But hey, it seems to be working well so far. With my little "per diem" from the conference, I'll have enough to get some nicer furniture. Or maybe I should think about socking it away, and saving up for a new place.
Or maybe I should think about buying a headboard to my bed, so Adrian has something to tie me up to.
Okay, well, this is just getting out of hand now.
"Stop thinking," he orders me. "Strip."
Um. That wasn't part of the command before.
I freeze in my steps. "Right here?"
His eyes blaze into mine. "You know what? Yes. Here. Now. Strip."
I swallow hard. No matter how many times he sees me, there's still going to be a part of me that hates doing this. One by one, I undo the buttons of my blouse and let it slip from my shoulders. I can hear his breathing quicken as I unzip my skirt and step out of it, and my mind flashes back to the fantasy he told me about in the hotel. The one where I have to come to work in revealing clothes, and he makes me suck him off under his desk. I've thought about that one quite a bit, touching myself in the shower where the sound of the rushing water will drown out my moans. As if it matters. As if that makes it any less real, how much I want him.
I wonder if we've ever done it at the same time, thinking about each other.
Fuck. The thought of him jerking off, to me, has me throbbing all over. I've never thought of myself that way, really, and I know he has. This isn't some fleeting fancy, he's wanted me for a long time. Like some idiot kid pulling pigtails on the playground, he's been trying to tell me, in the most fucked-up and juvenile way possible.
Like he can read my mind, he's palming himself through his pants, almost as if he's trying to calm it down while he watches me. Yeah right. I smirk a little to myself, unhooking my bra and taking my time in letting the straps fall down, without revealing my breasts.
He squeezes. "Get on with it," he growls.
"I want to see you touch yourself."
Holy shit, did I just say that? Out loud?
Adrian smiles. "Since you asked so nicely."
At moments like this, sometimes it hits me hard and fast that he's still my boss. That I am, in fact, watching my boss unzip and and take himself out and stroke, in my hallway, and for a moment I feel like I'm actually going to pass out.
Instead, I step out of my panties and walk over to him.
I need him to touch me. I don't care if he thinks I'm impertinent, if it means I'll get a harder spanking later (in fact, yes please). The way he's looking at me makes it impossible for me not to want him even more than I already do.
He locks eyes with mine, and I grab his hand away from his cock and shove it between my legs. Because I need him. Damn the consequences.
I could have used his other hand, of course. But that's not how this works. It never is, with us.
His whole body reacts when he feels how wet I am. How hot and wanting. I can see it work through him like a slow shudder, and he touches me just like I want him to, because for a moment I'm the one in control.
You always are.
I don't know where that thought comes from, but it hangs thick in the air between us as he curls his fingers deep inside and finds the spot that I used to think was a myth.
I whimper, knees buckling, but he catches me with his other arm around my waist. His fingers make an obscene sound as he yanks them out, then he lets go of my waist and grabs my hair at the roots, steering me towards the wall. I understand. I plant my hands firmly against it, presenting myself to him, like he needs any further indication of what I need. His fingers slip into my mouth, moments before he grabs my hip and slides in deep.
I'm expecting him to say something, to call me names or to criticize my forwardness. But he just fucks me. He fucks me like it matters.
Really, I don't know how else to describe it. I wouldn't have the audacity to call it making love. Because it's not. It's something, though. All I can do is gasp and moan, my body clenching around him, the heat rising between us until sweat drips down the bridge of my nose and lands on the carpet underneath me.
He stops.
"Turn around," he rumbles, slipping out of me. I whimper in protest at the loss, but I do what he asks. The look on his face isn't anything I've seen before, and for a moment he seems on the verge of saying something else. But he doesn't. For a moment, we're both just searching each other's faces silently and I wish I had any clue of what was going through his head.
Instead of talking, he puts his hand behind my thigh and lifts my leg up, up, higher still, wrapping it around his waist. Then he grabs my other thigh and hoists me up, and at least part of my weight is on the wall still, but the adrenaline's pumping through me anyway and I'm struggling to cling to him, not to fall. My arms surround his shoulders.
"Shhh, I've got you," he whispers, and for some reason I believe him.
His hands grip my ass while he slides into me again, and it feels so different this time. Just the position, surely. But my whole body is tingling, and I don't want to think it's because I can see his face. I don't want to know that it's because of our foreheads touching, because his pace has slowed, because now we can kiss.
"Sweet girl," he whispers, and it's a complete sentence. That's all he wants to tell me. Not a command, just a statement of fact.
When we come - yes, we, our bodies are so ridiculously in sync I could almost laugh - something bursts inside my chest. Butterflies flutter through my stomach and I try to tell myself I'm not feeling what I'm feeling.
Because I cannot have those feelings for Adrian Risinger.
***
"Here."
I'm sitting on the bed, towel-drying my hair, when Adrian finally hands me the box. Smiling, I reach over and pull it into my lap. "I almost forgot about this."
"I'd still like you to model it for me," he says, sitting down next to me. "Even if the proceedings got a little out of order, back there."
I open the box, and peer inside, pulling back the tissue paper. Whatever it is, it's a very small scrap of fabric.
Pulling it out, I watch it unfurl, and suddenly remember what the cashier at Diva's, the plus-sized boutique, said to me.
Nightie is a generous description for it. The fabric is sheer, and the matching bubblegum-pink G-string isn't exactly going to leave anything to the imagination, either.
I pick up the little embossed card from among the tissue paper, even though some part of me already knows what it's going to say.
Diva's
"Do you like it?" Adrian wants to know.
"Does that really matter?" I glance at him. "You shop at Diva's a lot?"
"Yes, it matters," he says, frowning a little. "And no, only once. For this."
I'm still holding it, letting the fabric run like water through my fingers. "I got all my Natalie clothes there. The cashier recognized your name, from your credit card. And she asked me how I liked the nightie you bought me."
His face blanches.
"Before Valentine's day," I continue. "She was very clear about that. So, I'm forced to draw the conclusion that you bought this for me four months before there was even a hint that we'd ever be sleeping together. Or, you bought it for someone else and re-gifted it."
He sighs, slowly. "Well, first off, the cashier at Diva's should learn to mind her own fucking business." Clearing his throat, he glances at me. "So … is 'hopeful' not an appropriate reason for buying lingerie, then?"
"Nope, not really." I'm laughing, in spite of myself. "I guess I should feel flattered. What, were you just going to drop it on my desk and run away?"
"I didn't have a plan," he admits. "I just saw it, and I thought of you."
"Bullshit." I'm really laughing now. "Why were you in Diva's in the first place?"
"Well, I was going to get you a gift," he says, defensively. "Just - not a gift like this, until I saw it. It was just too perfect."
"It is pretty nice," I admit. "And since when do you buy me gifts?"
"I thought I'd start," he says. "See, I was working on turning over a new leaf even before we slept together."
"You sure know how to spin it," I admit, getting to my feet and letting my bathrobe slip off my shoulders. "Hell, I guess it's been waiting around long enough. Let's find out how it fits."
His face, when I look for his reaction, is much too serious. "You know we don't have to go to that conference," he says. "I just thought it might … well, if you do want an excuse, we can, but I can see why you'd rather just pick your battles with that woman."
"We can talk about it later," I tell him, sliding the nightie over my head.
"Yes," he agrees, his eyes widening. "We can."
Chapter Fourteen
The next night, after work, Adrian comes over.
This time, he warns me beforehand. I tell him that the coast is clear, but that I can't guarantee my parents won't drop in unexpectedly. I already called my mom and left a voicemail telling her I'd be coming to the family Thanksgiving, but I'm thinking I might still cancel last-minute. I'll just wait until she's out of town, and she's made all her plans with the rest of the family so she can't come after me.