“Yes, Mr. Buchanan, sir. How can I help you?” Truth be known, she didn’t much like the sound of Marcy’s voice, finding it shrill and insincere.
“No interruptions whatsoever for the next hour, and make my Learjet available at a moment’s notice.”
“I can certainly see to the jet for you, Mr. Buchanan, but you’re aware that you have an appointment with Mr. Jacklyn from the bank at four thirty.”
Kendall watched him shake his head in irritation. “Exactly what part of no interruptions for the next hour don’t you understand, Marcy? Dale Jacklyn will just have to wait.”
“Sorry, Mr. Buchanan, I understand completely.”
After switching off the intercom, he turned and gave her that stare once more. The one that positively dripped with sexual intent. “Happy now?”
How the fuck was she supposed to answer that? When she finally spoke, her words were breathy. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything.”
Mac Buchanan clearly came equipped with immensely strong and productive thighs, because when he rose from his executive leather chair, taking her with him, he seemed to expend no effort whatsoever.
Impressive.
Holding her cradled in his arms as though she weighed nothing, he strode around to the other side of the desk. He then stared down into her eyes and without warning or need for permission, kissed her passionately on the lips. “You won’t regret your decision, honey.”
That kiss, his kiss, spoke volumes of what this man had to offer. Power. Wealth. Influence. Dominance. How could a simple touching of lips between a man and a woman transmit so much vital information? Jesus Christ, her pussy was soaking wet in anticipation of what he was about to do to her. Obviously, when it came to a game of top trumps, sexual arousal beat the guilt of selling herself hands down every time.
He was strong enough to hold her with one hand, because he swiped the desk clear of everything else with the other. A succession of telephones, intercoms, papers, pens, and even the diary clattered noisily to the floor.
“Marcy will hear.”
“So?”
If he didn’t care, why should she? She figured that Marcy didn’t need fact and reality to make up stories anyway.
Mac then plonked her heavily on the desk. Roughly taking hold of her thighs, he spread her legs as wide as her knee-length business skirt would allow. He then stood back, his all-knowing gaze seeming to forensically examine her.
“Hmm, that buttoned-up gray business suit you insist on wearing, makes you look as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. It makes you look like some sexually repressed spinster, but we both know that’s not the truth, don’t we, honey?”
“Yes.” She spoke the truth, too. The guilt was still there, but it lessened in direct proportion to her rising sexual arousal. “Yes. Oh, yes.” She suddenly realized that those three little words and the ease with which she’d delivered them made her sound wanton and available, and in a futile attempt to regain a little control, she breathily whispered, “Bastard. You don’t have to do this.”
Knowing full well the effect he was having on her, he smiled. “Oh, I’m a bastard all right, honey, but make no mistake, I’m the very same bastard you have sexual fantasies about. Don’t deny it.”
She couldn’t. She’d masturbated thinking about her new boss on several occasions, and enjoyed it immensely, too.
Using the tip of his index finger, he toyed with the top button of her blouse. “Strip. Let’s see what belongs to me for the next ten days.”
His approach was brash and uncompromising, but it summed up her situation perfectly. To be exact, she belonged to this guy for the next nine days, twenty-three hours and fifty minutes, during which time, she was his to control and use as he saw fit. Briefly looking into his beautiful silver gray eyes, she then allowed her gaze to drift to his crotch where his huge prick pushed expectantly against the inside of his pants. Suddenly, the idea of being this gorgeous man’s plaything didn’t seem unappealing at all.
“Strip, sir. Yes, sir. Whatever you say, Mr. Buchanan, sir.”
After shrugging the dull gray business jacket from her shoulders, she started on the buttons of her white silk blouse. Using just the index finger and thumb of her right hand, she deftly popped each one before pulling the delicate material from the waistband of her skirt. Mac was right. The whole outfit was dreary and sexless in the extreme.
Aged twenty-seven and well aware of how to massage a man’s ego, she kept her eyes focused solely on her boss. She then stood from the desk, and slowly, oh so very slowly, eased the blouse from her shoulders. After removing it completely, she held it at arm’s length for several agonizing seconds before letting it drop seductively to the floor, just like she imagined some sexy young starlet would do in a Hollywood movie.