Maliciously Obedient (BBW Erotic Romance) (14 page)

“I wish it were my mouth, Lydia,” he whispered, her breath shifting, hips bucking against his hand, rushing to find the climax she wanted him to give her. “And if we weren't about to get caught, it would be.”

“Caught?” She panicked, grabbing his hands, which he held firmly in place, immutable, like steel.

“Not yet, my sweet,” he insisted. “Not until I've given you this pleasure, and you've given me your abandon.” His fingers stroked her, the faint hint of stubble rising up her neck and cheek, lips and tongue tasting her as he drove two fingers inside her aching pussy, clit on fire from his tongue. “Let go, Lydia,” he whispered, grinding into her from behind, his words an urging she didn't need to hear twice.

Mouth open, neck straining, she mewled a scream of unleashing, her body thrusting against his fingers, her thighs shaking as she lost control. Without missing a beat, Matt turned her around, thumb steady as it circled her hot, red nub, and he took her mouth with his, her lips tense with climax, mind on fire and body overcome with surges of heat, then chill, of riding his hand to wring every drop of ecstasy.

“Next time, I'll see your face,” he said in the dark, voice deep and low, the intensity so much she nearly came again from the sound. “Next time,” he hissed, lips taking hers, pinning her lower lip between his teeth, sucking, then using his tongue to explore her teeth, her palate, her mouth being loved by his.

Skirt around her hips, he used both hands to pin her ass to him, the weight of her release resting in his palms as she swallowed, breathing labored and sensual, his own breath.

“You can't see me now,” she answered, voice shockingly strong and bold compared to the jellied feel of her body, “but we can have our 'next time' right here.” Reaching for the front of his pants, her skirt dropped down, thighs sticky with her own juices and quivering from what Matt had just done. Lydia undid the top button of his pants, slipping the zipper down, finding him hard and aching (
and commando
), his control slipping as she reached down to stroke him, ready to straddle him and be fucked wild in a dark, stranded elevator.

And then the lights went on.

In her
. He needed to be in her, to have his cock be the reason she bit her lip, to make those little gasps and hitches come from her mouth into his and to share in her climax, drive home through her hot, lush body, use his hands to pull those luscious curves into him. Handfuls of flesh weren't enough, soft skin and heat making him crazy in the dark, stalled elevator.

Shoving her panties in his pocket, he held her in place, forcing her to accept the pleasure of his fingers, her twitches and moans confirmation that he'd given what he had boldly intended.
More, more, more
his body screamed, and with swift hands he slid his palms around her waist, the faint scent of vanilla triggering something primal in him as her hand reached into his unbuttoned pants and began to stroke him.

As she unbuttoned him, released him, he reached down for her skirt to pull it back up, but then –

Lights. Hum. Buzz. Sound.
Lydia's face was beneath him, though she stood, leaning against his torso, her hand suddenly stopping, head shaking slightly, eyes now wide. Seeing her touching him made his solar plexus clench, his cock jump, and she pulled back slightly, back straightening, hands carefully redoing his button and gently – achingly, tenderly – tucking him back in and zipping him carefully.

The expertise in her motions made him pause. Had she done this bef –

“Hello?” a mechanical voice said, booming into the tiny, blindingly-light elevator. Lydia pulled back and smoothed her hair, a dazed expression attesting to her condition. “The elevator malfunctioned and we're just getting systems back in order. Give us a minute and you'll be out of there.”

Fuck!
Blinking furiously, Mike felt electricity shooting through him, arms needing to hold her, erection needing to drive into her, his body barely holding back what he'd been seconds from having with her. She swallowed, not making eye contact, and kept looking at the ceiling.

Puzzled, he shot her a curious look, and she looked pointedly at the ceiling while splaying her hands in a questioning gesture. Ah. Now he got it.

Cameras. She was worried about cameras. Bournham Industries didn't have security video in the elevators.

But Jonah Moore damn well might.

With a jolt, the elevator began its ascent, Lydia keeping her head down and not saying a single word, refusing to look at him when he moved closer. A quick nudge elicited nothing. Shut down, she wasn't going to give an inch.

As the elevator slowed upon arriving at their floor, Lydia stepped forward the second the doors cracked open. Without a sound she walked off, headed to the restroom. Fine. He let a much-needed grin cover his face, his fingers branded with her scent. Patting his pocket, he realized he had her panties.

A trophy. Oh, how she had responded to him, body grinding under his caresses, her need open and wanton, her willingness so evident and ripe. Those few minutes were more sensual, more sultry and arousing than all of the sex he'd had for the past year – combined.

The idea that he could have that – and so much more – with her, day in and day out, made him hard again.

Back at his desk, he pulled the thin strip of silk from his pocket. Lilac silk with a cotton center that was absolutely soaked, the aroma of her wafting up to make him smile. He slid them in a desk drawer.

Next time, he would return them to her.

Next time.

“So you gave your panties to a geek. Who are you, Molly Ringwald? Jesus Christ, Lydia, you're twenty-five years old. This isn't
Sixteen Candles
.” Krysta sprinkled some sweetener in her latte. Lydia had called a “Code Java” and they'd met at Starbucks downstairs.

“If I wanted a lecture, I'd call home.” Scalding coffee burned her tongue, the same flesh that had been in Matt's mouth minutes ago. Coffee drove away his taste, but it couldn't diffuse her current state of teeming, fever-pitch arousal. Even after coming – twice! – in the elevator, she wanted more.

More, more, more.

Krysta started humming, ignoring Lydia. Then the tune was clear: Aerosmith's
Love in an Elevator
. Lydia shot her a withering look.

“Took you long enough,” Krysta laughed. “Going down?”

“He was close,” Lydia sighed.

“Eww, eww, eww. I have to interact with him, Lydia! Don't tell me this.” Fingers in her ears, Krysta mouthed
lalalalala.

Ears perked up around them. It was only 8:15 a.m. And she'd called Krysta to meet here. Loads of coworkers wove their way in and out of the brightly-lit, overly-sanitized store, ordering and walking out with white cups with green logos, drinking their morning happiness.

Her sex life didn't need to perk them up, too.

What sex life? You got fingered in an elevator by your boss, Lydia,
a voice whispered in her ear.

Yeah,
she replied.
And it was good. Go away
. She hated that voice – the Joey Stillman voice, the one that taunted and undermined and destroyed. Getting rid of it wasn't easy. She just had to be more centered than whatever creepy part of her worked to destabilize.

Sometimes that was harder. Right now? Nope. Exhilaration from her unexpected encounter fueled a very nice confidence boost. Matt found her attractive enough to respond.
Respond.
And give back as much as she gave.

More, actually. Lips twitching with a sly smile, she ran a slow hand through her hair, swinging her brown waves over her shoulder. A pair of green eyes locked with hers and her pulse went thready, her breath halted, the room spinning with expectation and unresolved lust.

Dave walked up behind Matt and clapped his shoulder. Krysta followed Lydia's gaze, snorting.

“Saved by the asshole,” she whispered.

“Saved?”

“Lydia, you look like you're going to fuck him on the floor right here. With a shot of mocha syrup and whipped cream.” Reaching for Lydia's face, she used her hands to force eye contact. “You are about as nakedly vulnerable as anyone can be. Just...protect yourself. Shut down a little,” she pleaded. Krysta's brown eyes showed concern and alarm.

Nodding furiously, Lydia forced herself to gulp more of her hot coffee, turning away from Matt and Dave, who were now engaged in some sort of intense conversation, Matt's eyes shifting to her twice in the few seconds she looked at him.

A sharp yank and she was on her feet. “Let's go for a walk, my dear,” Krysta crooned, an affect of hopelessness in her voice at Lydia's besottedness. She glanced at Lydia's ass. “You gave your panties to him. You're hopeless.”

“My life is more
9 to 5
than
Sixteen Candles
.”

“You're careening more toward
The Secretary
, Lyd.”

Then, in unison, they both hissed, “
Anything He Wants
.” A common groan.

Shit!
Krysta was right. Time to walk it off.

Commando.

Chapter Six

The most difficult part about this dual identity wasn’t being Matt Jones. It wasn’t being forced to wear clothing that he wouldn’t dress a scarecrow in. It wasn’t that he struggled to find a way to connect with Lydia.

It was that he still had to be Michael Bournham behind the scenes. There was still a company to run, investors to appease, a board of directors he had to crush in the race to prove them wrong.

While he was Matt Jones by day, he was burning the candle at both ends being Michael Bournham at night.

Tonight was one of those nights when he needed thirty-nine hours in a twenty-four hour period. He was in the middle of receiving a haircut and dye rinse, his hair needing to return to its original color, his contact lenses removed, so that he could attend a charity ball. He sat on the board of directors for this particular charity, one that contributed large volumes of money to autism for research in the field and he called Joanie, his assistant, to ask her to make sure that Dom had the car ready for him to pick up.

“Joanie, who am I going with to the ball tonight?”

“You’re going with Diane Powell, sir.” Joanie was new, having replaced his former assistant, Gloria, who had been more grandmotherly than his own grandmother, but who had finally decided that coddling and nurturing her own seventeen grandchildren was her life’s work. Gloria had worked for his dad and she rose up the ranks with Mike. Truth be told, he was ready for a change, and Joanie was green but smart. Tech savvy. Enough training and she'd do fine.

Joanie wouldn’t stop calling him “sir”. At twenty, she was fresh out of secretarial school but came well connected, with great references and, because she was so new and eager, she was
cheap
. Mike needed cheap if he was going to make the cut with the quarterly profit numbers.

“You can stop calling me ‘sir’,” he insisted.

“Oh. Um, OK, Michael.”

“It’s Mike.”

“OK, Mike. You’re going with Diane Powell. Dom is already lined up. He will pick you up at seven, he will pick Miss Powell up at 7:30 and deliver both of you to the Elysium at eight.” The sound of keys on a keyboard, rapid-fire and efficient, dotted her words.

“Thank you,” he said. “So, how are the mergers and acquisitions documents?” he asked, launching a tight formation of clipped statements that were essentially a shorthand between the two of them that she had picked up amazingly quickly. Where Gloria had seemed to be telepathic, knowing what he was going to say before the sentences even came out, Joanie still struggled. She would be there soon, and at that point he would give her a big, fat raise.

Right now, though, he was living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, metaphorically speaking, when it came to the corporation. He had restricted his own jet use. They didn’t actually own their own private jet – he just rented one. Other cutbacks had been necessary to get him to this point. He was starting to question those now that he was in the trenches. The impact of what looked good on paper but didn't work in the real world hit him as he worked on the lower floors of his building. None of it was major, though. Employees could suffer scratchier toilet paper or lower quality pencils.