His Secretary:Undone(20)

God damn this man. His lips are so close I can almost taste him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I murmur innocently. My  heart's beating a million miles a minute, basking in the desire that  positively radiates from his body. Most of yesterday's makeup ran off in  the shower and my hair is tangled and I probably still smell like last  night's sex, but he still can't keep his hands off of me. Well,  evidently he can - which is a problem I intend to rectify.

"Oh, that's how she's going to play it." Like he's talking to himself,  the way he always does when he thinks no one can hear him. "But,  hmmm … where do I start? That's the question, isn't it?"

He steps back, just far enough to circle me, getting the full view.

"As much as I'd love to spend the rest of this conference in here with  you, that might raise a few eyebrows. So, I think it's best to get off  to an explosive start, so we can move on with our day. What do you  think, Ms. Burns?"

Breathless, I nod.

"I'm so glad you agree." He smirks. "After the way you behaved last night, I think you're overdue for a proper tongue-lashing."

It takes me a second to even process what he's saying, and he's kissing  me by then, withdrawing and nipping at my lower lip only when I make a  muffled noise of protest.

"I, um … " I look up at him helplessly, wanting so badly to just sigh and  surrender to this, but I can't. Not when my last boyfriend made me  shower and scrub down and shave myself clean before he'd go near my  ladyparts with his mouth. I didn't blame him, not one bit - I knew there  were plenty of guys who refused to do it at all, so I always considered  myself lucky.

I'm not exactly going full Wild Kingdom, but I'm only trimmed, and my  last ex was the only guy I ever allowed down there. I don't really have a  basis for comparison - some baseline of what guys generally consider  acceptable for this particular activity.

Of course Adrian doesn't care. At least, he doesn't think he cares. He  got a good look at me last night, he knows what he's dealing with. He  knows I just rolled out of bed. But I can't just switch off the thrum of  anxiety, the little voice in the back of my head telling me I'm not  good enough.

"What?" He frowns at me, his arms still wrapped around my waist. "You're  telling me you haven't fantasized about this? I've seen the way you  look at me when I lick envelopes."         

     



 

"You have never, not once in your life, sealed a piece of outgoing  mail," I protest, almost forgetting to be anxious while I laugh at him.  "I always do that for you, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Maybe that was my fantasy." His mouth curls up into a wicked grin. "We'll get to that later."

Heart pounding, I stare at the bed. "Maybe I should … "

"Hmm?" His lips make their way down my neck, to my shoulder, pushing the  borrowed shirt out of the way. "Maybe you should lie down and get  comfortable."

"Take a shower first, is what I was going to say," I admit.

He shakes his head, still kissing his way down my body. "Please don't. I want to taste you, not hotel soap."

Taking my hand, he sits down on the edge of the bed, guiding me forward  until I'm kneeling on the mattress, straddling him. His teeth graze  along the sensitive skin of my breasts, and my nipples pucker sharply.  I've never been particularly sensitive there, but now they're begging  for his touch.

"So responsive," he murmurs, running his thumb in a circle around one of them. He smiles. "Are you always this excitable?"

I shake my head.

"Can't hear you," he whispers, moments before suckling me into his mouth. I moan softly, clutching his shoulders.

"No," I exhale, my eyes falling closed. "Just with you."

He releases my nipple with a soft pop. "Just with me," he says. "Well, well, well."

When he blows a puff of air on my still-moist skin, I gasp.

While he gives the same treatment to the other breast, I try to focus on  calming my heartbeat so I don't shatter to pieces. It feels like a very  real possibility. His hands run lightly up and down my back, and he  makes a soft, contented noise.

"This is nice," he rumbles, when he releases me. "Remind me how much I like this, next time I get insufferable at work."

I'm giggling, in spite of myself. "You know that means the next time you  raise your voice to me, I'm just going to whip my tits out and shove  them in your face."

"That sounds terrible." He nuzzles between them, sighing. "What have I gotten myself into?"

With a sudden movement, he flips me over so I'm sprawled on my back. I'm  laughing, then he kisses his way down my stomach and I'm not laughing  anymore.

He situates himself off to the side, so we're perpendicular to each  other, and I must give him a weird look because he says: "Trust me."

I do, somehow, so I just lie back with my head on the pillows. Relaxing.

Not for long, though.

His tongue swipes across me from side to side, and my whole body arches  off the bed. I curse, clutching the sheets, and stare at him.

"Told you," he says, before dedicating himself to his task.

I can't speak. I can't think. Why has no one told me about this before?  Has someone alerted the media? People need to know. I'm squirming and  thrashing, moaning, and if I had the capacity to wonder anything  anymore, I'd wonder why such a minor change in angle could change  absolutely everything.

I sort of hate the way my orgasms just fall out of me, when Adrian's  around. I feel like he should have to work for them. He, of all people,  does not need one more reason to think he's the world's biggest stud.

But I can't control it. I'm coming, I'm shouting his name, my heart's  seizing up with pleasure and I might actually die. Probably will die.  It'll be worth it.

Nope. Still alive.

I open one eye, and then the other, experimentally. He's standing up,  and he's grabbing my hand to pull along. He doesn't want me sitting on  the mattress, of course, no. He wants me kneeling.

Well, that's fine with me.

The post-climax eagerness makes me fumble at his zipper before he even  gets there, pulling him out and sighing at how fucking good it looks. I  want to say beautiful, but I think he'll be offended. I want to taste  him so badly, so I do.

He gasps, fingers gripping my hair. His hips twitch and I can tell he's  putting in a massive effort to hold himself back, because all he wants  to do is fuck my face senseless.

As much as that idea appeals to me on a primal level, I want to be in  control of this. For once, I've got him by the short hairs. Almost  literally.

His voice is low and gravelly, traveling straight through me with a  palpable warmth. "I always thought the first time you sucked me off,  you'd be under my desk."         

     



 

I feel like I should be offended by this. But I'm not. I'm so fucking far from offended, we're not even in the same area code.

Pulling back with a soft pop, I stroke him with my hand while I talk. "You thought about this a lot?"

"Every fucking day." His eyes darkened. "Does that bother you, princess?"

"Yeah," I murmur. "I'm feeling pretty damn bothered right now, Mr. Risinger."

I rock back on my heels, looking up at him. He's impatient to get back in my mouth, but he's not demanding. Not yet.

"I just gave you the best orgasm of your life, and you're hungry for  more already?" He licks his lips, a shudder running through his whole  body as I lean forward and kiss his tip. "God damn, Meg, I never had you  pegged for a shameless -"

Leaning forward, I swallow him down to the hilt, and his last word is lost in a groan.

He's never called me Meg before.

I'm forcing myself not to read too much into this. It's just sex. It's  just incredibly hot, incredibly emotionally charged sex with the man  I've been loving to hate for the past five years of my life.

But it's just sex.

I pull back for long enough to say: "Keep talking. Tell me how you  pictured it." Then I'm back to my task, and his eyes are protesting that  I'm not the one who gives orders around here, but then I'm swirling my  tongue just right and he does what I ask.

"Laundry day," he sighs, and for a second I'm confused. Then he goes on:  "So you wear something to work you wouldn't normally, something you  think's too small, or too sexy, it really hugs your curves. The top  button on your shirt keeps popping open and showing too much cleavage,  and when you bend over the skirt rides up on your ass, and it's  definitely not workplace appropriate. So I call you into my … mmm. My  office, and … "

I'm marveling at the complexity of the backstory. I never would've guessed he was so imaginative.

Once again, I've momentarily forgotten he's a writer.

" … and … " He's lost his train of thought, eyes unfocused. It's a struggle  for him to return to the story, but he does. "And you're so embarrassed  at first, but of course there's a tiny part of you that's flattered that  I noticed. I tell you that your outfit's caused a big problem and it's  your responsibility to solve it now. You say of course, anything, just  hoping you'll keep your job and you won't get written up or anything.  That's when I roll out my chair and I tell you … " His breaths are coming  hard and fast now, but he keeps it going. " … I tell you … to come around  and kneel. I'm unzipping and now you know what's going on, but you're  drooling for it now even though it's so wrong, so you don't say no. You  just do it. You suck my cock like your job depends on it."