A Very Personal Assistant (3 page)

It would be nice, yes indeed. And suddenly she wanted it
furiously. Even despite the orgasms she’d already had. Maybe because of them?
Her engine was well and truly primed, and the curiosity that had simmered
beneath the surface since she’d first engaged Patrick to work for her rose and
bubbled, like water starting to boil.

“Is there a bed here?” She started to rise, glancing around as
she felt her skirt slide on its lining and cover her again. She’d not really
taken much notice of their surroundings, she’d been so bewitched by her
companion, but now she saw two doors leading off the main kitchen and living
area of the cottage. Both stood ajar, and in one she saw the side of what looked
like a chest of drawers, and the other revealed the white gleam of an
old-fashioned wash basin.

“There is…if you want it?” On his feet again, he looked, and
sounded, strangely devious, as if he were plotting something. Miranda felt
irritated. What was up with him? Didn’t he want to fuck her? She glanced down at
his crotch, and saw that he did. His erection was prodigious.

“What do you mean? If I want it?”

Still holding her hands, he inclined forward, running his
mouth, lips slightly parted, over her cheek and her jaw.

Oh, God, he’s never even kissed me
yet.

As she realized that deficit, it was rectified. Patrick’s lips
settled on hers in a strangely chaste kiss, very soft, very tentative, utterly
velvety. They moved very lightly, teasing, pressing a little, dragging a little.
Then his mouth opened and he gently licked her lips with the tip of his
tongue.

“There’s something else I rather fancied,” he whispered, his
breath mingling with hers. “Maybe you’ll indulge me?”

“Indulge you in what?”

Patrick’s hands moved to her waist, spanning it. She was decent
again now, but bizarrely, she wished she were naked so she could press her bare
breasts and crotch against him, grinding against the fine, conservative suiting
of his waistcoat and his trousers. Without thinking she let her hands drop to
her skirt, ready to raise it again.

His smile provocative, he said, “Pretend the table is your
desk.” He nodded to the shiny surface of the tablecloth. “I’d like to fuck you
across it…. It’s my fantasy. Has been since the first day I walked into your
office.”

“But, couldn’t we just have done it there anyway? There’s a
lock on my office door you know.”

“Yes, I do know that…and don’t you think I haven’t imagined you
behind it, taking off your clothes to get changed when you’re going out in the
evening, straight from work. Putting on sexy underwear for some fortunate guy
who gets to fuck you later on?”

She wanted to tell him that there had been no fortunate guys
recently. Nobody of significance since he’d come into her employment.

“So?” she challenged.

“No, it’s too complicated, actually fucking in the office. It’d
muddle the parameters of our excellent working relationship.” She opened her
mouth to protest, but he pressed his warm fingers over it. “Here, we’re on
neutral ground. It’s just fantasy. It doesn’t screw up how we act together back
there.”

She wanted to tell him that it might do that very for her, but
as if he’d sensed her objections, he squelched them with another kiss. Something
a bit more proactive and precocious this time. His tongue pushed into her mouth,
licking, exploring, tasting, darting about. Subduing her. He was going to get
his own way…across the table, whether it was substituting for her desk or not.
She moaned into his mouth as he cupped her buttocks through her skirt.

“Come on, boss, over you go,” he said eventually when she was
about to crumple under the force of her own desire.

Even though she was still fully dressed apart from her
knickers, he manhandled her facedown over the tablecloth, pressing her across it
until her hot cheek was against the cloth, summarily pushing up her skirt.

Miranda closed her eyes, imagining her pale buttocks displayed
to him, rounded and tempting. She had a nice arse, she knew that. She hoped he
appreciated it.

When his warm hands gripped her and began to manipulate her,
she knew he did. His palms cupped the rounds of her bottom and moved in slow
circles, the rude handling tugging and pulling on her sex. Going with the flow,
she moved in sync and with a hitch this way, and hitch the other, she managed to
position her clit against the hard edge of the table.

“Ah, that’s a good girl…work yourself…work it, babe…you can do
it.”

A hot rush of lust sluiced through her. He sounded like the
director of a sleazy porno movie, praising his even sleazier star. She circled
her hips, gasping at the pleasure it gave her from the friction against her clit
and listening to the wicked sound of Patrick’s laughter.

“And you can do it, too!” she growled after a moment, impatient
for him, “Stop shilly-shallying about and fuck me, will you?”

“Of course, Ms. Austin,” he intoned in his most neutral office
voice, and then both of them were laughing, even though Miranda was perilously
close to orgasm.

Which was a miracle, really. Sometimes she didn’t come all that
quickly. She hadn’t even stopped to think about that particular phenomenon this
afternoon, though. It seemed that with Patrick pleasure was easy, always
available.

His zipper slid down, a tiny sound, but she heard it like a
clarion call announcing the main act in a drama. Then rustling. Him rummaging in
a pocket. Ah, the sneaky devil had condoms on his person. He’d certainly
intended to get lucky, not that
she
minded. The
luckier he got, the luckier
she
got, too. How could
he be anything else but a lover par excellence, given what he could do to her
with just his voice and his laughing blue eyes?

I wonder what your cock looks like, Mr.
Paragon of All Good Things?

Twisting around, looking across the globes of her naked bottom,
she checked him out.

Oh, nice.

He was a good size. A very good size. Jutting from above his
pushed-down underwear, he was high and hard and pointing in her general
direction, veins pronounced and crown rosy, even through the latex.

“Does it meet with your approval, ma’am?” he murmured in a
debonair impression of a butler offering her a choice entrée rather than a man
showing her his cock poking out of his fly, along with his underwear and
shirttail.

“It’ll do.”

“Cheeky cow,” he returned cheerfully, reaching for her thighs
and edging them apart, firmly and with no nonsense. And she liked how he had no
qualms about touching himself, guiding himself to exactly the right spot. No
macho performance games, trying to push in, no hands, and poking around wildly
until he found the entrance more by luck than judgment. “Hold still,” he
instructed her when she started to push toward him. “Let me do the work…you
don’t have to do anything.”

“But what if I want to?”

“Ack, always have to be the boss, don’t you,” he observed,
pushing himself now. His cock was definitely a bit bigger than it’d looked from
such an awkward over-the-shoulder angle. He felt huge as he forged in, making
her yield. “I thought this afternoon was all about you relaxing and not trying
to control everything for a change.” With a jerk of his hips, he was in to the
hilt, making her gasp.

The urge to push again, to work herself against him, was
uncontrollable. She grabbed at the edge of the table, for purchase, and shook
her hips.

“Now, what did I say?” he reprimanded with a chuckle, steadying
her with a strong hand on the small of her back. “Stay still…keep it here.” He
pushed very slowly, pressing her against the edge of the table, then staying
there, keeping her pinned.

“But I like to move…when I’m fucking.”

His fingers were firm on her back. Unyielding. His cock felt
huge inside her, also unyielding.

“Try something different, Miranda…a change. That’s why we’re
here.” He leaned over her, and she felt the brush of cloth against her skin, and
a tiny discomfort from the teeth of his zipper pressing, too. Inclining over her
back, his body felt strong and protective, familiar and yet new and exciting.
His breath was warm against her hair and the back of her neck as he nuzzled her
lightly with nose and closed mouth, like a cat.

His immobility was dynamic. His cock a hot bar lodged in her
sex. She stilled, savoring the feel of him, within. In the midst of crazy sex,
she found serenity in his quiet, solid presence, over and inside her.

“Miranda,” he whispered, his voice vague, almost bemused. On
the surface of the table one hand found hers and laced her fingers with his. The
other hand skated along her hip and thigh, then slithered beneath her, searching
for her center. Quickly finding it…

Patrick’s hands were manly, but deft. She’d always admired the
grace of his gestures, the swift, efficient way he typed or gathered papers,
even just set down a cup. The tips of his fingers were square, firm, steady.
Deadly accurate as they settled on her, on her clit.

His touch was light, angled, teasing. The erotic engine inside
her revved up and she began to hitch about again, desperate to release pent-up
energy and pleasure.

“Hush,” he breathed, still touching, still rocking that
beautiful workmanlike fingertip at the very focus of erotic sensation. “If you
want to move, move inside, sweetheart…grip me. Caress me with your cunt.”

Permission. She’d been granted permission. For a microsecond,
every feminist particle of her rebelled, then just as quickly realized the
truth. There was strength in giving in, it was her choice, what
she
wanted at this moment. With his big cock in her
sex, and his powerful body over hers, pressing her to the table, he was still
serving her, giving her precisely the sensations that pleased her.

The scent of his cologne filled her head and made her smile
with delight. He, too, it seemed, had topped up just as she had. His woodsy
fragrance was always low-key and discreet around the office, but now its sensual
notes were strong and spicy.

“You smell good,” she said, panting with effort and
concentration as she contracted her inner muscles, grabbing at him. It was hard
going not to come almost immediately, but now he’d asked for this, she would
give it to him—he deserved it.

Within seconds, she wasn’t the only one who was panting.

“Oh, hell,” he gasped. “That’s good…that’s fucking
amazing.”

And still he didn’t move. Still he lay over her, deep inside
her, rock-hard and unwavering. But his heartfelt gasps and muttered oaths told
her she was getting to him. Even his fingertip wasn’t moving now. It just rested
against her.

But as his mouth opened against the side of her throat, and he
kissed her hard there, her control splintered. Silver sensations rippled like
electricity around his cock.

“I…I’m going to come…. I can’t help it….” Her words sounded
choppy and weird. Had she uttered them, or was it Patrick?

“Fuck….e, too…” That
was
him.

His whole body tensed over her, and as her sex seemed to
shimmer and gather itself, she half expected him to start thrusting furiously,
as her previous lovers has mostly done at the point of no return.

But still Patrick was different, and himself. He shoved hard,
but short. Little jerks, contained power, mastering his own hips even when he
shouldn’t have been able to keep control of anything. He massaged her sensitive
entrance with the girth of his cock, even as his finger circled roughly on her
clitoris.

“Come
now
, love,” he growled as he
did just the same.

With a keening wail of pleasure, she met and matched him.

* * *

Later, they set themselves to rights, and drank tea.
Miranda could scarcely believe how ordinary everything seemed. Not ordinary in a
mundane way, but in a quiet, calm, comfortable way that soothed her and made her
feel refreshed. All the sense of being drained and burnt out that she’d been
plagued with just a couple of hours ago seemed to have been erased by the
spiritual fire of orgasm.

And her strangely serene relationship with Patrick was
unaltered and yet at the same time better somehow. The sex didn’t complicate
things. It just seemed as if the memories of it were bedded in a deep quiet
place that she could draw on when she needed revivification.

It was clear that the dynamics of their working association
were going to remain unruffled, too. The cottage was a special place—neither
work, nor home. Time out of time. And they returned to it several times in the
next few busy weeks. Always after a taxing time, when Miranda had had to grapple
with curmudgeonly opponents at high-powered meetings. She’d return to the
office, swearing and cursing even if she’d achieved her objective—and she’d see
that sweet knowing twinkle in Patrick’s eyes.

At home, she thought of him sometimes, perhaps more than she
cared to admit, but life was busy. Work took most of her energy, and what little
social life she had was with an established group of friends of both sexes. No
dating.

A few times, she’d thought about ringing Patrick, asking him
out, but the specter of workplace complications hung over the question. She’d
seen people get too involved and crash and burn in ridiculously farcical
flames.

One day, after a bitch of a morning, grappling with a
delegation from the firm’s new Swiss partnership—a set of tough negotiators for
all their superficially polite amenability—she was at the end of her tether. For
once, when she returned from the meeting, Patrick wasn’t there, and that absence
infuriated her.

She flung her binder across the room and it knocked a tower of
document baskets and a potted plant all over the floor.

Patrick wasn’t chained to his desk, she knew that. There were
plenty of legitimate reasons why he could be elsewhere, and she’d even asked him
to get some old documents from the file room….