Trouble was, he was damned if he broke it and damned if he didn’t.
With a swift, angry flick, he opened his laptop and logged on to Virtual Life. The usual scene opened and he fought a flare of mild annoyance at his pathetic hunger. He hated that he needed this, but he did.
He settled back in his seat as the instance opened. He immediately knew something was different. The shock froze him in place. He’d played this instance every day, sometimes more than once, and it was always identical. He’d programmed it like this. But now…
Now when Virtual Shannon walked into the room, she wasn’t wearing a tight leather skirt, form-hugging belly shirt and slick leather boots. She was wearing a decorous tweed skirt and…shit! A blouse suspiciously identical to the one Shannon was wearing today.
What the hell?
“You wanted me?” she purred in a throaty voice, as she always did.
“Care to take some…dictation?”
“Of course.”
The instance continued on in its usual cheesy manner but Tristan barely noticed. He was poleaxed. There was only one explanation for the change in the scene.
Last night, Shannon had accessed his Green Door files and made some wardrobe adjustments. He should be furious but how could he be, when he’d hacked her private files as well?
That she knew he’d created an instance about her gave him pause. He’d had no idea this morning that she’d discovered his dirty little secret. She’d given nothing away.
Technically, she could sue him for all he was worth. Technically, creating a virtual sexual scenario featuring one of one’s employees was way, way, way over the line. The fact that she’d done the same—created an instance where he was tied to a chair, for example—was irrelevant. He was the boss. It was incumbent upon him to protect his employees from anyone who would take undue advantage of their position. Even himself.
Especially himself.
What he’d done, dressing her like a trollop and programming her to suck him off like a common whore, had been despicable. A wash of shame flooded him. She wasn’t like that. She wasn’t. No wonder she’d gone in and changed poor Virtual Shannon’s clothes.
Aw hell.
He scrubbed at his jaw with his palm. Could this get any worse?
Apparently it could. A soft knock on the door ripped him from his morose reverie.
“Come.” He combed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make himself presentable.
“Mr. Trillo?”
It was her. She opened the door a crack and poked her head around. He stared at her, her corkscrew curls and fawn-like eyes, her heart-shaped face and dimpled chin. God help him. Desire and fury stabbed at him, twin blades in his gut.
He willed his passion to calm. He didn’t want to screw this up. He really didn’t. “Shannon.”
“May I speak with you?”
He sighed heavily. This was it. It was time. “Please. Come in.”
She edged into the room, closed the door behind her and turned to him, clasping her steno pad before her. He opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure how to begin.
Her tongue, tiny and pink, swept out to dampen her lips and he blurted out the thing hovering at the tip of his brain. “Adam says you’re looking for another job.”
She flinched. Obviously that wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She cleared her throat and whispered, “Would that please you?”
Please him? Hell, it would kill him. “No!” This, he snarled with such vehemence she stepped back. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to calm down. “Sorry. I’m just… I don’t… I’m not good at this,” he finally finished in a huff.
“Good at what?”
He frowned. “Apologies.”
She shook her head, bemused. “Apologies? For what?”
He favored her with a meaningful glance. “I think we both know. I went on Virtual Life just now.”
A charming blush blossomed on her cheeks. She dropped her gaze. “You don’t need to apologize for that.” She spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear.
“Don’t I?”
“Not unless you expect me to apologize for dropping my pencil in the boardroom or rubbing up against you in the bar.”
He gaped. “That was deliberate?”
Her features suffered a subtle shift and suddenly her expression was anything but demure. “And,” she murmured, “not unless you expect me to apologize for this…”
She sauntered toward him, mimicking the moves of the Shannon in Virtual Life. As she rounded the desk, she tossed her steno pad heedlessly on the floor. She stood before him, her knees nudging his. When she slipped one slender calf between his legs and edged closer, he almost swallowed his tongue.
His heart beat, pounded, in his cock. He was hard as a rock. But then his pulse stalled, skittered, because she raised her hands to the top button of her blouse and looking him straight in the eye, slowly unfastened one button. And then another.
Tristan shuddered as pure lust sliced through his body. He should stop her. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He wanted this, needed this.
She spread the lapels of her blouse, revealing her perfect, perky breasts cupped in a sheer coral lace bra. God. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined.
“Shannon,” he rasped, and then he lost all capacity for speech.
Because she knelt before him and placed her palm, so incredibly small and delicate, on his thigh. Her gaze captured his and held it as slowly, insistently, her caress made its way to his crotch.
She touched him.
That slight pressure on his throbbing, bourgeoning cock made him cross-eyed. With agonizing precision—that took forever—she unfastened his pants and slipped her hand inside the placket. Into the slit of his briefs. She licked her lips as she found his cock—not a difficult task considering its swollen state—and she squeezed gently. Tristan threw back his head at the sensation, the feel of her palm against his throbbing flesh. He arched into her caress.
Part of his mind spun with disbelief that she was here, now, real and warm before him. The other part was excited beyond belief.
Not one of those parts even considered telling her to stop.
With his help, she slipped his cock from its confinement. It sprang free with a vengeance. She stared at it in wonderment. She stroked him from base to head and back again, murmuring with pleasure. She flicked a look at him, a womanly, sultry look that sent pings of delight shooting through his being.
“I want to taste you,” she said in a sweet, soft voice.
God.
Those words, in that accent, made him wild. “Would you like that?”
“Oh yeah,” he murmured. As an afterthought he added, “But you’re not tying me to the chair.”
Her brow, that beautiful, elegant, patrician brow, arched as she considered his words, realizing he too had peeked into her fantasies. She murmured, deadpan and dry as the desert, “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”
Her head came down and her mouth engulfed the sensitive tip of his cock. The vision of her lips stretched to accommodate his girth nearly made him come. The sight, the sensation, warred within his mind for dominance. He wasn’t sure which he enjoyed the most but it hardly mattered. It was incredible, any way you sliced it.
He tightened his muscles in an attempt to hold back his impending orgasm, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt it was a hopeless cause.
God
. When had he ever been so aroused? He was like a schoolboy with his first woman.
Her mouth was a slick, velvet heaven. She rose up on her knees and buried her head in his lap to get a better angle—he was so hard his cock was like an obelisk, long, thick and utterly intractable. She shifted again and eased him deeper. He filled her completely. The head of his cock nudged the back of her throat. He shivered as her muscles caressed him. The pleasure blinding.
She withdrew—he groaned in dissent—and then took the head of his cock back into the cavern of her mouth, licking, nibbling and sucking in turns at his engorged, heinously sensitive glans. When he was certain he was going to lose his mind at the sheer torture of the sensation, she upped the ante, tightening her lips and sucking even harder. And so she teased him. On and on until he thought, perhaps, he might expire.
He writhed there on the chair, panting and moaning like a dying man as she tormented him incessantly. He wanted so badly to come in her mouth, to grab her head and fuck her like the snarling beast she made him—but he wanted something else more.
He wanted to touch her. Taste her. He wanted to make her come. To watch her and hear her and
smell
her as she climaxed around him. To make her as mad and helpless and weak for him as he was for her.
He pulled her to her feet. As he stood with her, his pants dropped to the ground and he impatiently kicked them out of the way. They caught on his shoes so he kicked those off as well. He settled her against the desk and cupped her perfect breasts. As his thumbs skated over her hard, distended nipples, she moaned and undulated her hips.
“Do you like that?” he hissed, moving closer, pressing his bobbing cock against her belly, nudging her into the desk and rubbing hard against her.
“Yes, Tristan.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rolled her hips, a hot, horny hunger limning her expression. It was then Tristan saw it. He saw the point where the two Shannons intersected. She was both—sultry and demure. Seductress and saint.
She was a woman he could love.
The sudden revelation was too difficult to take, too intense, too utterly humbling. It haunted him. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was lost now. A dark beast compelled him. He turned her around and bent her over the desk. His hand roved over the swell of her ass and he squeezed a warm, firm globe. She moaned in response and shot a hungry look over her shoulder. Her eyes flared when his fingers drifted down the line of her skirt and slipped through the slit in the back, skating up her naked thigh to the crux of her being.
What he found there set him on fire.
She was damp—he noticed that right away with a visceral thrust to his gut. Cream coated the skin of her inner thighs, making his approach slick and quick. But there was more. As he tangled with the soft curly hairs—brave sentries protecting the tender flesh of her pussy—he realized, under her prim and proper skirt she was utterly bare.
His response was feral.
Shannon whimpered as Tristan’s caress drifted up her thigh and skated across her clit. She knew the second he realized she wasn’t wearing any panties because his body, already hard and throbbing, went rigid. He hissed a sharp invective and lowered his mouth to her ear, nibbling sharply.
“Jesus, Shannon,” he growled, madly yanking up the length of her skirt so he could bare her completely to his gaze. “Jesus.”
His hand was hot and hard on her ass. He squeezed it again, this time flesh to flesh. The harsh tug sent sensation rocketing through her, making her clit swell even more.
She’d wanted this for so long. Dreamed of this. Ached for this. How many times had she come to her own touch, imagining it was Tristan’s hand upon her?
She was suddenly impatient for him. Wild for him.
As his caress drifted down to dance across her pussy again, she arched back at him, pleading for more.
“Touch me,” she begged, and he complied, edging closer, stroking her slick lips, nudging her engorged clit. Her body tensed with pleasure. “Ah! Yes.”
“You’re so wet.” His voice was hard, hungry.
“You make me wet.”
He froze at her words but only for a heartbeat. With a small growl, he drew back, away from her clit, and slipped his fingers deep into her pussy instead.
Shannon whimpered with bliss. The sensation of fullness, of warmth, made her knees buckle.
He was not unmoved either. “Jesus. You’re so tight.” A slightly strangled whisper.
She squeezed her muscles around him and he groaned.
God, she wanted him. She had for so long. She could barely believe she was here like this with him. That he was touching her like this. That he was standing behind her, hard and hot. Panting in her ear. She loved it.
But she wanted more.
“Fuck me, Tristan. I want your cock inside me.”
A fierce shudder racked his body. Without a word, he set the tip of his cock to her opening. He pressed in and she winced. He was enormous. Fat, thick and long—she knew, she’d measured him with her mouth. Thank God he was a moderately patient man. He took her in tiny increments, rubbing her clit and massaging her hard nipples until her muscles opened to allow him more of her.
By the time he was fully seated within her, she was whimpering and sobbing with pleasure. He touched her everywhere, massaged every twitching nerve in her pussy. His heat, his throbbing length, seared her to the core.
“Please,” she moaned. “Please. Please.”
He withdrew and she tried not to clench against him but failed. He growled in response to the sucking sensation and eased back in. It was quicker this time because her body was learning his breadth but the internal friction against her sensitive tissues made her tremble. She could feel the coming orgasm but was helpless to slow or control its onset. By the time he thrust into her for the third time, she was lost, quivering and quaking and moaning as bliss washed through her.