The Superfox (9 page)

“Do you think this might be an appropriate form of discipline?”

Lissa dropped her legs to the floor, and Mark withdrew long enough to allow her to turn over and lay her breasts and stomach on the cold glass, her hands gripping the front of the desk and her ass in the air, presented to him. The second she was in position, he used his fingers to spread her and entered her again, torturously slow until he was all the way inside, every inch hot and pressing and just waiting for whatever he wanted to do to her.

“Do you really wanna be my secretary?” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes, I do,” she murmured. “But my behavior is very bad.”

Mark straightened up and smacked her with the ruler, right across the broadest part of her ass. She'd never been spanked before, much less struck with a ruler, and the way the welt rose, hot and stinging, made her all the more aware of every nerve in her body.

“I fucking love that movie,” Mark breathed, and he withdrew and slammed into her again.

As he pulled out, he swatted her with the ruler, and a delicious little mewling sound escaped her. She was so turned on, so on fire, that she was surprised her nipples weren't cutting the desk glass straight through her bra. Mark found his own rhythm, fucking her and using the ruler, then finally dropping the wood to give her a broad smack with his hand that made her cry out with the first quiver of her orgasm as he slammed into her again and again. She rode it out, digging into the desk with her fingers, but he didn't slow down, and he kept hitting that amazing spot inside, and she soon started coming again, the overlapping climax so hard that she screamed and set her forehead against the glass as she shuddered.

Seconds later, Mark withdrew and groaned as he came, but not on her this time. He set his head against her back and drew her close against his chest for a moment before standing. Lissa was shaking and sore, inside and out, as she straightened and stood on wobbling legs.

God bless him, he'd covered the desk.

“You said you wanted to make a mess.” He grinned at her and threw the used condom on top of the puddles on the glass. Then, naked and in boots, he retrieved the blotter from the floor and placed it carefully over the splatters and centered it, carefully tucking the top page into the corner frames. Provided no one lifted the blotter, it looked perfectly normal, as if they'd never made love all over it.

“I feel really sorry for the cleaning company.”

“Don't. He'll be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Probably take care of it himself while wearing elbow-length rubber gloves.”

Lissa couldn't help fidgeting, naked and wet all over, as she held her jeans and wished she didn't have to put them back on without a hot shower.

Mark collected the jeans from her. “No one's here. Let's go get the wipes, then come back and get dressed. And then grilled cheese.”

She looked him up and down. Now that the heat of the moment was over, a guy at half-mast in nothing but boots and black socks was pretty ridiculous, but he seemed entirely comfortable in his skin. Lissa grabbed his kilt and stepped into it, buckling the belt as far as it could go.

“I'm ready.”

He grinned at her and held out a hand.

“I'm not. But give me ten minutes of watching you in a bra and kilt, and I'll see what I can do.”

* * *

After two grilled cheese sandwiches made in the office toaster oven and a cup of coffee so thick it was basically motor oil, Lissa had never felt so satisfied and exhausted. But as much fun as it was to wear a kilt, it wasn't very comfortable to wear with a sore butt and pummeled ladyparts. She winced as she stepped back in her jeans and realized she had no idea where her shirt was. Together, they walked back to Dennihy's office to collect their scattered clothes and finish cleaning up in the hopes that no one would know they'd been there until the blotter was permanently cemented to the desk. Back in her jeans, Lissa carefully centered the various papers and folders, hoping she'd put everything back exactly where it belonged.

“This is so much better than granola crumbs.”

A soft beeping caught her attention, and she looked up to find Mark opening the safe he'd pointed out earlier.

“Should you be doing that?”

Mark grinned. “He gave me the code. So I could photograph the gun when nobody was in the office and put it back safely.”

When he opened the door, Lissa had to look closer. It wasn't often one got to see what their greatest enemy kept hidden. Inside the small safe was a wooden gun case, two metal boxes, and several folders full of papers. Mark removed the gun case and unclipped the sides to show her an ancient-looking gun under a cloth. As Lissa didn't know or care much about guns, she just shrugged. What had truly caught her attention were the two boxes still in the safe. The top one was a regulation petty cash box just like the one she had for keeping track of her team's budget. But the bottom one had a bigger lock than she would've expected and didn't have the usual Interprog bar code on the side. Pulling it out, she twisted the lock and dearly wished to know what was inside.

“Letters,” she muttered. “What would a dick like Dennihy use as a code word?”

Mark put the gun case back and perched beside her on the edge of Dennihy's desk to inspect the box.

“His wife's name? His kid's name? His dog's name?”

Lissa shook her head. “It wouldn't be one of those. That might imply he had a heart.”

“Dave? Dick? Dork?”

She closed her eyes and thought of everything she knew about the guy who'd nearly gotten her fired for his transgression. When her eyes popped open, she was smiling. “What's the gun's name?”

Mark pulled out the box and held it up so she could see the engraved plaque on the side.

LULA.

When Lissa turned the four dials to spell LULA, the lock popped open, and she expected a seam of light to appear, as if it were the Ark of the Covenant and she was Indiana Jones. But her face didn't melt, and what she found inside was even better.

“Oh. My. Glob.”

She held up a bouquet of receipts, and Mark took one. “He's been using other people's corporate cards to stay in hotels?”

“Um, yeah. Adam in marketing didn't have champagne delivered to a suite at the W in midtown. And dinner for two with dessert.” She looked up at him, her face alight. “What do you wanna bet this wasn't Dennihy's wife ordering the chocolate mousse and a porno to go with that champagne?”

“How the hell has he been hiding a bill like that from Dr. Horne?”

Lissa shrugged. “He's the head accountant. He can probably hide anything. Possibly in the pen budget. Or by downsizing a junior programmer, like I had to do last year.” A dozen receipts weighed heavy in her hands. “Dennihy's been busy. No wonder he has to sell his precious gun.”

Mark took the receipts from her and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Batmobile.”

Lissa's eyebrows shot up in question.

Mark grinned. “The Batmobile's what I call the copier.”

***

After they'd placed a sheaf of photocopied receipts on Dr. Horne's desk and replaced everything in Dennihy's safe, Lissa was beyond exhausted. Which made sense, as it was almost midnight. She'd been at her desk since seven this morning to work on her deadline and had basically had her brains screwed out and suffered a minor breakdown since then. She went back to her office to freshen up, get her phone, and change into her yoga pants. When she shuffled back to the art department, Mark had spread a few lush, photo-ready blankets on the unfolded futon. He handed her an Interprog mug filled with hot cocoa, and she took it and went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

As they sat on the edge of the futon to drink, Mark started hunting for new shows on Hulu. Lissa couldn't help looking beyond his hawklike profile and out the tall window. Beyond the tinted glass, snow still swirled on a world gone white and tinted orange by the lights of the parking lot. She'd checked online, and they were awfully lucky. So many people had been trapped on the roads or in cars, forced to walk to the nearest store or Waffle House and fight for space on the dirty floor. Entire neighborhoods were without electricity or water. There were websites popping up to help people who needed help find shelter as they navigated the blizzard in their work clothes after hours without food.

And here she was, safe in the arms of the most perfect guy she'd ever met, sipping cocoa. Lissa couldn't help contemplating the fact that she would soon be able to come to work without Dennihy's shadow hanging over her every move. And they were also helping Dr. Horne make a smart decision regarding how accountants handled cash flow. Maybe they could even get Rob rehired.

“All in all, a pretty good day,” he said, as if reading her mind.

“The city sleeps tonight, thanks to our vigilance.”

“I am the night.”

“Interprog is lucky to have a man like you.”

He kissed the top of her head. “There are no men like me.”

“I thought you were back to Thor?”

His hand stroked down her side to her hip. “What, because I made cocoa? That was before you went commando in tight yoga pants.”

Lissa set down the dregs of her cocoa and turned to pull his face in for a gentle kiss. “I'm exhausted. Now's not the time to get all sexy.”

Mark kissed her on the nose, his hands skimming her waist.

“That's my secret, Lissa.” He grinned. “I'm always sexy.”

Want more sexy Snowpocalypse?

Try

Geekrotica level 1: THE LUMBERFOX (FREE SAMPLE – KEEP READING!)

Geekrotica level 2: THE SUPERFOX

Geekrotica level 3: THE DAPPERFOX – coming soon!

All by Ava Lovelace.

You might also enjoy the Blud series by Ava's alter ego, Delilah S. Dawson:

WICKED AS THEY COME

WICKED AS SHE WANTS

WICKED AFTER MIDNIGHT

and the Blud e-novellas

THE MYSTERIOUS MADAM MORPHO

THE PECULIAR PETS OF MISS PLEASANCE

THE DAMSEL AND THE DAGGERMAN

See all my books and get news at www.whimsydark.com.

Thanks for reading!

With thanks to Jennifer, Andrea, Alexandra, Lexie, and P.J.!

KEEP READING FOR A TANTALIZING GLIMPSE INTO THE LUMBERFOX!

THE LUMBERFOX

Geekrotica: Level 1

by Ava Lovelace

Just two more exits and Tara would beat the snowstorm home for some private time with a six-inch tall scoundrel she'd nicknamed Han Solo. When she'd scurried into the dark-windowed shop downtown, sunglasses firmly covering half her face, the morning had been sunny but cold, the crisp sort of day that makes a sexually frustrated geek girl finally decide to find her g-spot with a little extra, vibrating help. But when she'd stepped back out onto the sidewalk, nondescript paper bag in hand, the clouds were heavy and gray and the first fat snowflakes were swirling around, mocking her. The guy on the radio had urged everyone off the roads, but she was so close to home, and her Jeep had 4WD. Considering she'd gone to college up north, she was one of ten people in Georgia who actually knew how to drive in winter weather. Even with traffic at a crawl and the Hoth-like air thick with swirling white, she knew she could make it. After all, it was just a little storm, and Atlanta never had any accumulation.

She changed stations and heard a girl laugh like Malibu Barbie on crack.

“Snowpocalypse, Snowjam, or the End of the World: whatever you call it, the governor is urging everyone to seek shelter immediately. The roads will soon be entirely iced over, and there are over three hundred wrecks on the streets right now. If you're in your car and can see a lit building, get there as fast as possible.”

“Lady, you're too damn perky to proclaim doom,” Tara muttered. “Have some gravitas.” Bored out of her mind, she muttered, “Luke, put on a hat,” in her best Darth Vader voice. “There is another thing: wear more socks. You will catch a cold.”

Hoping for music instead of murder by meteorology, Tara flipped through the buttons, rolling her eyes as each voice swore she was about to die. Desperate to feel anything but frustration, she decided it was time to use her last drop of iPod juice for a good cause and scrolled to Black Parade by My Chemical Romance, turning it up loud enough to drown out all the honking. The car in front of her moved a foot, and she moved a foot and pretended not to feel the tires slide, just a little. If she could just get over this bridge, she could probably swerve into the emergency lane and barrel through in the ditch. Not only because being stuck in the closest Home Depot with a bunch of strangers sounded like her version of hell, but also because she had a date, and the unassuming white plastic vibrator in her bag looked like the impatient type. That's why she'd decided to call him Han Solo: he was cocky and looked like he was going to shoot first.

Just out of curiosity, and because sitting in dead still traffic was boring, she pulled Han out of the bag, slid him out of his box, and twisted open the battery compartment. It was kind of crazy how two little AA batteries could make something vibrate in so many ways, and she switched it on and off a few times, getting accustomed to the button controls. Gerard Way didn't mind a bit and kept on singing. She shoved Han back into his box and rolled down the top of the paper bag, still feeling a little shy about the entire business. When the car behind her honked, she barely heard it. Looking up, she saw about twelve feet of space in front of her, a huge coup.

Finally, she was able to inch off the overpass and start to edge into the emergency lane, thankful that her Jeep could probably handle it. Right up until the entire Jeep slammed forward and she narrowly missed bashing her head on the steering wheel. Panic shot through her nerves, her hands going frozen as she put the Jeep in park and took inventory. She wasn't hurt or even sore. Her car hadn't hit anyone else, thankfully. But Han was on the floorboard, along with her laptop bag, phone, and dashboard zombie, and she couldn't see anything but two bright lights in a wall of white outside the back window. What sort of crap-driving Southern douchebag had hit her?