mean it.
He nods. “Except to say that we really can’t … talk about it. No one can know, of course.”
“Of course,” I reply. I don’t feel like he’s trying to hide me, because I also don’t want anyone to know. If people found out I was sleeping with Nixon Blake, any hope I have of a job at Scour or any tech company — hell, any company in Boston — would disappear. I’d be the intern who screwed her way to the top. I’d be a cocktail party joke. My career would be over before it even began.
He searches my eyes, like he’s trying to make sure I understand. Or maybe he’s trying to see if there’s something else.
“I’m not done, though,” he says, finally. “With you.”
They’re the words I didn’t know I needed to hear, and I give him a smirk in return.
“I should fucking hope not.”
Chapter 4
Our new normal: I come to work, I bust my ass in the intern conference room, and I have orgasms with Nixon Blake.
Sometimes I visit his office after work (though always much later now, because multiple visits to the boss could start to draw suspicion). But sometimes we can’t help ourselves in the middle of the day. One time he pulled me into an empty copy room when no one was looking, locking the door behind us and bending me over a fax machine. I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Just the other day I met him in the 3rd floor bathroom, a unisex onesie bathroom, where I dropped to my knees and gave him what he called the best blowjob of his life.
The whole thing should be a terrible distraction from the work I’m doing for the Business Lab Program, but it seems to be having the opposite effect. Nixon makes me feel sexy and desired, and in turn I’ve never felt more confident. Randi has nothing but praise for the work I’m doing. Amber is acting like ten times more of a bitch, so of course I know that means I’m giving her a run for her money.
It’s not all daisies and roses, of course. Our arrangement isn’t without some confusion. It’s clear that Nixon and I have a sexual connection. But beyond that, I don’t know. I try to tell myself it’s just sex, but every time I start to feel comfortable with that, something in my mind tugs and reminds me of the tenderness I felt towards him when he was having his come-apart at the State of Scour gala. Something inside me told me to protect him in that moment. He needed it, and I was able to provide it. It’s what spurred our connection that night. So, to say that all we have is sex doesn’t feel quite true.
But I also know that Nixon hasn’t said anything about any kind of relationship outside his office, and I’m not going to be the one to bring it up. Even though he’s my boss — and a filthy rich genius — when we have sex, it seems like we’re on equal footing. I don’t feel like he’s taking advantage of me (except for in all the ways I want him to, of course). I like that sometimes I can be the boss of him, like when I pushed him down in his desk chair yesterday and hovered over his cock, making him wait a painful moment until I slid slowly down onto him. In that moment, I was in control. I knew it, and he knew it. And we both liked it.
I begin notice a pattern to our encounters, though. The PR department had set up a much-anticipated interview with a tech reporter from the Globe. Nixon never gives interviews. He once joked at a company-wide staff meeting that he hires the best people to do everything, and that includes talking to the press. But Scour was launching a third generation of their famous tablet, this one with touch screens on both sides. It would allow for an unprecedented 3D interaction with users, opening up doors for app developers to really innovate in ways never imagined before. Nixon had been at the forefront of designing the thing. He was hands on in a way most CEOs aren’t once their companies reach a certain size, but Nixon’s first love with Scour was always development. Any time he could get his hands dirty designing or coding, it seemed to be the thing that made him most happy, or at least most comfortable.
Unfortunately, this time it came with some press commitments.
And so, on a sunny Thursday afternoon, we watched as Juliette, head of PR, and Nixon led around a short, balding tech reporter from the Globe. Juliette was all smiles as they stopped into the intern conference room, where she gave her spiel about the Business Lab Program and how prestigious and innovative it was. We all smiled and answered his questions, but I couldn’t stop stealing glances at Nixon. His jaw was clenched. Hell, every muscle in his body looked clenched. It was like he was about to be subjected to waterboarding, not a sit-down interview with a well-respected journalist from one of the country’s top newspapers.
Two hours later, when I knew the reporter was done and gone, Randi popped her head into the conference room.
“Thanks for your help with the reporter today,” Randi said. “I know you weren’t quite expecting to be show ponies as part of your internship, but it was really great. Amber, I thought you did a great job conveying the learning outcomes from the program.”
Beside me, Amber beamed.
“Oh, and Delaney? Nixon said to stop by his office before you leave. He wants to discuss some mistakes you made on the financials for that geocaching app.”
I don’t even have to look. I know Amber is practically glowing with delight.
When I get to the 10th floor, I see the pair of empty desks. Again.
“Your assistants are big time slackers,” I say as I stroll into his office, then immediately stop. Nixon is sitting behind his desk, gripping the arms of his chair, and staring straight ahead. It feels colder in the room than it usually does, and quieter. The silence is deafening. It’s like he’s in a trance. “Nixon?”
He finally notices my presence, and he’s up and out of his chair so fast, it tips over and clatters onto the concrete floor. He crosses the office in what seems like two steps, taking me into his arms, his mouth covering mine. Before I can even catch my breath, he’s on his knees, tearing my panties off, his tongue working me straight towards an earth shattering orgasm.
It’s not until I’ve come and collapsed onto the floor next to him that he f
inally says anything.
“I don’t have assistants,” he says, breathing hard. “I don’t need people in my business.”
“Everyone needs someone,” I say, almost reflexively.
“Not me,” he says.
My stomach drops as I realize how much has been said, almost by accident. I might be useful to Nixon when he’s stressed out and wants a quick release.
But he doesn’t need me.
He doesn’t need anyone at all.
THE END OF PART TWO
Part Three is coming soon!
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