A Very Personal Assistant (4 page)

Yet still, she raged, “Where are you, you fuck! Just when I
need you, you go AWOL…you and those bloody Swiss bastards. Men, you’re all the
fucking same!”

It was nonsense, and ridiculous, and she knew it, but she
wanted to knock everything off his desk, and send it flying, and smash all the
other plants on the shelves around the office, too.

“Fuck!” she growled again, stomping across the room and
swooping down to pick up papers.

“Well, if that’s what you want, boss, I guess another long
lunch is in order.”

Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice, in a most alarming
way. It wasn’t a sex thing somehow, just relief, huge relief, that he was
here.

“Yes, it fucking well is!” she countered, still down, a sheaf
of muddled paper in her hand. Of course they’d all had to slide out of the
folders, hadn’t they?

Teetering in a crouch, on her smart heels, she glowered over
her shoulder at him, then suddenly overbalanced, landing on the carpet on her
bottom. Another howl of rage rose to her lips, but within an instant, Patrick
was at her side, helping her to rise, and the anger seemed to steam away like
morning mist and she found herself laughing along with him as his strong arm
brought her back up onto her feet.

“Another rough meeting, I guess?” he said, reaching out and
tucking her hair behind her ears in an easy natural gesture.

Miranda’s heart did another wild lurch. He never touched her in
the office. It was part of their unspoken ground rules. A code they’d somehow
formulated without ever once discussing it. She should have been even angrier
with him for breaching it, but instead the tiny contact felt exquisite. And she
ached for more of it, even as his hand withdrew.

“Absolute shit. Those bastards from the Swiss partnership are
the most devious and conniving operators on the face of the planet. They project
this nice, reasonable facade but it’s a total sham. They’re all sharks.” She
fussed with her hair herself, to cover the way she was shaking. Not with rage
but with a sweet trembling at the proximity of Patrick.

“But you aced the meeting all the same?” It wasn’t really a
question.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

You know me so well, don’t you? You can
see right through the tantrums to the heart of what happened.

The revelation was alarming, yet wonderful. As was the way his
beautiful cologne was tantalizing her, making her feel dizzy with lust and a
whole lot more.

“Lucky guess,” he replied with a puckish smile. “Look, let me
tidy up here. Won’t take a second. Get your things and I’ll meet you in the car
park in ten minutes, eh?” For a moment, he looked slightly unsure of himself, in
a way she rarely saw, and twist of strange yearning made her shudder. “That is,
if you still want to?”

“What do you think?” she answered, wanting to reach down and
ruffle his gilded hair as he sank into a crouch and began to field errant
papers. Either that, or sigh at the way the action tightened his dark trousers
around his haunches and his arse, revealing their strong, muscular shape.
Instead, she darted away, snatched up her bag, then hurried past him while he
was still scooping up documents.

“See you in ten…maybe fifteen, but no longer, eh?” Not looking
back, she headed for the car park, via the cloakroom.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later and he was walking toward her,
jingling his keys, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and the sleeves of
his blue Sea Island cotton shirt rolled up. She liked the look of his smooth
forearms. They were powerful, and had a capable quality. Patrick was wonderful
with his arms and hands. Well, every part of himself really. She knew his body
was fabulous, even though she had yet to see him absolutely and completely
naked. Their couplings had so far had all been partially clothed affairs, even
though not always hurried.

Without speaking, he let her into passenger seat, holding open
the door for her, then strode around to his side, sliding in and slinging his
jacket on the backseat. He gave her a placid, reassuring smile that seemed to
negate even the need for words, and still in silence, they set off, heading for
their secret world of sex.

About half way to the chalet, Patrick spoke up though. Miranda
was half expecting him to ask her to remove her knickers, which he sometimes—but
not always—requested, but instead, he said, “They’re hard on you, these division
level meetings, aren’t they?” He glanced at her quickly, out of the corner of
his eye, his expression compassionate. “I can tell, even when I haven’t been to
one.”

It was as if he’d released a pressure valve. It felt like a
huge relief as she smiled back at him and said, “Hell, yes! I do enjoy them in a
way…and I pretty much always get what I want out of them. But it’s difficult,
even in the twenty-first century, to dominate a gathering of men that way.
Division heads, partners…execs. They take some bloody mastering, I can tell
you.” She took a long breath, sinking into the Citroën’s squashy, comfy seat.
“But it really takes it out of me, angling for control all the time…you
know?”

“Yes…I know.”

Three words, but they seemed to hum with a deep, almost psychic
wisdom.

“I know you do…and that’s why I like our…um…” What to call
them? “Our little get-togethers. I like them because I don’t have to be in
charge. I can just…just…”

“Submit?”

“Yes…with you, I don’t have to decide things or control things
or take responsibility. I can just
be
.”

It was easy to say it. But complex, scary and wonderful to feel
it. She had a sense that in admitting to that particular word—
submit
—she’d stepped through yet another veil, moved
onto another level, and her pussy tensed suddenly at the thought of it.

The last time they’d been together, Patrick had landed a single
teasing slap on her bottom when they’d been fooling around together, tussling on
the small settee in the cottage. And she’d been stunned how much of a turn-on
that had been. She’d immediately wanted him again, and got him, even though time
had been short.

But now time wasn’t short. She had no meetings for the rest of
the day.

* * *

They passed the rest of the journey in silence, each
mulling over their thoughts. At least Miranda was. For all his amiability and
his sensitivity to her needs, Patrick was still very much an enigma. Were her
needs his needs, too? Who could tell? She still knew virtually nothing about him
outside of work and their time together at the cottage.

As he let her into the small holiday home, he took her bag from
her and set it on the sideboard by the door. With a touch to the small of her
back, he propelled her into the center of the room, then circled around until he
was standing facing her, his eyes fixed on hers.

“You need to let go, Miranda.” His hand settled on her cheek,
long fingers curving and inviting her to turn her face and kiss his palm.
“Remember what you said…just
be
.”

A delicious lightness of spirit sluiced through her body,
washing away stress and angst. Her concerns about work, her life, even her
occasional wistful ponderings about Patrick himself and what she really meant to
him. His touch seemed to cleanse her of all that. Especially when he leaned
forward and kissed her lips lightly.

“Now remove your clothes.”

Clamor in her chest, wild excitement, something new, something
new. Immediately, between her legs, she felt hot and wet, silky with desire. An
urge to move her hips, rub her thighs together, touch herself even, was like a
crackling wildfire surging in her belly.

But Patrick’s level blue gaze forbade those things
completely.

Dragging in a breath, Miranda shrugged out of her jacket. For a
moment, she was at a loss what to do with it, but Patrick took it from her and
laid it quite neatly over the back of a chair. Next, her simple silk shell top.
She unfastened the little button at the back of the neck, then wriggled out of
it, pulling it off over her head. Patrick reached for that, too, but not before
smoothing her hair back into place. Then he set her top with her jacket, and
returned his gaze to her, appraisingly.

Her bra was white lace, very luxe and pretty. She’d taken to
wearing her nicer undies to work—La Perla, Janet Reger, other upscale
brands—simply on the off chance that it might be a day when she and Patrick fled
the rat race to the cottage. More often than not, her silk-and-lace finery went
unseen and unappreciated by his gaze, but there was always a frisson of
excitement in wearing it anyway, fantasizing about moments like this. Moments
when he smiled archly, his eyes zeroing in on her nipples that showed so darkly
through the pale lace and protruded like ripe, tempting berries. Nodding
infinitesimally, he swept his tongue over his lips as if anticipating the taste
of such luscious fruit.

Her fingers fumbling with the hooks and eyes, Miranda struggled
to free herself. The tiny fastenings defied her, turned into impenetrable
micropuzzles by her lust and frustration, but just as she was on the point of
ripping and tearing like a madwoman, Patrick stepped forward, reached around her
and unhooked her in a smooth easy action. For a moment, he left the bra hanging
loose, via its straps, then he slid his two hands around to the front of her
body and cupped her breasts. A second later, after just a little squeeze, he
lifted away the white lace and bared her. The brassiere went with her jacket and
blouse across the back of the hard chair.

Bare from the waist up, Miranda experienced an irrational urge
to cover herself. Her sense of vulnerability was a sweet taste upon her tongue,
a nectar in her blood. Light-headed, she pushed back her shoulders, acting
completely on instinct. The nakedness of her breasts was Patrick’s by right, she
must offer herself. Not resist, or fight, just be his.

“You’re very beautiful…very, very beautiful. Those Swiss
bastards should have been on their hands and knees, kissing your shoes, and
grateful for the chance to humble themselves before you.”

She laughed. What a thought. Even in the midst of sex and heat
he could entertain her.

“Uh-oh,” he said softly, placing a finger over her lips, light
as thistledown, to silence her. She might be a goddess, to be worshipped and
groveled to by the Swiss execs, but Patrick was
her
god, to be obeyed. “Now, behave yourself and get on with the task in hand.”

Miranda experienced a pang of loss when the finger left her
lips. She’d wanted to kiss it, draw it into her mouth and suck on it hungrily.
Just the tiniest touch and contact excited her out of all proportion. She felt
as if she were losing her mind for this man, but in a joyous, exciting way.

The hook and zip on her skirt weren’t the barrier her bra hooks
had been and in a flash, she was stepping out of it, balancing on her smart,
business heels, terrified she’d trip on the hem and tumble. Not because she
might bump herself, but because she didn’t want to disappoint Patrick. She
didn’t want to be anything less than perfect and elegant and obedient for
him.

Where had this submissiveness come from? It seemed both bizarre
and alien, and yet it was like a comforting cloak, slipping over her, suiting
her perfectly. She found herself lowering her eyes, respectfully, even though a
part of her wanted to gorge on the handsome sight of him. His elegant athletic
body in his dark waistcoat and trousers, and the way his white shirt, open at
the neck, made him look like a golden laughing prince.

Nervous, she stepped out of her shoes, and then peeled down her
hold-up stockings, tossing them aside. Just her panties remained, trim and lacy,
the last barrier. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband, but Patrick shook his
head. Her hands fell to her sides, as if they had no purpose, and she had no
will.

Not sure whether she should, she lifted her head and looked him
in the eye. He smiled, beautiful and benign, yet still steely somehow. Keeping
his gaze locked on her face he stepped forward until their bodies were almost
contiguous, then looked down on her. He wasn’t all that much taller than she,
but just enough to reinforce his supremacy. His hands dropped to her hips and he
pulled her close until expanses of her bare skin were pressed close to the
length of his clothed body. The brush of cloth against her breasts and abdomen
and thighs was tantalizing and perverse, as was the taste of his mouth as he
kissed her deeply again, thrusting his tongue between her lips, exploring her
teeth, her palate, the inside of her cheeks.

It was a thorough kiss, a controlling kiss, and that quality
compelled her stillness. As he devoured her, she knew she wasn’t allowed to
touch him in return. Her hands hung motionless at her sides, held there by his
will.

He kissed her for a long time thus, one hand on her bottom,
pressing her to him, one hand in her hair, securing her head. The power of his
mouth was almost cruel, it made her jaw ache, but she rejoiced in it, feeding on
his lust.

Finally he drew back, and said, “I’m going to spank you now.
I’m going to spank you hard, and you’re going to enjoy it, even if you don’t
think you will.”

His voice was hypnotic, even, gentle. All power in his soft
words.

But I
know
I’ll enjoy it.

That one casual spank he’d bestowed on her had made her sex
flutter and desire gather. More she knew would be wonderful, despite the pain.
Years ago, she and an old boyfriend had tried a bit of BDSM play, and that, too,
had set a fire in her sex. The man had lost interest, and that hadn’t bothered
her at the time, but now she knew she would have liked to continue and
experiment.

This time it would be different, greater, more wonderful.
Because it was Patrick. Looking into his eyes, she knew this wasn’t his chief
kink. It was just something he liked to do, and wanted to do now, but that was
enough for her. With him, she could try everything, do everything.