His PA. His to mold. His to fantasize about.
And as usual, his cock could be relied upon to step up to the plate. It sprang to attention, practically pointing in the direction of the woman who gave him fits. The things he wanted to do to her. Dirty, beautiful things.
But he couldn’t. Apart from the ethical minefield where he had technically purchased her services from a would-be pimp, the association of sex and money conjured up images of his ex, for whom Brody’s billions weren’t enough, and who swapped him out for a different model. A different billionaire. Good old Kane Sr.
Cuckolded by his own father.
Hello, thoughts of the witch and her warlock. Goodbye, erection.
He fought to get it back, that pleasurable rush through his veins. Only one thing could do it. One person. He imagined that twist of dark hair at the nape of her neck, a knot above creamy, edible skin he would unfurl before he took her. He resumed his stroke.
Now he had a million more lurid images to add to the mix. Not just fantasies, but experiences. That erotic heat pulsing against him when she wrapped her pale thighs around his hips. How she rubbed her body on him, taking her pleasure. So uninhibited, so unlike the demure woman he had imagined. Reality so often cheated the fantasy, but not this time. The experience trumped the fantasy in so many ways.
His cock felt like a pleasure bomb in his hand. The water crashed down on his shoulders as he pumped his fist, imagining it was her tight, beautiful body. Imagining the fantasy of her, so he wouldn’t succumb to the reality once more.
…
Kevin was missing.
Given that he now had a space the size of an airplane hangar at his disposal, this should not have surprised her. But it was worrisome because it could mean only one thing.
Brody was going to find more “gifts” before the day was through.
Last night, he’d gone out for a business dinner with Mr. Smythe-Osborne, that randy British lecher, and she prayed they didn’t continue their tour of Chicago’s strip emporiums. Another woman writhing on Brody? That was not the image Emma wanted drilled into her oversexed imagination. Not that she had any say in how he should spend his time or what lissome beauties he should spend it with.
Before he’d left, Brody had given her the “dime tour,” said with complete seriousness. The penthouse had six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a wine cellar, a full-service kitchen (I never cook, he’d tossed off casually), a dining room for entertaining, and a living room straight out of Architectural Digest with all those white furnishings begging for her and Kevin to contaminate.
“What, no bowling alley?” she had quipped. Which is when he showed her the entertainment room, a ten-seat movie theater with a big-ass screen hooked up to state-of-the-art projection equipment. The shelves of movies were rivaled only by his display cases of action figures, most of them from Star Wars and that science fiction show with the really cute actor in the skinny blue suit, Converse sneakers, and awesome hair.
She didn’t make fun of him. Like her, the man was a mass of contradictions: specs-wearing nerd, strip-club hobbyist, orgasm-producing master. And he looked like the bomb in an Italian suit.
But he rarely smiled. As far as she knew, didn’t date—although there was clearly nothing wrong with his libido or his equipment. What was his deal?
These musings occupied her as she wandered through the space with its bland, tasteful art and bland, expensive furnishings. Other than the entertainment room, it projected little of its owner’s personality. For all his grumpiness when she called, he seemed close to his sister, and there was a picture of her on his desk at work, but nothing here where he lived.
Still no sign of Kevin.
She resisted calling out. Six in the morning and she was sure Brody must still be asleep after a late night of carousing with Mr. S-O. Up ahead, a tawny blur on the chase rocketed by on his way to—oh, no, Brody’s bedroom.
Dumbass cat.
“Kevin,” she shout-whispered as she approached the ajar door. Perhaps Brody was already up and off in the west wing polishing his guns for the shooting party later. This wealth really freaked her out. She peeked a head around the door, torn between hoping she wasn’t disturbing him and wishing he were lying in bed with a sheet halfway down his body, revealing the curvature of his steel-muscled ass.
No such luck. But his bed had been slept in, which she took as a good sign that he hadn’t spent the night with some trashy piece he picked up in a club. She had enough self-awareness to be amused at this little irony.
Shower sounds reached her ears as she took a few steps farther inside. Cleaning up after a night with some skank, Mr. Kane?
God, what was wrong with her? Less than two nights ago, she had been the skank. She had no claim over him and neither did she want to. She needed to find Kevin, get ready for work, look for an apartment, figure out how to pay off Ray—as well as the money she now owed Brody for all that damn cat food—and plan her next steps. Which might involve disappearing off the grid. Sex with her smokin’ boss should really be the farthest thing from her mind.
Brody’s closet was open. Emma tiptoed over and spied inside.
“Kevin!” The incubus was sniffing out Brody’s shoes, likely looking for a place to make his mark. “Come here.”
The little shit ignored her.
“Oh, you are in for it.” She moved to grab him, but he shot right by her. That’s when she heard it.
Well, she wasn’t quite sure what “it” was, but if she had to hazard a guess, she’d say it was a moan. Panic seized her chest. Was Brody hurt? Hungover? Singing?
With the quietness of a ninja, she moved toward the bathroom. The door was open a few inches, the soothing pitter-patter of the shower the only noise now.
“Mr. Ka—uh, Brody?” she asked tentatively. “Are you okay?”
The sound came again, this time louder, and now that she was close, there was no doubt that it was Brody. Only he was definitely not hurt.
A groan disturbed the air. Full-throated, pleasure-tinged, threading an invisible line of need to the sensitive flesh between her thighs. A throb started up there, a sweet ache—oh God, there he went again. A deep, shuddering moan.
She turned away from the door, moving her back to greet the wall. Needing its support to keep her upright.
He was jerking off in the shower.
Oh. My. “Wow,” she whispered.
Acknowledging the fact tightened her nipples painfully. The pulse between her legs beat faster and joined the rhythm of her pounding heart. Instinctively, she moved her hand over her chest, seeking calm, but now that she had her hand on her breast, the action had a sensuous effect. Stroking her aching nipple produced short-term relief and a deep-seated need for more.
She dropped her hand like her breast was forbidden country. She couldn’t do that. Not here with her boss next door.
Her boss next door under a steamy spray with his big, rough hand stroking that monster cock.
Leave this room now. Forget what you heard.
Her feet seemed incapable of following her brain’s instructions. This was ridiculous. She shook her head, giving herself a mental shake, and stepped toward the door.
“Uh-uh-mmmm-a.”
She stilled. Surely that was her imagination. Surely he had not just said her name. With that big hand wrapped around that big—
“Oh, Christ, Emma.”
She slumped against the wall, boneless, paralyzed at what she’d heard. Once might have been an accident, twice was the stuff of fantasies. His, apparently.
Hers, definitely.
Maybe it was a different Emma. Maybe he was fantasizing about his favorite Jane Austen novel. Right. Sure there had been odd moments in the office when she glanced up and found him staring at her from behind those sexy rims with an intense regard that made her sex tighten in need. But then he would look away as if it meant nothing.
However, things had changed. Lines had been hazed beyond recognition. She knew what he felt like inside her, how his beautiful cock was crafted to fill her emptiness. He had made her come hard, and last night, her dreams had been steamy and filled with him. She awoke sweating, humping her hand, her entire body on fire with want. Now he was using her in his fantasy. So flattering.
And arousing.
Unbearably arousing.
His next groan sounded louder, the shower tile’s amplification conspiring to crank up her own craving. What would he do if she walked in there, threw open the glass door, and stepped inside? Fell to her knees and took him in her mouth?
She squeezed her thighs together, desperate for relief. Aiming for completion without doing something so deliberate as touching herself. Look ma, no hands!
It was useless. The ache between her legs wouldn’t be soothed by damn Kegels. She should leave and down a quart of ice water. Douse it over her flaming skin.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Instead she pressed the heel of her hand against the part of her that begged for a salve. Yes. Better. Just a few rubs outside the boxers she had borrowed to ease the ache. Brody’s boxers, the thought of which merely hiked her desire. A couple of seconds of naughty indulgence, but damn…they were damp. And no touch had ever felt so good.
No touch but his.
Another moan from the shower went straight to her blooming clit. At this rate, a single press of her fingers to her bare, damp skin would do it. Get it done, then back to her day and her shitty life. As long as she heard the shower and those moans from within, she’d know he was otherwise occupied. Jerking off with her as the inspiration.