A Very Personal Assistant (5 page)

“Come,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her across
the room to the little old settee, which was dun-colored, the worse for years
and irregularly stuffed. Still holding her hand he sank down onto it and set his
thighs strongly braced. Ready. “Right, Miranda…let’s be having you.”

Not quite sure how he wanted her, she followed the tug of his
fingers and after a bit of hitching and adjustment, found herself face down
across Patrick’s lap, balanced in a state of both precariousness and safety. Her
body and her face flamed, blushing furiously at both her vulnerable condition
and the sensation of his solid, frisky erection digging into the side of her
belly.

His next words surprised her.

“You can still change your mind, love. If you think this isn’t
what you want, we can do something else…even turn the tables.”

Her heart pounded. He’d do that for her? It was against his
preference, she was sure of it. But for her, he’d go against his natural
desires. What did
that
mean?

“Miranda?” he prompted.

“I don’t want to change my mind. I want
this!
”

“Good girl…good girl…”

He began to caress her bottom, smoothing the tips of his
fingers over her toned flesh through the flimsy fabric of her knickers. She
worked hard at the gym three times a week, and she ate a good diet. She was in
great shape and her bum was one of her best and sexiest features.

His touch was light, but aroused her exponentially. She felt
again that urge she often got with him. The compulsion to move, to jiggle about,
to rub against him, working off the electrical energy of desire that he roused
in her. She felt as if she were bursting with it, whenever he was near. When she
was at the office, she channeled it into work and ambition and the pursuit of
excellence. When they were alone, it roiled inside, ever growing and boiling
until an orgasm released it.

When she began to move, he said, “Tut-tut,” and pressed down on
the small of her back, to steady her. She obeyed instantly, and once she was
still he peeled down her panties to the tops of her thighs, baring her
bottom.

“Beautiful,” he murmured…and then spanked her. Hard. Two fiery
slaps, one on the crown of each buttock.

Miranda yelped as if she’d been electrocuted. This was nothing
like that play slap the other time, and nothing like the meek and mild spanking
her former lover had given her. This was powerful, determined, efficient, and
just those two blows, and then a couple more, set her bottom and her pussy
wildly aflame.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she chanted, unable
not
to wriggle now. Her entire sex was throbbing as well as her rear
end, glowing and pulsating, just a hair away from climax.

Patrick spanked on, coating the entire surface of her bottom in
burning heat, making it feel swollen and as if it were a simmering fluorescent
crimson. Maybe it was? She didn’t care. She couldn’t think. She was desperate
for the end of the awful, beautiful pain, but in the gaps between the strikes,
she wanted to cry out
more, please, hurry
! By now
she was lifting her hips to meet each hit, matching his action with her
reaction.

“I want to come!” she wailed suddenly, unable to stop
herself.

“Then why don’t you?” observed Patrick, still spanking as he
laughed fondly.

Hitching around on his lap, and rubbing herself lasciviously
against his cock as she did so, Miranda reached around underneath herself to
find her clit. She barely needed to touch it. Just one stroke and she came hard,
desperately hard, the first pulsations fluttering in time to a couple of
Patrick’s spanks.

“Oh…ooh…oh, God,” she gasped, pleasure cresting and surging,
her legs kicking crazily as he ceased the punishment and slid two fingers into
her channel from behind. Her pussy grabbed at him, hungrily, welcoming the
intrusion as his thumb and his free fingers stirred the redness on the underhang
of her bottom. His other hand was on her back, soft and light.

The orgasm seemed to go on a long time, a jerking, pulsing
jumble of pain and bliss. Out of her head, Miranda was a castaway washed up on
the living rock of Patrick. He was her refuge, and she clung on, sobbing and
thanking him.

Eventually, she fell back into herself, intensely aware of his
erection boring into her. It was like a knot of oak against her, hot through his
trousers. She could feel it glowing, almost pulsing, calling to her, the heat of
it echoing her own. Without stopping to ask, she slid off his knee and pressed
his thighs apart with her hands. Shaking, fumbling, she unfastened his trousers
and rummaged amongst his shirttail and underwear to draw him out into the light
and air, an angry reddened column of primal desire.

Before he could speak, she slid her lips over his crown and
started sucking hard and not too skillfully, as if her life depended on it.

“Oh, you beauty,” shouted Patrick, half purr, half snarl, all
desperation and long withheld need. His clever hands sank into her hair,
gripping her head, directing her efforts, making her take more of him. “Use your
tongue more, love…agh…yes…that’s what I like.”

She licked and sucked and swirled her tongue all around his
glans and every bit of his shaft she could reach. He tasted both foxy and
delicious, salty and fine, and he vocalized as she mouthed him, just as she’d
cried and shouted when he’d spanked her and then thrust his fingers into
her.

When he tensed and went rigid, she reached out and gripped him
around the waist, hugging him for dearest life, so he couldn’t withdraw. As he
started to jerk, she sucked harder, flicking him sinuously beneath his glans,
stabbing and probing like a guileful serpent intent on his pleasure.

A harsh oath echoed around the little room as he filled her
mouth. Then came another and another, lurid, agonized utterances so unlike his
usual easy amenable tones that it might have been another person entirely
ejaculating onto her stroking tongue.

I love you.

The words echoed in her head, just as Patrick’s profane cries
of pleasure rang in the room. Even as he climaxed, and she gloried in it, the
revelation terrified her. And confused her. She wasn’t even sure if she’d
thought it, heard it, or whether it had been the product of her mind or his.

She only knew that wherever the thought had originated, it had
been the truth. She certainly loved him whether he loved her or whether he
didn’t. Letting him slip from between her lips, she looked up at him, half
hoping he was still insensible with ecstasy, eyes closed, out of it.

But he wasn’t. His blue eyes were as stormy and confused as her
feelings, although perfectly lucid. He stared back down at her, intent,
astonished…afraid? Then he frowned, made a sound like the growl of a wounded
beast and lunged forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and urging her back
almost roughly on the rug in front of the settee. In a muddle of her limbs and
his, Miranda found herself on her back, her sore bottom pressed against the
rough texture of the cheap carpeting. She hissed through her teeth at the surge
of pain even as she reached for him, trying to pull him over her.

“No!” he hissed back at her, shaking off her grip, and instead
of mounting her, slithering down onto his knees and crouching between her legs.
She howled when he grabbed her hard by the buttocks and lifted her, wrenching
her panties right off, then opening her up to him like a fruit and plunging his
ravenous mouth down between her thighs to feast on her sex.

“Patrick! Patrick!” she shouted as he plagued her with lips and
tongue—just as she’d done him—and sucked hard on her tender clit with ruthless
intent.

Before she could hardly draw breath again, a fierce, hard,
painful orgasm wrenched at her. Agonizing in the intensity of pleasure and the
way Patrick’s fingers dug deep into the punished muscles of the bottom he’d
spanked.

Somewhere in the furor, she seemed to feel his voice against
her throbbing pussy.

“I love you,” she sobbed.

Had she echoed what he’d said? Or simply what she’d wished
for?

* * *

Everything was the same. Everything was different.

The next day, Miranda didn’t know how to feel or act or look at
Patrick. She’d ruined everything by blurting out her feelings, she knew that.
Not that he showed his discomfiture or acted in any way out of his normal,
serene efficient mode. But she could tell he was as shaken up as she was.

I can’t go on like this. I need him. I
love him. I want to talk about it but he doesn’t seem to want to.

Work was tough. Two morning meetings were grueling. She managed
to get through, and Patrick was still the perfect personal assistant. But when
lunchtime came, he asked for the afternoon off. Miranda’s heart leapt, hoping
he’d suggest a trip to the cottage, but instead, he left alone, and she found
herself staring out of the window, watching the Citroën pull away from the car
park.

She couldn’t blame him. For any number of reasons.

She’d broken the unspoken rules of their relationship.

Office liaisons were severely frowned upon.

She was the one who’d complicated something that was stunning
and perfect in its simplicity.

Sex, in a special place, as no-strings therapy. Probably as
much for him as it was for her.

The afternoon dragged abominably. She couldn’t go on like this.
She couldn’t face the weekend brooding and fretting, so she went online, looking
for a short break, at a spa, a last-minute deal. Nothing took her fancy, though,
so she decided to check email one last time then go home, via an off-license on
the way.

Her heart dropped like a yo-yo when she saw a message from
Patrick. And when she opened and read the attachment, she felt sick, adrift,
shipwrecked.

He’d sent her a formal letter of resignation, a very plain,
simple request. A serrated dagger through her heart.

Racing through the building to the car park, she didn’t know
and didn’t care if she’d shut down her computer properly, locked her office, got
all her things. She just had to get to Patrick’s place. A phone call or a text
just wouldn’t do. She couldn’t find the words, despite her usual executive
eloquence, and she had to see him at home as she’d never seen him there before.
Their lives had never intersected apart from the office and the cottage, but
they were going to now, whether he wanted it or not.

She’d have an explanation, and one last fuck, even if it killed
her, or him, in the process.

He lived in a nice building, not modern, but full of character,
and built from mellow old stone. It was quirky, like him and his vintage Citroën
and his sharply cut but ever so slightly oldfashioned three-piece suits. Miranda
stabbed the speakerphone button beside the big black door, under the porch,
without waiting and allowing herself to falter. When he answered, after a long
wait, she was about on the point of fainting.

“It’s me” was all she could say.

“You’d better come up,” he answered without even having to ask
who it was, despite the tinny quality of the speaker, that no doubt made her
voice sound just as odd as his did.

On his landing, she hammered on the door, not caring a jot if
neighbors on his landing heard her bashing away. She had to get in. She had to
see him. She had to touch him. The door swung open after just a second,
revealing him to her.

As she’d never seen him before.

In their trysts, she was reminded again now, he’d never
actually taken all his clothes off. It had always been hurried rummaging amongst
his linen, his beautiful cock standing proud from his fly, then after a few
seconds, plunging into her sex or her mouth.

But now, here he was, obviously fresh from the shower, wearing
a short blue silky robe in a paisley pattern. It left his feet and his lower
legs completely bare, along with a slice of honey-tanned chest, peppered with a
shadowy smattering of wiry sandy hair.

“I can’t lose you!” she cried, surging into the little hallway
of his flat, forcing him to back up. “I just can’t! I couldn’t bear it!”

Heat and confusion flared in his blue eyes. Was he shocked that
she was here? Was he horrified? For a moment the floor seemed to shift beneath
her, then she gritted her teeth and threw her bag down, launching herself at him
and not giving either of them chance to think.

She pushed him against the wall, cramming her body against his,
reaching up for his head, to bring his mouth down to hers. His blond curls were
wet and awry, and she dug her fingers into them as she kissed him, demanding
with the pressure of her mouth what she was too desperate to ask for in spoken
words.

Joy, even if only temporary, poured through her when he
responded, and his arms snaked around her, holding her as hard as she was
holding him.

Between their bodies, his cock was hard, a knot of instant,
rocklike readiness. He worked it against her, knocking his hips against hers as
he kissed her back as furiously as she was kissing him.

Tongues and lips dueled, speaking volumes in gasping silence.
Miranda tried to struggle and wrestle with her jacket, but he grabbed hold of
her upper arms and immobilized her, his mouth cruel against hers, almost
punishing her.

When they were both gasping for air, he let her free a moment,
staring, almost glaring down into her eyes. Was he angry? It was hard to tell,
but his expression was like a furnace of violent emotion, his face all aglow.
Even as she finally managed to catch her breath, he grabbed her again and swung
her around until she was the one pressed up against the wall. Then, in a fluid,
elegant move, almost like a supermodel shedding a layer on the catwalk, he
shucked off his robe and then lunged forward again, pressing his naked, muscular
body against her body, still in its clothes and all.