A Valentine for His Secretary (His Secretary: Undone) (4 page)

The idea is she can't even squirm, she has to stay perfectly still as he tells her absolutely every depraved thing he wants to do to her. I always thought the descriptions of Amanda's slow descent into lust-madness were wonderfully on point, almost as if the author had been through something like that themselves.
 

Well. I'll show him lust-madness. He doesn't know the meaning of the word.

I want to tease him, but that would mean teasing myself. At this point, I'm too far gone. I slip my fingers between my legs, a little tentatively, at first, but pretty soon I forget to be even slightly embarrassed. Normally I would keep things more business-oriented, just stroking the sweet spot and ignoring the rest, but I do still want to put on a show. As I read, I let my fingers dip inside, feeling the velvety heat of my own body tighten around my fingers. Wanting more. Wanting him.

My pace starts to quicken along with my breath, and soon my fingers are flying. Cursing softly, I give in to the temptation to thrust my hips up to meet my hand. The book falls to the ground, I'm quickly losing sight of everything but my impending climax.

On the nightstand, my phone buzzes, just as my toes are starting to curl. I
could
stop, probably, but I'm not going to. He already made me wait long enough. I come with a gasping sob, legs shaking, relief flooding my veins as I flop backwards onto the mattress.

The sound of the sliding glass door clicking shut barely registers. I shake my head, struggling to sit up, but his hand on my shoulder stops me. I twist my head around so I can see his face.

The first thing I
actually
see is his hard-on, because it's right at eye level and it's pretty hard to miss. My performance took the edge off, but I'm nowhere near satisfied. I still want him. And visible proof of how much he wants me back is pretty damn titillating.

Eyes blazing, he snatches up my phone ands holds the screen in front of my face. I have to blink a couple of times before my eyes will focus.

Don't come yet.

Shit.

I knew it would be something like that, if I'm being honest with myself - and that's basically the reason why I ignored it. But it's not fair. He was setting me up to fail.

"Sorry," I mutter, probably not sounding that sorry. I clear my throat, and try again. "I didn't...I couldn't..."

He just shakes his head, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "And you were doing so well, too."

"It's not fair," I insist. "You waited until the last possible second -"

"Did I ever say I was
fair
?" he cuts in. "What's not fair is you continuing to act like such a defiant little ingrate after all the time I put into this. Get up."

"But I..."

"
Get up
," he repeats, louder this time. "I'm not going to say it again."

I take a long, shaky breath a I push myself up off the bed. He's not really angry. After five years of working for him, I know the difference. He orchestrated this an as excuse to "punish" me, because it's what we both want. My Adrian is a master of the mindfuck.
 

"This isn't fair," I insist, because I know my so-called defiance just makes him harder. "You did this on purpose. If you really wanted me to follow your orders..."

Smack.

I gasp as his palm connects with my ass.
 

"Say it's not fair one more time." He swallows hard; he's almost doing a good job of covering up just how much he wants to abandon this game and push me down on the bed to fuck me senseless.

I glance at him, over my shoulder. Our eyes silently challenge each other.

"It's not fair," I whisper.

Snarling, he shoves me down on the bed, face first this time. I have just enough time to react, so I don't actually face-plant into the pillows. Crawling up behind me, he kneels, grabbing my hips and yanking me up against him. My dress is still technically there, but it's bunched up so high around my waist it basically doesn't matter at this point.
 

For a moment, he just holds me there, grinding his still-clothed cock against my wetness. Then he pulls back just enough to unzip, and smacks me once more for good measure while he slides home.

Moaning, I grab fistfuls of sheets and pillows as he rocks into me. He starts a little slow like he's trying to make it last, but then he's picking up the pace, hard and fast, with the occasional spank punctuating his movements.
 

Sometimes, when he's obviously struggling to contain himself, I like to deliberately tighten around him as he thrusts in deep. I love the noises he makes, the way his eyes close involuntarily, and most of all I love making him lose control.

This time, though, I really can't help it. My body is still quivering with aftershocks, and the pleasure of every deep thrust is so intense, tears are leaking from my eyes. I never want it to end, but I'm afraid I'll shatter to pieces if it doesn't.

"Stop it," he growls, and I try to whimper a protest that I can't. But it doesn't matter, and I know that. He repeats the command a few times, growing more and more breathless, until finally it just comes out in a groan as his hips jerk of their own accord. I sigh as he stills, then laugh a little, in spite of myself.
 

His grip tightens. "Is something funny?"

Oh. So the game's not over. I don't know why I thought it would be.

"No," I whisper, as he pulls away from me, so fast that I gasp and whimper at the sudden loss.
 

"You think I'm done with you already?" His fingers ghost along my neck, pushing my hair back from my face and letting it fall again. "Not even close. I've got more than enough plans for tonight, plenty of time to recover from a minor derailing." He chuckles quietly, touching my hip. "Not that I need much time, with you looking like this."

Blushing hotly, I realize I'm still on full display. I scramble back up into a seated position, tugging my dress down as if he hasn't seen me like this a hundred times.

"That's not what I meant." He can't stop smiling, balanced precariously on the edge of falling into our old habits. He wants to relax, I think, to kiss me and crawl into bed and cuddle like the sappy idiots we've become in the past few months. But more than that, he wants to keep playing this game. And hell - so do I.

"You look just as tempting with all your clothes on as you do without, Ms. Burns," he says, softly, rearranging his face back into something a little more serious. "Believe it or not. Maybe even more so. But you're very pretty when you blush, so I think you should undress for me."

I swallow hard. "Oh, you think so, huh?"

He nods, slowly. "I think so. And I know you're going to do it, because the only thing you want more than to slap me in the face is to get me inside you again." A slow smile pulls at the corner of his mouth again. "And the only way to make that happen...is to follow my every command."

Very slowly, very carefully, I stand up. I
am
blushing, because there's still a part of me that cringes when he looks at me too intently. The less I'm wearing, the worse it is. I don't think it's just because of my body. I think all women feel the same thing, that strange anxiety that he's somehow looking for flaws instead of seeing perfection.

I understand, on an intellectual level, that I am not worse than the supermodels most people would picture him with. I am simply
different
. But years of cultural conditioning, of my mother's sneers, have taught me otherwise. It's difficult to believe what I see in front of me, no matter how convincing it is.

He's hard again -
still
hard? - and I still can't look at his face. He's not ordering me to, maybe because he knows how difficult it would be to keep up the dominant pretense if I did.

"Shoes," he says, when I'm finished stripping.
 

Confused, I glance at the discarded Louboutins on the floor.

"
On
," he clarifies, exasperated. "For fuck's sake, try to keep up."

I manage not to roll my eyes as I step into them. It feels strange, to say the least, but his sharp intake of breath tells me he doesn't think it
looks
strange. I wonder why he's never asked me to do this before. He obviously enjoys the view.

"Wait here," he says, softly.
 

He disappears through the sliding door, and a moment later he's back. He has a small bag, and I know he's brought a few "new things to try," because he promised and-or threatened such last week.
 

In spite of the spankings and the little power struggle thing we've always got going on, I've never thought of us as a particularly kinky couple. At least, it's never been formalized. But I'm pretty sure that suspiciously cheerful pharmaceutical billionaire that we met over Christmas, Ben Chase, has been in Adrian's ear. I've talked to his wife a bit, and I'm pretty sure the "bag of tricks" idea came straight from Ben. He's unapologetically freaky, a word he'd happily use to describe himself. I'm not sure what kind of interests might be lurking in the back of Adrian's mind, but I'm kind of excited to find out.

And me? I'm not sure. But I suppose if I can love the pain of a spanking, I can learn to love almost anything.

"I'm going to tie your arms behind your back," says Adrian, softly. "It shouldn't hurt. But it
will
stop you from touching anything without my permission. You can't be trusted without me restraining you."

"But I didn't..." I start to protest, but I drift off when I feel the rope sliding against my wrists. It feels...
good
. Like, goosebumps-good. What the hell kind of material is it? It's smooth, but not silky-smooth, just rough enough to make my skin tingle.

"I'm not going to blindfold you again," he says, as his fingers work rapidly behind me. I bite my lip, trying not to let on how much I'm enjoying the sensations. "Because I want to see your face. All of it. But I'm going to ask you to close your eyes, and keep them closed. I'll be watching. If you don't, I promise the punishment won't be something you enjoy."

I nod, squeezing them shut tightly.

He chuckles. "Not yet," he murmurs, his lips against my ear. "But you're doing well so far. Good girl."

I pop my eyes open again. He's subtly turned me around so we're facing the full-length mirror next to the dresser. I'm naked, he's fully clothed, and we ought to make a strange pair, but we don't. His eyes burn into mine, one arm surrounding my waist and pulling me hard against him. My bound hands are pressed against his cock, but I resist the urge to try and touch him further.

"If I could make you see yourself the way I see you, I would," he says. With me in these heels, he can easily rest his chin on my shoulder; and he does, so that every hot breath brushes past my ear. I shiver a little. "But for now, you'll just have to accept that what
I
see is what's real. Don't be ashamed, and don't try to hide from me. Not just tonight, ever. Understood?"

Face burning, I just nod.
 

"Close your eyes," he says.

I do.

For a moment, he steps away from me. Then I feel the heat of his body again, and something else. It's smooth and flat, cool against my skin, as he runs it across my shoulders and down my back.
 

Thud.

I hiss, rocking forward and fighting to keep my balance. It's a paddle. Of course it is. The feeling is somehow both heavier and
sharper
than his hand, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

"Do you know what I regret the most?" he whispers in my ear.

I shake my head.

"I never got to fuck you in my office. Bent over my desk. On the floor. Up against the window. I missed my chance to do that, and I've never forgiven myself."

Laughing softly, I squirm against the ropes. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it's strange to be held so tightly in one position. "That's really what you regret the
most
?"

A sharp pain shoots through my nipple, and I realize he's just flicked it with his finger. "
Ow
. God damn it."

"Right now," he growls, "my biggest regret is not gagging you."

The paddle connects with my ass again, and I try to choke back my whimper.
 

"Does that hurt?" he asks.

I grit my teeth, expecting another. "Isn't that the point?"

"
Answer me
." His tone is dangerous.

"Yes, it hurts. I don't like it." It kills me to admit that, for some reason. "I thought that was the point."

There's a heavy sound, like he's tossed it aside carelessly. "This isn't a punishment," he says. "Tell me if it hurts the wrong way, so I can stop."

A little sigh of relief escapes my lips. "And what if it hurts the right way?"

There's a grin in his voice. "Then beg for more, like a good girl."

He's really relishing this. One hand slides around my body again, down past my stomach and between my legs. I gasp as his fingers quest inside, feeling how hot I am, the remnants of our mingled wetness, the unmistakable reminder that he's already claimed me once tonight.

"You know I had a strange thought the other day," he muses, his fingers sliding deeper as I moan softly. "I think I fuck you often enough that there's always something of mine with you. I mean, deep inside. Deeper than this. Nothing you can wash away, when you pretty yourself up to be presentable for the rest of the world. Because nobody else gets to see you wrecked like this, do they?"

I shake my head.

"But I think they
know
," he goes on. "Don't you? It's so primal. It's impossible to miss. You wear my scent on you like a brand. We're always connected, no matter what happens. And someday..." He inhales sharply. "Someday, maybe...there will be visible proof."

I know exactly what he means. I've had the same thought, and found it just too strange to voice.
By the way, I love the fact that your sperm and my eggs are co-existing for a little while inside my body, even if my birth control pills are having a hell of a time busting up the party. It really means a lot to me.
Hallmark doesn't make a card for that.