by Misti Murphy
“You have Alex now,” I interrupt him. I don’t want to be told again about how much the company needs me.
“That kid is going to be the death of me. Six months from now, I’ll be front page news for jumping out of my office window.”
“Oh tosh.” I find a glass in the bottom of the sink and push the cloth into it to reach the bottom, use my fingers to swish it around. “He’s friendly and eager to learn. That’s all.”
“He’s eager like a puppy sniffing out a juicy bone. The boy is enamored with you.”
“Surely not.”
“He is, and I can’t say I’m really surprised.”
“I think he was just trying to make a good impression. With both of us.”
“He’s never going to replace you.”
“He’ll do just fine once he relaxes.”
“Maybe.” He scoots up beside me. “But I mean it. There’s no one who can replace you. Especially the cookies you bake and the way you look in my underwear.”
“It just wouldn’t have the same effect with Alex.” I snicker, imagining him wearing James’s underwear while holding a plate full of cookies. And while he’s a good-looking guy, it does nothing for me, except make me imagine all the ways he isn’t James.
“Can you please stop imagining my new assistant naked?” He drops his gaze to his hands, examining his thumbs and brushing imaginary crumbs from his pant legs. “It’s somewhat off-putting.”
“I told you earlier, you have no need to be jealous.”
“Hard not to be.”
“Oh.” My pulse gallops.
He shrugs before he picks up the bowl he and Abby used to make their cookie batter and scoops some of the dough onto his finger. He pops it into his mouth. “These might have turned out all right, actually. If I’d been able to get them out of the oven. Still, you owe me a drink when I’m back on my feet, so that’s something.”
What do I say to that? How can he pivot the conversation so quickly? He actually admits he’s jealous and then changes the topic before I can work out what it means. I flick soapsuds at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can bake. Not as good as you, but still.”
Snatching the bowl out of his hand, I scoop up a chunk of batter and flick it at him. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Hey. Stop that.” He shields his face from the second lump of dough that crumbles against his shirt. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me off balance and I go down, mixing bowl and all. But not onto the floor. Somehow I end up on James’s lap, with my legs over one side of his chair and his arm around my waist, and cookie dough crumbs in my hair.
His eyes darken, his mouth curves but not into a full smile. My insides turn molten with the way he surveys his handiwork. “Perhaps I should get off your knee before I aggravate your injury.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He clamps his good hand to my waist and wriggles slightly underneath me until he’s balanced my weight. And is that his hard on? I’m pretty sure it is.
“Hang on.” His blue eyes crinkle around the edges, focus on mine. It would be easy to fall into his gaze, sink in it, drown. I pull in a breath as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze steady and unblinking. Then he carefully swipes a crumb of cookie batter from one of my eyelashes. “That’s better.”
I touch my face where his knuckles rested against my skin while he plucked away the crumb. I never want to leave his lap. “I really should get up.”
“You have dough between your breasts.” He groans, slanting his attention to the gaping collar of my shirt and carefully tugging until the top couple buttons come undone so he can scrape up the smear with a fingertip. He holds it up between us. “My favorite flavor of assistant.”
“The only one you’ve tasted.” My cheeks heat and still I can’t make myself move away.
He grips my chin, guides my attention back to him before he presses two fingertips to my lip. “I think I need more.”
Chapter Twelve
JAMES
I can’t really say the contest was a failure. First, Myra won, and, somehow, the prize turned into drinks with me, not Alex. And now my lovely admin, my favorite person in the world, is perched on my lap and we’re both covered in cookie dough.
Yes, she’s still in my employ, which makes this unethical and immoral and I should be ashamed, but I don’t care right now. I want more. More than a kiss, more than a few licks of heaven. I want Myra wrapped around my pole, and tonight, I’m going to have her. Funny, I had no idea I wanted her this badly, but at this moment, I can’t imagine not sleeping with her.
And I don’t want her to go, either. I don’t want her to move on, to move away, to leave me. I shouldn’t sleep with her, and yet, maybe Garrett was right. Maybe sex is what it will take to convince her to stay. She’s certainly compliant enough at the moment. In fact, unless I’m misreading her signals, she wants this as much as I do.
I don’t know how we’ll make this work in the long run, but right now, all I can focus on is her. Us. This thing that’s happening between us.
Her lips are so soft and plump. Like the juiciest, freshest peach. It’s no hardship to nibble on that fat lower lip, to lick my way inside her mouth, to cup her head and deepen the kiss, extending it on and on. I’m shifting in my chair, my erection rubbing against her ass. Without breaking the kiss, she starts moving, adjusting her position until she’s wrapping her legs around my body so that they’re draped over the back of the chair, resting between the two big wheels.
I drop my good hand to her thigh, below the hem of the skirt that’s bunched almost to her waist to allow room for her legs to spread enough to accommodate me and the wheelchair. The noticeable absence of cotton under my fingers makes them inch north until I’m squeezing her bare ass cheek, the briefest sensation of elastic and lace brushing against the tips. Somewhere along the line, she traded my boxer briefs for a thong, and, holy God, my vision’s going blurry with the sudden loss of blood in my brain as it all travels south at lightning speed, swelling my cock to the point it’s almost painful when she shifts her hips, rubbing along my length.
“My Supergirl,” I whisper, finally breaking the kiss so my tongue can chase bits of cookie dough down her neck to her chest. She arches, dropping her head against her shoulder while I fumble with the buttons on her shirt, releasing the rest of them so I can pull the garment over her arms.
I leave it there, trapping her, and she opens her eyes, her mouth slightly parted while her cheeks go a dusky pink. She doesn’t struggle to free herself from the constraints of the cotton. “You’re my kryptonite,” she whispers.
For an agonizing moment, I pause. I want to ask what she means. My recollection of those movies was kryptonite is a bad thing. It was Superman’s weakness. And Supergirl’s.
I don’t want to be her weakness. I want to build her up, put her on a pedestal, worship everything about her. Her mind, her body, her soul. I need to show her I can make her stronger, not weak.
Lifting my left hand, I cup her breast through the satin and lace of a peach-colored bra, running my thumb across her hardened nipple until she moans and throws her head back again. Then I grasp the stiff material and tug it down, freeing both breasts.
Leaning forward, I lick the shallow valley between them, lapping up sugar and chocolate and a taste that is distinctly Myra. Trailing wet kisses over her breast, I suck one nipple into my mouth while twisting the other between my thumb and forefinger. Her hips are moving, she’s grinding against my cock while clutching the sleeves of my shirt, faster and faster until she lets out a garbled sound and her body stiffens and I can feel the wetness of her arousal soaking into my pants.
“More,” she says on a gasp. “You. More. Inside me. Oh God, please, James.” She’s wiggling, struggling to free herself of her shirt while at the same time scrabbling at the buckle on my pants. I grab her hands in my one good one and press them against the top of her thigh.
“This time, I get to be in contro
l,” I tell her, staring into eyes that widen while her breath quickens. “Which sounds weird since I’m your boss, but we both know you’re the one usually in control in our relationship. But this is different—a different aspect—and I want to be in charge.”
“I—you—”
I press a finger to her lips. “Shh. Let me pleasure you.”
“Oh.” It’s more a release of a breath than an actual word as she acquiesces.
I place my hand on her thigh again, pushing up, taking her skirt with it, until I catch a glimpse of a tiny triangle of peach lace covering her girly bits, that slice of heaven I feasted on earlier today. I want another taste, but don’t have the patience to figure out how to do it while we’re sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of my kitchen.
“Undo my pants,” I tell her while pushing a finger under the elastic and running it along her seam. It slides easily through her arousal, up to circle her nub, and she arches off my lap, clutching my biceps and moaning.
“If you want more, you need to undo my pants.”
Her color is high, her lids heavy over hazy eyes, like she can barely prop them open, and her breath is coming out in short pants. Given that look on her face, I would’ve released my member and impaled her already if not for the fact I’m down a hand.
“Myra.” I pull my fingers away from playing with her pussy and grasp one of her hands, guiding it to the bulge pressing against my zipper. My request—command?—finally clicks and she fumbles with the belt and then the button and finally the zipper, which hisses as she jerks the two sides apart. Impatiently, she flips my boxer briefs over the head of my cock, and it bounces and bobs like it can’t wait to play.
She slides her hand down the length of me, smoothing pre-cum along my shaft to make it easier for her to stroke. I grit my teeth as I harden until I’m practically granite under her touch. “I need—”
“I need you inside me.” Grabbing my shaft, she pushes up on her knees, positions me, and then slides down my length, her inner muscles pulsing as they stretch. When she starts to move with the urgency of the Energizer Bunny, I squeeze her hip.
“Hey, I’m supposed to lead.”
She bounces up and down again and then thrusts out that adorable bottom lip. “But it feels so good.”
“Yes, it does. So let’s make it last a little while.” With my good hand, I guide her at a more leisurely pace, which is damn near killing me because she’s right. This feels…
“Amazing.”
“So much,” she says, trying to resist my efforts to keep the pace at a casual walk during which we can explore and sightsee, rather than a sprint to the finish line.
“Not gonna last,” I grind out, clenching my teeth because my balls are pulling up tightly against my body and her muscles are milking me and I’m going to lose it if she doesn’t slow down. “Myra. Oh God.”
She does this little shimmy, and my eyes cross as lightning zips through my veins and floods my cock and I can’t hold back any longer. Wrapping my arm around her back, I clutch her shoulder and slam her against my body over and over. Her tits are bouncing like mad and she’s threaded one hand in my hair while the other scratches down my back. The trigger causes me to explode; I swear we’re both hovering in mid-air for a moment before I collapse back against the chair, my breathing ragged, my heart pounding, my entire freaking body singing like I’ve just experienced an orgasm for the first time in my life.
She drapes over me, her head on my shoulder, her arms hanging over the sides of the wheelchair. Her heart is beating the same crazy staccato as my own. After a few moments, she hums and then murmurs, “I want to do that again.”
***
With Myra still in my lap, I manage to wheel us to the bathroom, and then she helps me into a standing position so I can hobble my way to the shower.
She joins me, of course. We’re both dirty, right?
I lean against the tile and leisurely soap her up, my slick hand sliding over her breasts, down between the valley, my nails scraping along her ribcage and then around to her ass. I massage, smoothing up to her shoulders and then down again, cupping one of those perfect half-moons.
She isn’t standing passively, taking what I give her. Not Myra. Her hands are on me, too, sliding over my shoulders, my pecs, her fingers tweaking my flat, brown nipples. Then she glides down, following the narrow, dark trail of hair leading to the Promised Land. Or at least to a very eager erection, which promises to give her all the pleasure she might desire.
When I whisper those words, she laughs, the sound musical and sweet, bouncing off the tile and pulling a chuckle from me, too. Our laughter turns to groans and moans as her hands find my cock, and my workable fingers slip between her folds. The purpose of the shower is forgotten as she strokes me and I finger-fuck her until her orgasm combined with the feel of her hands spurs my own.
I don’t let her turn away this time. I cup her chin and kiss her, a gentle brush of my lips against hers, and when I open my eyes, she’s staring at me, unblinking, and I almost ask her to stay, to not quit and leave me…I mean, the firm. Hell, I really mean me. I don’t want her to leave my house, let alone my employ.
But the moment calls for quiet, so I simply smile. I swear I see the shimmer of tears before her lashes drop to sweep her cheeks. I must be imagining it, though. We’re in a shower, after all.
Eventually, we manage to get clean, just about the time the water is cooling, so Myra twists off the taps and snags towels for us. After she’s wrapped the towel around her torso and run a comb through her hair, she says, “Well, good night.”
I snag her wrist and pull her back toward me. “Sleep with me. On the couch.” I’m not ready for this moment to end. Not yet.
“But Abby’s upstairs.”
“She’s fine. The cat’s with her.”
“I’m not sure a feline is quite qualified to be a babysitter.”
I scowl. “Go check on her, then. And grab a pillow. Then come have a slumber party with me.” My lips lift into a wolfish grin. The image of her lying atop me, her legs cradling me, her breasts pillowed against my chest, makes me hard again.
She hesitates, but not for long. With a shake of her head, she darts up the stairs, returning a few moments later wearing her sexy pink robe and carrying a pillow from my bed. “Abby’s sound asleep and Simon is curled up at her side.”
“Told you. Now, come here.” I made my way to the couch while she was checking on Abby. Lifting my legs, I stretch out the length of the cushions and raise my arms, beckoning her.
She pauses when she reaches the side of the couch. “How do you expect us both to fit on that thing?”
“We’ll have to be really, really close.”
Her lips curl as her gaze rakes over my body, which I’ve conveniently left unclothed. You know, just in case. And then she tugs on the sash and her robe falls open, revealing that body I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of. Grasping her hand, I pull her closer, until she climbs on top of me, lying down with her cheek pressed to my chest.
“This is surprisingly comfortable,” she says.
“Is it? I’d think that thing pressing into your belly might be a tad uncomfortable.”
She grins and wiggles her hips.
I groan. “I’m starting to think you want another round.”
“You’re quite astute, James Frost.”
Cupping the back of her thigh with my good hand, I pull her legs apart, positioning her so my cock is nestled against her pussy, her wetness coating me, preparing me. With almost no maneuvering, I’m pressing into her, groaning as she shifts her hips to take me deeper.
I let her manage the pace. I don’t have a choice, really. Or maybe I don’t want it. Because when Myra is riding me, her nails digging into my chest, her eyes half-closed, her mouth slightly open, she’s so beautiful it steals my breath. My impending orgasm is secondary at the moment. All I want to do is stare up at her, to drink in her beauty, to paint a picture in my mind so I can conjure it any da
mn time I please.
Oh hell. I can actually feel myself falling into that place I don’t quite understand. I think I know what it means, although I’ve never been here before.
While it’s true I’ve never been given the chance, I never wanted it before either. Because the women who came before her, they weren’t Myra.
They didn’t laugh like her or dress like her. They didn’t tell me what to do the way she does, without any concern that I’m actually the boss in our relationship. They weren’t here for me, even when I didn’t know I needed it. They didn’t help me build such an impressive corporate empire that I could will pieces of it to each and every family member and they’d all be millionaires. No one else in my life has been unfailingly faithful, even when I didn’t deserve it but especially when I needed it.
They never got to know me, the person behind the corporate empire. But Myra has. Despite my efforts to keep our relationship on a strictly professional level, she’s managed to become my best friend, my confidant, someone I need in my life.
And now she’s my lover, despite the fact we work together, and we really shouldn’t have moved our relationship to this level.
But in a little more than a week, she won’t be my admin anymore. Which means we’re free to pursue whatever’s happening between us. Maybe her leaving the company is exactly what we needed—what I needed—to realize I couldn’t live without her. And I don’t mean as my assistant. I mean as my partner.
My life partner.
Oh hell, that means I’m stuck with Alex as my admin, doesn’t it?
Chapter Thirteen
MYRA
I never, ever want to wake up from this dream where I’m lying on top of James with his arms wrapped around me and his erection prodding my belly. A thin sliver of light peeks through the blinds though, reminding me that the day is going to start very soon, and with a cat and a pre-schooler and an overexcitable new assistant who’s perhaps worse than a pre-schooler and Garrett. What would he say if he walked in on this? Something about how it’s damn well time, but did it have to happen when his daughter’s in the house, undoubtedly.
