His Secretary:Undone(25)

I moan, my inner muscles contracting just at the thought of him with his  fist clenched around his cock, forcing himself to stop. Then his mouth  is on me again, and I tumble into ecstasy.

He makes it seem so easy. It would be infuriating, if it wasn't so wonderful.

"I love the look on your face when you can't tell where I am," he says,  his voice delectably sex-roughened. "But I miss seeing your eyes."

With that, he unties the makeshift blindfold, letting it slither to the  floor. I blink a few times, and when I open my eyes all the way, he's  lying on the bed.

"Climb on," he says, with a halfway grin.

With my hands bound, my balance is thrown off more than it usually would  be, in the afterglow. I focus on climbing up, straddling him, and his  hands on my hips steady me. His cock slides in like it was meant to be  there. I sigh, almost forgetting that he's getting a damn good view of  me from the least flattering angle possible. But he clearly loves it. As  much as he's trying to keep on a stern Dom Face, probably the way he  imagines Dirk looks while he's getting fucked, he can't quite erase the  edges of a smile. That I can't believe this woman's really on top of me  right now smile. That I'd be high-fiving myself in a mirror right now,  if there was one handy smile.

"What so funny?" he wants to know, gripping my thighs so his fingers sink into the soft flesh.

"Nothing." I want to lean down and kiss him, but with my hands tied in  front of me, I can't figure out how to work it. "You look smug."

"You're goddamn right I'm smug," he sighs, his hips arching to meet me.  "Took me five years to crack this one. I've got the right to be."

I laugh. He hasn't actually been trying to fuck me for five years, has he? I would have noticed. Surely.

"I love the way you come for me," he says, suddenly. Seriously. "Almost  on command. You know I always dreamed of training a woman to do that?  Ever since I found out it was a thing. But you're at least seventy  percent there."

"It's just with you, you know," I tell him, because it seems pointless to pretend otherwise.

"I know," he half-whispers. "I can tell by the look on your face. Every time, it's like it surprises you."

With a little grin, his fingers find the spot where we're joined. Touching me just the way I want. Just the way I need.

We hit that peak almost at the same time, bodies undulating, almost  laughing a little, at ourselves - at each other. He unfastens the belt,  and I lean forward, letting my hair brush against him. He makes a face  as it tickles his nose.

Our fingers intertwine, like our bodies are determined to be as close as  possible, even if our hearts and minds are still stubborn as hell.

And for right now, I'm tired of fighting.





Chapter Eleven





One thing I failed to notice, when I went over the schedule, was that  the big send-off party at the conference had a theme. A costume theme.

I'm staring at it now.

The infographic looks like something out of Boogie Nights, and it says 80's Prom Night in big neon letters.

"I think they got some wires crossed here," I point out. "This is  clearly a '70s design. Also, a bunch of writers don't know where the  fucking apostrophe goes."

Adrian shrugs, picking at the fruit salad that came with his room  service breakfast. "I think it officially goes before the S now," he  says. "Language is a living, breathing thing, you know."

"You would smack my ass so hard if I let that slip by in one of your  letters." I laugh at him. "If you're not going to eat the fruit, stop  poking at it. I'll finish it."

"Fine." He pushes the dish across the little table. "So is that an official thing, now? I can spank you at work?"         

     



 

I grin at him, taking a bite of cantaloupe. "You're my boss, Mr. Risinger. You can do whatever you want."

He lets out a noise that's half-laugh, half-groan. "I'll end up arrested if you keep saying things like that. We both will."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's private property." I lick my lips. "You could  send everybody home and fuck me in every single floor, every single  room of that building, and not a law in the land could touch you."

He raises his eyebrows slightly. "And once again, having too much money  just robs me of all the usual thrills in life." Moving lightning-fast,  he snatches a grape out of my hand and pops it in his mouth. "What's the  fun of having sex at work if you can't get in trouble for it?"

I'm giggling. "Uh, there's still a lot of fun. But okay. Fair enough."

"I should spank whoever came up with this fucking '80s prom theme," he grumbles.

My eyes snap to his. "Don't you dare."

He smiles, grabbing a piece of pineapple. "I like it when you get jealous, you know."

"Now, suddenly, you want the fruit?" I push the bowl back across the table. "Ugh. Just take it."

"Only because you wanted it," he says. "I hear there's a thrift shop  down the street. Might still have something, if we hit it early."

"We're not seriously going, are we?" I'm already preemptively bored and irritated at the thought. "I mean, come on. '80s Prom?"

Adrian shrugs. "Everyone else is going to be there. All the cool kids.  Come on - it'll be fun. I'll help you find something really hideous,  lots of ruffles."

"They won't have anything in my size."

He rolls his eyes. "You can't possibly know that, until you try it on."

***

I'm flipping through the racks at the thrift shop, which is crawling  with conference attendees who didn't prepare for the party either.  Pickings are slim. Adrian finds a powder blue tuxedo in about six point  three seconds, and of course it fits perfectly, and I don't want to  admit how good it actually looks on him.

"Great," I tell him, when he models it for me. "You look exactly like Marky Mark in Boogie Nights."

"Well, I don't fill it out quite as well," he says, glancing in the mirror. "But thanks anyway."

I shrug. "Anyone can do that with a prosthetic. You're all natural. Be proud."

Finding something for me is a little more difficult, as I imagined.  Adrian's hanging by, just close enough to snark, but not close enough to  actually help me look.

"So do you only like big girls? Or what?" I don't know why I'm asking  this question. I don't know why I want to find out, except that maybe if  it's some weird fetish thing, I'd rather not be involved. But it's  clearly too late for that.

He licks his thumb and pages through the massive booklet we were given  in our welcome bags. "Not only," he says. "Just mostly. Why do you care?  It's not like it's unusual. Surely you're aware of that."

"It's unusual for people to be this secure about it," I tell him. "And this unapologetic."

"Why should I apologize?" He lets his eyes wander over my body.  "Although, I will say it's difficult at first. When I was a teenager, I  thought there was something wrong with me. Eventually I just realized  it's the rest of the world that goes through these bizarre phases of  obsession with different body types on women - society's the crazy one,  not me."

"Wow, that's an inspiring story." I pull something hideous and  lavender-colored off the rack. "You should get Macklemore to write a  song about it."

Adrian snickers. "That's it. You found it. It's perfect."

"Really?" Glancing at it, I can tell it's roughly the right size. I hold  it up next to his tuxedo. "We're going to look like a pastel  nightmare."

"It's like I said." He smiles. "Perfect."





***

Despite Adrian's repeated insistence, I do not feather my hair. However,  I do pull it into a sideways ponytail before we walk into the party.

I don't want to be here. I want to be with him, in his room, where I  have in fact "moved my stuff" because I've given up on pretending. I  want us to spend our last few hours together at this conference in each  other's arms, because I have a a feeling when we get home, everything is  going to change.         

     



 

It's not exactly a question I can ask. If this was supposed to just be  an out-of-town fling, I'm not going to be the dork who acts like I've  been planning our wedding. But now that we've gone this far, I can't  imagine backtracking. How can I just return to our usual thing, when  I've spent the last week memorizing every inch of his skin?

"This mix seems very Prince-heavy," Adrian comments, as we wait for the  bartender. Right on cue, "When Doves Cry" thuds to a stop.

I shrug. "It makes sense, thematically. Every Prince song is about sex."

"Every song is about sex."

"That's ridiculous." I pick up my beer. "You're ridiculous. What about  this one?" I glance up at the ceiling, indicating the ballad that's  currently taking over the speakers.

He snorts. "Are you kidding? 'Take My Breath Away?' It might as well be called 'Make Me Come.'"