Wife to the Boss (Managing the Bosses Series, #6) (18 page)

He lifted a hand to signal the bartender. “Whatever the lady would like to drink,” Mark told the man when he was within earshot.

“Grey Goose martini,” she said in a voice that was a little low for a woman’s, with a breathy edge that wasn’t doing his developing problem any favors. Maybe it as an affectation to match the ‘40s waves of her hair and the neat business attire, but even if it was he was enjoying it. Quite a lot. “Dirty.”

“A fan of the classics,” Mark commented as the bartender stepped away to mix the drink.

“As I see you are.”

He lifted his glass to her. “Nothing beats a good scotch.”

She smiled a little wider, teasing, and looked up at him from under the long, dark fan of her lashes. “Except a dirty martini.”

She had a tiny gap between her two front teeth, and damn he wanted to kiss her.

A shift in the corner of his eye caught his gaze, and it strayed downward as she crossed one long, slim leg over the other. He noticed with a new flicker of want that she was wearing stockings. They looked good on her. He was fairly certain that a burlap sack would look good on her, but was also equally certain that nothing would look even better, and would have really liked to test that last part of the theory.

“Here you are, ma’am,” the bartender said off to the side, setting a martini glass down in front of the woman.

She thanked him, and picked it up for a sip.

“I’m Mark,” Mark offered when she’d set it down again. “Reid.”

“Mark Reid. Not by any chance related to Alex Reid?”

“He’s my brother, actually.”

“Lucky you.”

Mark wasn’t so sure that was always the case. He was lucky to have Alex, and especially lucky after all the trouble they’d had in their younger years that he had a relationship with his brother at all, but there were times he thought he really wouldn’t mind having a slightly less famous sibling. The year before the twins were born had been proof of just how crazy life in the spotlight could be. “He’s a good man. I’m proud to be his brother.”

She laughed. “Ooh. Good answer.” Reaching out, she offered one slim hand for him to shake. “I’m Camille Lacroix.”

“Camille.” Mark took the hand and shook it. Her grasp was surprisingly firm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, Mark Reid.” She smiled, and sipped her drink. Set it aside. “Tell me, what does a man like you do?”

“I own a country club.” Bit of a stretch at the moment, but it was going to happen.

“A country club? Do you enjoy it?”

He leaned a little further onto his elbow. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but it’s good, you know? It keeps me engaged, and I like having a place I can call mine.”

“You like being in charge, then?”

Mark laughed. “Not quite as much as my brother does, but I guess you could say that. It’s probably genetic.” He took a sip from his glass. “And you?”

“Oh, you know. Flit about the country in the convertible, spending my father’s money. When I’m not in school spending my father’s money.”

“And where is school?”

“I’m getting my Masters in Art History and Archaeology at Columbia.”

It was Mark’s turn to look at her with a question in his expression. “Why archaeology?”

She smiled. “Who didn’t want to be a treasure hunter when they were a kid?”

Laughter bubbled up out of Mark’s chest, loud and a little surprised. “That was definitely not the answer I was expecting, but I think it might just be the best possible answer for that particular question.”

She grinned at him from under her lashes. “I do try to entertain.”

Mark could think of a few ways he wouldn’t mind being entertained–or being the entertainer–but it seemed a little soon to make that kind of a move, so he just chuckled. “You’re not half bad so far. Points for style. But you’ve tipped your hand too soon. Now I know you’re clever, and you’ll really going to have to wow me.”

Camille tapped one of her red-painted fingernails against her lower lip, thoughtful, and gave him a look that he couldn’t quite interpret. She dropped her hand back to her lap, and lifted her glass with the other to take a long sip of her martini. Mark lifted his eyebrows at her in silent question.

“Making plans,” she said, and gave him a wink that had his stomach tightening a little in warm anticipation. Maybe it wasn’t too soon to make a pass after all. And he really did want to make one. Or several. Whatever it took to get the bewitching woman sitting next to him back to his apartment and into his bed. “They don’t give the impression of being very well-behaved plans.”

Her tongue flicked out to lick a drop of her cocktail from her mouth. The look she gave him was enough to fan that little spark of warmth at the bottom of his stomach into something hot, kindling desire that had him starting to get hard in his slacks.

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe they’re well-behaved at all. In fact, I think these plans might be exactly the kind of plans that are very strongly frowned upon in public establishments.”

Forget half-hard. In a minute he wasn’t going to be able to walk.

Camille tossed back the last of her drink and rose from the stool where she’d been sitting. “Escort me to my car, Mr. Reid? If you please?”

She didn’t have to ask him twice.

*

T
he door swung shut behind them, and Mark pressed Camille back against the wall of the entryway, one hand curved against her cheek and the other supporting his weight. Both of her arms were wrapped around his neck, her body stretched out against his as she leaned up on her toes for a kiss. He gave it to her, long and slow and hungry, and when they broke apart they were gasping for air. Mark leaned down and kissed her again.

This time when they pulled back to breathe, Cami curled her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and tugged him further down the hall, in the general direction of the rest of the apartment. He took the hint, and they moved together toward the bedroom. Just outside the door, he paused to nip at the curve of her throat, and the little gasp that answered him made him groan against her skin.

“You know, Mr. Reid,” she breathed against his ear as he straightened. “I think I’d really like to blow you.”

Before he even had time to reply, she was dropping to her knees in front of him, her slender hands reaching for the buckle of his belt and the button of his slacks. She pulled the zipper down, and slipped her hand inside, pulling him out of his boxer-briefs. His knees threatened to buckle.
Damn, did women like her really exist?

She made a low sound of approval as his cock popped free of the too-tight briefs that had been perfectly adequate before his run-in with her, cool air brushing against his skin. The hand that was wrapped around him stroked upward, then slid down again, and she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around him.

Mark’s head dropped back against the wall with a
thunk
.

Camille wasn’t hurried about it. She took her time, working him slowly, gradually taking more. His fingers curled against the plaster of the wall. He wanted to reach out, slide one into her hair, but wasn’t sure that he’d be allowed until one of her own reached up and caught his, coaxing him to tangle it in the sleek, dark waves. He tightened the hold until she moaned around him, the sound vibrating up his length and making him pant for air, but he didn’t pull away.

Abruptly, Camille drew back, licking her lips. Carefully, she tucked him back into his underwear.

Mark groaned. “What...?”

Her expression was all wide-eyed innocence as she turned her gaze up to him. He didn’t believe it for a single second.

“I think,” she said, rising smoothly to stand again, “that I’d rather you fuck me now.”

Mark growled low in his throat, and watched a shudder run through her, her pupils dilating wide and dark against the rich chocolate brown of her irises. He curled his hands around her hips and spun them so that her back was to the door, then pushed.

Like that, he walked her back until her knees hit the bed and she fell back against the mattress, dark hair spilling over the duvet. Her chest rose and fell with quick little breaths, and his fingers made quick work of the buttons on her blouse, tugging the hem out from the waistband of her skirt and pulling it open to reveal cream-colored lace against fair skin.

She was reaching for the buttons of his shirt, and he leaned down to let her, pulling the zipper of her skirt down and sliding it off her legs. She kicked it away, and then her shoes followed.

Her stockings, Mark discovered, were thigh-highs held up with a garter belt that matched the cream lace of her bra and panties. It was all he could do not to moan. His hands traced the curve of her waist, from ribcage to hipbones, and slid down over the warm skin of her thighs.

“Take it off,” she said, breathless, as she pulled the last button on his shirt through the opening, and he shrugged out of the fabric, yanking his undershirt off after. He toed off his shoes.

Camille’s shirt joined his on the floor a moment later, and her bra followed. He watched her nipples tighten, and licked his lips.
Soon
, he promised himself. Fuck, he wanted to taste her.

Hands on his shoulders drew him down into another kiss. Mark braced himself on his forearms as he leaned down over her, and felt her skin against his own. His hips rolled, rubbing his length against the curve of her mound through the remaining layers of their clothing. She gasped and arched up into him.

“Come on,” he said when they broke apart again, hands on her hips, pushing her farther up onto the bed.

She gave him a slow smile. Her lips, still perfectly red despite the hungry kisses they’d been trading back and forth and the time her mouth had spent on his cock, curled into a wicked curve. Mark swore under his breath and reached down for his already unbuckled belt, grateful he didn’t have to take the time to mess with it when every second seemed to stretch out into an eternity of wanting. Fuck, he wanted her. He shucked the belt off to the side with the rest of the things they’d tossed on the floor, and scrambled out of his pants so that he was only in the black briefs he’d been wearing underneath.

On the bed, Camille rolled onto her hands and knees, arching her back and throwing a come-hither look over her shoulder at him. Mark didn’t hesitate to follow the implied order there. It was his turn to do a little teasing, and he grinned at her as he settled into place, slow and dangerous.

The garter belt momentarily confounded his plans.

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” he said, running his hands up her legs from knee to the bare curve of her backside. “I don’t know how to undo these.”

She laughed, but her body arched into his touch, her legs sliding open wider. “Then don’t,” she said, low and hot.

“Don’t?” Mark traced two fingers over her panties, the fabric already damp. She shuddered and moaned. “What do you want me to do then? Tell me.”

His fingers traced the same curve again, with more pressure this time, and when they brushed over her clit through the fabric she bucked against his hand with a groan that made his cock jump against his own underwear.

“Just pull the underwear down. Just—Fuck.”

The words broke off into panting, her hips rolling into the fingers that kept stroking her.

“Just take them down. Please, Mark.”

He curled his fingers around the waistband of the thong and yanked it as far down her thighs as it would go. She dropped to her elbows, and he slid his fingers over newly-bare skin, growling low in his throat when he felt how wet she was already. His fingertips found her clit and rubbed over it, slow and firm. Camille whimpered.

“How much do you want it?”

“So much. Come on, Mark. Fuck me.”

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”

Mark reached around her to pull a condom out of the drawer in the nightstand, and made quick work of his own underwear and rolling it on. His hands curled around her hips and dragged her back closer while she moaned.

“Ready?” he breathed, leaning down so that his chest pressed to her back, his cock sliding between her thighs to rub against the curve of her sex.

“Yes. So ready.” She rocked her hips, red-painted nails clawing at the bedclothes.

The slide-in was tight, her legs trapped by the underwear around her thighs. Mark took it slow, torturing them both with the sensation of pressing in inch by inch. She tried to rock back, to take it deeper, but he held her hips still, made her wait for it until she was swearing at him through breathless moans and little gasps.

He drew back, and then his hands on her hips pulled her onto his length as he pressed deep inside her, hard and fast this time. She muffled a cry against the blankets and arched up into him.

One hand reached up and stroked over her stomach to her breasts, cupping the weight of one so that he could rub a fingertip over her nipple in slow circles, feeling it tighten under the touch. Camille’s hips hitched.

“Sensitive, baby?”

“Yeah,” she panted. “Yeah. Please.”

He kept rubbing, stroking. Then he drew his hand back and caught a nipple between thumb and first finger, rolling them over the peaked little bud, tugging just enough to make her gasp and sob her pleasure into the sheets. When she was writhing helplessly against him he switched sides, teasing her other nipple with the same slow circles and then the tug of his fingers. His mouth moved over the arch of her neck, the line of her shoulders.

Mark’s hand slid down then, back over her belly, and he slid his fingers between her thighs to rub at her clit, dipping them lower to get them wet before he began stroking them over the sensitive little bundle of nerve endings. He could feel the catch in her breath, the way her body tightened as she drew closer to the edge. “Going to come for me?”

“Yes.” The word was ragged, trembling on the edge.

“Come for me, then. I want it.”

She sobbed his name into the blankets, shuddering around him as she fell over the edge of pleasure into orgasm. Mark could have followed her, could have let the coil of need at the base of his spine explode outward, but he held himself back, working her through her climax with gradually slowing strokes of his fingers over her clit.