Willing Sacrifice (Knights of the Board Room) (6 page)

There were only a few inches between them, and he hadn’t let her go. With the truck behind her, she was pleasantly enclosed between two very masculine, large objects. Lifting a brow, she slipped out of that narrow crevice and tapped him with the folder she retrieved from the truck hood. She wondered what he’d do if she swatted him on his very fine ass with it, and expected he might swat her back. It almost made her laugh. Then she registered his words.

She pivoted to face him again. The intensity of his expression made her feel like she was flush against him. “And you haven’t had the opportunity to get them back to me in six months?” she asked lightly.

“You haven’t asked me for them.”

They studied one another. “Max, I want my shoes.”

He cocked his head. “There it is. That female hawk look.”

She understood what he meant. She knew the feeling when it took her over, that sense of command, exercised over a male eager to experience her power. She didn’t feel that eagerness from Max. More like intrigued curiosity, another type of raptor perched on a different branch, watching her with abiding interest.

He moved to the limo, opening the front door. Oblivious to what viewing the stretch and bend of that powerful body could do to her, he leaned across the seat, withdrew her shoes from a side compartment. She noticed he’d wrapped them in a towel to protect them, and he took that off now, bringing her the dainty pumps, the sheen of the white-gold insoles a contrast to the polished outside walnut color. The shoes had ankle straps, but he carried them under the arches, rather than letting them dangle.

When he brought them to her, she closed her hands over the straps, pinching the back of the shoes between forefinger and thumb. As his hand slid away from the soles, her arches tingled, remarkably. What did the man wear? He had a scent like sea water and cotton, plus that musky heat that was distinctly male. Looking up at him, she saw he was staying put, less than a foot between the rise and fall of her breasts and his chest.

He lifted his hand, but this time she didn’t stop him. He didn’t reach toward her face. He slid beneath her bent arm and pressed his palm against her back, just below her shoulder blade. As if he was about to begin a proper ballroom waltz. She was always aware of her body’s movements, particularly in relation to the give and take of a man’s, and the way he eased them together was like clouds, a drift that seemed effortless.

As he bent toward her, he kept his eyes open. So did she. When he put his mouth on hers, she saw the flicker in the gray, a reaction to how her lips parted, releasing a soft sigh into his mouth. He held the contact there, a bare touch, then he drew back, pressing his lips together.

“I was wondering if that gloss tastes the way it smells. Like honeysuckle. It does. There was a honeysuckle bush behind the house where I grew up.”

She imagined him plucking a blossom, drawing out the threadlike inner stem, bringing that single drop of honey to his lips. Her body responded in the same manner. She felt the tiny blot of cream dampening her panties.

“I have other flavors as well. But honeysuckle is my favorite.” Turning, she moved back toward the elevators, making sure she kept her steps efficient and even as always, the sound of the heels against the concrete just as crisp. She’d had twelve-hour rehearsals that required less effort than such nonchalance took.

She lifted the shoes out to her side, not turning. “You better not have stretched them out. And I hope you wore them with proper stockings.”

At the elevators, she looked over her shoulder to see him leaning against the truck, watching her, one foot hooked around his ankle. The position made the most of every inch of his hard, powerful body.

His gaze sparked with humor. “Yes ma’am.”

With grim amusement, Max noticed he let out a breath after the elevator door closed. “That woman’s a handful and a half,” he muttered, but of course that just piqued the interest of his overachiever side. A side that embraced the SEAL maxims of
be better than your best
and
the only easy day was yesterday
.

Actually, he expected she was two handfuls. Two very nice handfuls.

Before the day in the limo with Mrs. Kensington, he’d known pretty much the same things about Janet that most of the K&A workforce did, though his study of it might have been a little bit more in-depth. He was a good listener, and he’d kept his ears peeled for details about her. She was Matt Kensington’s terrifying administrative assistant who demonstrated cool efficiency and an exemplary work ethic that made all their lives easier. To his recollection, the woman had never once screwed up a detail, and Max found that intriguing. Matt Kensington trusted her implicitly, and he didn’t do that with anyone, really. Max had seen him check Lucas’ numbers or Ben’s legal work, but Janet could be riding in the limo, put a stack of papers in front of him, and he’d sign them with a cursory glance.

When Max was hired, Matt had taken him around the office to introduce him. Though he and Matt had a personal connection, the HR guy could have done the task, and Max wouldn’t have felt slighted. Instead, it kind of flustered him, the CEO himself doing the intros. It had earned him a second look from a lot of people. But it was Janet’s second look he’d remembered.

She had a way of examining a person as if she was noticing a lot more than most people did. He’d been around enough special ops guys to recognize someone who evaluated strengths and weaknesses right off, cataloging a man’s abilities. He’d taken a good look back, no sense denying that. She’d been wearing a pretty butter-yellow suit combo, with silky white stockings covering a pair of excellent legs. Under her thin blouse, he could see the lace of a camisole top. She was small-boned, small-breasted, but all well proportioned.

In his time working this close to the executive level, no one had ever mentioned she was a dancer. But on that very first day, he thought of a ballerina, because that was what she looked like, the way she kept her dark hair pulled up on her head, the fine lines of her hands and body. How she moved.

He remembered what she’d said to him today. “Now I teach.” When he’d put her up on the hood, taken off her shoes, her toes had fallen naturally into a graceful point as she crossed her ankles.

Her face intrigued him. She was a handsome woman, her facial features not delicate enough to be called pretty. Cheekbones and nose cut in sharp planes, brown eyes direct. The way she kept her mouth glossed in that tempting sheen disguised the thinness of her lips, but that thinness fit her face, like the slim, elegant lines of her dark brows. It was the force of her personality beneath that radiated her confident sexuality, the unmistakable aura of a woman who regularly donned the clothes of a Mistress and indulged that side of herself at Club Progeny.

He’d seen her at it a couple times, though not close up, because she tended to choose a corner of the public floor at a distance from that coffee shop she’d mentioned. She’d restrain a man with nothing but commands or nominal restraints, but he’d stay locked in the proscribed position as she took a whip to him, wielding it with skill. He’d noticed she didn’t wear the high break-neck heels a lot of the women did. During a break in her sessions, sometimes she’d sit down, zip open her modestly heeled boots to rub her calves, as if she had cramps there. He’d imagined doing that for her, bringing ease to her expression as he enjoyed the feel of her toned limbs beneath his fingertips. He supposed whatever troubles she had with her legs might be the reason she no longer danced.

Be that as it may, it didn’t explain her attention toward him. She was smart enough to know he wasn’t interested in being dominated by anyone, let alone by a woman. Of course, maybe the reason she was interested was as inexplicable as the fact he returned the favor, in spades. Even before the terrible day with Savannah, he’d thought about her more than he should. She’d been featured in some pretty outstanding fantasies during his early morning post-workout shower. In his mind, he put her up against the wall, thrusting into her from behind. In reality he pressed his forehead hard against his fist, closed against the slick tile, his other hand working himself to jetting climax beneath the pummeling spray.

Despite that, he’d kept his distance, knowing he couldn’t give her what she wanted. She gave him a few appraising glances now and then, but he chalked that up to the fact that women noticed a guy who kept military fit. Didn’t mean they were compatible enough for more than a one-night stand.

That wasn’t something he made a habit of doing, and he sure as hell wouldn’t inflict it on a coworker. Particularly one so close to Matt Kensington. He’d never do anything to cause Matt problems. Beyond that, he couldn’t see Janet as the impulsive, regret-it-like-hell-the-next-day, one-night-stand type. Outside her sessions in Club Progeny, she didn’t seem to date or indulge in any kind of relationships. Inside Club Progeny there were far more stringent, clear-cut rules for those things. Manageable. Maybe that’s why she kept it there.

His impression was that she didn’t offer her body or her heart freely. She took pleasure, offering a fair, intense and often affectionate-in-the-aftermath exchange with her chosen subs, but vulnerability didn’t appear to be part of that offering. Her armor was lovely to experience, to touch, but that was as far as the men got.

Going over all this in his head, he wryly concluded he’d done more intel gathering on her than he’d admitted to himself, and the rate of it had increased since that day in the limo. She’d probably chastised herself for her meltdown in the hospital restroom, but that would have been unjustified. When it counted, she’d been as firmly in control as she was at command central—what the staff called her desk, set smack in the middle of the top floor between all five executive offices. She’d kept Savannah focused, moving them forward toward a common goal. As far as how she’d been with him, they’d clicked together as seamlessly that day as SEAL members who’d trained together. That didn’t happen unless there was a solid connection there.

He recalled her standing in the bathroom, the imprint of the blood on her skin, her bra. When something triggered a memory that took over everything else, he knew what that looked like on a person’s face. She’d been staring in the mirror, but her eyes had been a million memories away, a whimper stuck in her throat, her fingers clutching the sink to keep herself from being whirled down the rabbit hole, back to whatever awful thing all that blood had summoned to her mind.

As he’d washed it off her, he’d noticed the softness of her skin, how firm her body was beneath it. Not too firm though. The woman was in good shape, but her ass had a nice roundness to it. He liked that about women in their forties, when only the most fanatical workouts in the gym could keep the curves at bay. She was a few years older than him, but not enough to be a cause for concern for either of them. Women were more worried about that than men, anyhow.

When he’d lifted her up onto the hood, he’d wanted to keep his hands on her. He’d wanted to see if she closed her eyes when she kissed, if the sharpness of her face softened, if the rigid, straight line of her body would become more curved, melt into his. She hadn’t closed her eyes, and her body hadn’t softened, but the lips had, and he’d felt her quiver under his touch. The day he’d held her in the bathroom, she hadn’t relaxed either, but today he’d felt the hint of what it would be like if she fitted herself to a man’s angles and curves, let him palm that sweet ass and pull her closer, against a cock that was more than eager to show her pleasure.

Was he ready for such a step? It’d been awhile for him. Yeah, he’d indulged the occasional sexual release with the right woman in the right moment, all fun and games, no harm, no foul, but this wouldn’t be in the same realm, he was sure of that.

What he was contemplating might go so bad, the mission should be aborted before it even started. It seemed like they were both interested enough to give it a try though, so he’d take responsibility. If it went sour, he’d be the one who’d leave. It was clear she had a family here. Max viewed them that way as well, but he could maintain that without the work itself, whereas he perceived she needed that structure to stay connected. He’d back off, move on, if needed. He wouldn’t shit where she lived, so to speak. Or if he did, he’d clean it up by clearing out.

He had a weird urge to seek Matt’s permission to court his secretary, but he saw no graceful way to do that. Plus, Janet would likely jam her stapler up his ass if he tried. Wondering if K&A’s generous benefit package covered such an injury, he grinned.

* * * * *

Friday night. There was no doubt in Janet’s mind about going to Club Progeny. Her body had been on turbocharge since her visit with Max in the garage earlier in the week. That faint brush of lips across her mouth had stuck with her, as powerful as if he’d lifted her up against a wall and fucked her brainless, so she needed some perspective, some balance. It was like they were engaging in a rumba, everything powerfully suggestive, filled with overwhelming potential, but still confined within the careful boundaries of the dance.

He was being just as cautious as she was, which meant they both understood the consequences of taking it into uncharted territory. She hadn’t realized a man who evaluated things so thoroughly beforehand could be so damn sexy. She guessed it was because of the barely restrained passion behind it. A powerful warrior more than ready for the heat and passion of the battle, but he was going to make damn sure he had it won before he even stepped on to that ground. Brawn and intelligence—how could a woman resist?