“You want to taste me?” she whispered, staring down at me. She pulled my hair hard enough to yank my head away from her skin.
I had no smart-ass remark, nothing biting to get her to stop talking and just fuck me. I did want to taste her skin. I wanted it more than I think I’d ever wanted anything. “Yeah.”
“Ask nicely, then.”
“Fuck asking nicely. Let me go.”
She whimpered, leaning forward to let me suck a perfect nipple into my mouth, causing her to pull harder on my hair. Damn that felt good.
So many thoughts ran through my mind. There was nothing in this world I wanted more than to bury myself in her, but I knew when it was over, I would hate us both. Her for making me weak, and myself for allowing lust to override my common sense. But I also knew I couldn’t stop. I had turned into a junkie, living for my next fix. My perfectly constructed life was crashing around me and all I cared about was feeling her.
Sliding my hands down her sides, I let my fingers run along the waist of her underwear. A shiver went through her, and I closed my eyes tightly as I bound the material in my hand, willing myself to stop.
“Go ahead and rip them . . . you know you want to,” she murmured into my ear and then bit down hard. A half-second later, her panties were nothing but a mess of lace in the corner of the room. Grabbing her hips roughly, I lifted her and held the base of my dick with the other hand, and pulled her down onto me.
The feeling was so intense that I had to forcefully still her hips to keep from exploding. If I lost it now, she would only throw it back in my face later. And I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
Once I felt in control again, I began moving her hips. We hadn’t been in this position yet—her on top, face-to-face—and even though I hated to admit it, our bodies fit together perfectly. Bringing my hands down her hips to her legs, I gripped one in each hand and wrapped them around my waist. The change of position brought me deeper inside her, and I buried my face in her neck to keep from groaning out loud.
I was aware of the sounds of voices all around us as people entered and left the other dressing rooms. The thought that we could get caught at any moment only made this better.
Her back arched as she stifled a moan, and her head fell back. The deceptively innocent way she bit her lip was driving me crazy. Once again I found myself looking over her shoulder, to watch us in the mirror. I had never seen anything so erotic in my entire life.
She pulled my hair once again, guiding my mouth back to hers, our tongues gliding together, matching the motion of our hips. “You look so good over me,” I whispered into her mouth. “Turn around, you need to see something.” I pulled her up and turned her to face the mirror. With her back against my chest, she lowered herself back onto me.
“Oh, God,” she said. She breathed out heavily as her head fell back against my shoulder, and I was unsure if it was from the feeling of me inside her or the image reflected in the mirror. Or both.
I gripped her hair and forced her head back up, “No, I want you to look right there,” I growled in her ear, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I want you to watch. And tomorrow when you’re sore, I want you to remember who did it to you.”
“Stop talking,” she said, but she shivered and I knew she loved every word. Her hands ran up her body and behind her until they dug into my hair.
I touched every inch of her body and I trailed biting kisses along the back of her shoulders. In the mirror I could see myself sliding in and out of her; and as much as I didn’t want these memories in my head, I knew that was a sight I would never forget. I moved one hand down to her clit.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Like this?” I asked, pressing, circling.
“Yes, please, more, please, please.”
Our bodies were now covered in a thin sheen of sweat, leaving her hair sticking slightly to her forehead. Her gaze never left where we came together as we continued to move against each other, and I knew we were both close. I wanted her to meet my eyes in the mirror—and then immediately knew it would show her too much. I didn’t want her to see so plainly what she was doing to me.
The voices around us continued, completely unaware of what was going on in this tiny room. If I didn’t do something, our little secret would not be kept for long. As her movements became more frenzied and her hands gripped my hair tighter and tighter, I pressed my hand against her mouth, stifling her scream as she came apart around me.
I muffled my own moans against her shoulder and with a few more thrusts, I exploded deep inside her. Her body slumped into me as I leaned back against the wall.
I needed to get up. I needed to get up and dress, but I didn’t think my shaky legs could carry me. Any hope I’d had that the sex would become less intense, and that I would get over this obsession, was quickly being crushed.
Reason was slowly beginning to seep back into my consciousness, along with the disappointment that I had once again succumbed to this weakness. I shifted her up and off my lap before bending to reach for my boxers.
When she turned and looked at me, I expected hatred or indifference, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes before they snapped shut and she looked away. We both dressed in silence; the fitting room area suddenly seemed too quiet and too small, and I was overly aware of each breath she took.
Straightening my tie, I picked up the torn panties from the floor, depositing them in my pocket. I went to grab the door handle and stopped. Reaching out, I ran my hands slowly along the lacy fabric hanging from one of the hooks on the wall.
I met her eyes and said, “Get the garter belt too.” And without looking back, I walked out of the dressing room.
Five
There were eighty-three vents, twenty-nine screws, five blades, and four bulbs on the ceiling fan above my bed. I rolled to my side, certain muscles mocking me and providing undeniable proof of why I was unable to sleep.
“I want you to watch. And tomorrow when you’re sore, I want you to remember who did it to you.”
He wasn’t kidding.
Without realizing it, my hand had traveled to my breast, absently twisting my nipple beneath my tank top. Closing my eyes, the touch of my own hands turned into his in my memory. His long, graceful fingers ghosting along the undersides of my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples, cupping me in his large palms . . . damn it. I let out a loud sigh and kicked a pillow off my bed. I knew exactly where this train of thought was headed. I had done this exact same thing three nights in a row and it had to stop now. With a huff I rolled over onto my stomach and closed my eyes tight, willing sleep to come. As if that ever worked.
I still remembered, with perfect clarity, the day almost a year and a half ago when Elliott asked me up to his office for a talk. I’d started at RMG working as a junior assistant for Elliott when I was in college. When my mother died, Elliott had taken me under his wing; not so much a father figure, but certainly as a caring and warm mentor who had me to his home for dinner to keep an eye on my emotional state. He’d insisted his door would always be open for me. But on that particular morning, when he phoned my office, he sounded uncharacteristically formal, and frankly I was scared shitless.
In his office, he’d explained how his youngest son had lived in Paris for the past six years, working as a marketing executive for L’Oréal. This son, Bennett, was finally coming home, and in six months would take over the position of chief operating officer at Ryan Media. Elliott knew I was a year into my business degree and was looking into internship options that would give me the critical hands-on experience I needed. He insisted I complete my master’s internship at RMG and that the youngest Mr. Ryan would be more than thrilled to have me on his team.
Elliott handed me the company-wide memo that would circulate the following week to announce Bennett Ryan’s arrival.
Wow. That was my only thou
ght as I looked over the paper on my way back to my office. Executive VP of product marketing at L’Oréal in Paris. Youngest nominee ever featured in the Crain’s “Forty Under 40” list, published several times in the Wall Street Journal. A dual MBA from NYU-Stern School of Business and HEC Paris, where he specialized in corporate finance and global business, graduating summa cum laude. All by the age of thirty. Christ.
What was it Elliott had said? Extremely driven? That was an understatement if I’d ever heard one.
Henry had hinted that his brother didn’t quite share his laid-back personality, but when I’d seemed concerned he quickly put my mind at ease. “He has a tendency to be a bit stiff and completely anal retentive at times, but don’t worry about it, Chloe. You can handle his bark; you guys are going to be a great team. I mean, come on,” he said, wrapping his large arm around me. “How could he not love you?”
I hated to admit it now, but by the time he was set to arrive, I had developed a bit of a crush on Bennett Ryan. I was extremely anxious about working with him, but I was also impressed with everything he’d accomplished in his relatively short life. Looking up his picture online didn’t hurt either: the man was a specimen. We communicated through e-mail leading up to his arrival, and although he seemed nice enough, he was never overly friendly.
On the big day, Bennett wasn’t due in until after the board meeting that afternoon, when he would be officially introduced. I had the entire day to work myself up into a ball of nerves. Being the good friend she is, Sara came upstairs to distract me. She sat in my chair and we spent over an hour discussing the merits of the Clerks movies.
Soon I was laughing so hard I had tears running down my face. I didn’t notice that Sara stiffened when the outer office door opened, and I didn’t notice that someone was now standing behind me. And though Sara tried to warn me with a swift hand across the throat—the universal sign for “shut the fuck up”—I ignored her.
Because, apparently, I’m an idiot.
“And then,” I said, giggling and holding onto my sides, “she says, ‘Fuck, I had to take a fucking order off a guy I blew after junior prom once.’ And then he says, ‘Yeah, I’ve waited on your brother too.’”
Another bout of laughter hit me, and I stumbled backward a bit until I collided with something hard and warm.
Spinning around, I was mortified to see that I had just ground my ass onto my new boss’ thigh.
“Mr. Ryan!” I said, recognizing him from his photographs. “I’m so sorry!”
He did not look amused.
In an attempt to ease the tension, Sara stood and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Sara Dillon, Henry’s assistant.”
My new boss simply glanced at her hand without returning the gesture and raised one of his perfect eyebrows. “Don’t you mean ‘Mr. Ryan’?”
Sara’s hand slowly fell as she watched him, obviously flustered. Something about his physical presence was so intimidating she was at a loss for words. When she recovered, she stuttered, “Well . . . we are fairly casual around here. We’re all on a first-name basis. This is your assistant, Chloe.”
He nodded to me. “Miss Mills. You will refer to me as Mr. Ryan. And I expect you in my office in five minutes so that we may discuss proper workplace decorum.” His voice was serious when he spoke, and he nodded curtly to Sara. “Miss Dillon.”
Sliding his gaze to mine for another moment, he turned on his heel toward his new office and I watched in horror as the first of his infamous door slams took place.
“What a bastard!” Sara mumbled between tight lips.
“A beautiful bastard,” I replied.
Hoping to smooth things over, I went down to the café to get him a cup of coffee. I’d even asked Henry how he took it—black. When I nervously made it back to his office door, my knock was followed by an abrupt “come in,” and I willed my hands to stop shaking. I curved my lips into a friendly smile, intent on making a better impression this time, and opened the door to him talking on the phone and writing furiously on the notepad in front of him. My breath caught when I heard his smooth, deep voice speaking in flawless French.
“Ce sera parfait. Non. Non, ce n’est pas nécessaire. Seulement quatre. Oui. Quatre. Merci, Ivan.”
He ended the call but never lifted his eyes from his papers to greet me. Once I was standing in front of his desk, he addressed me in the same stern tone as before. “In the future, Miss Mills, you will keep all non-workplace-related conversations outside of the office. We’re paying you to work, not gossip. Do I make myself clear?”
I stood speechless for a moment until he lifted his eyes to meet mine, raising an eyebrow. I shook myself out of my trance, all at once realizing the truth about Bennett Ryan: although he was even more breathtakingly gorgeous in person than in photos, he was not at all like I had imagined. And he was absolutely nothing like his parents and brother.
“Very clear, sir,” I said as I walked around his desk to set his coffee in front of him.
But just as I was about to reach his desk, my heel caught on the rug and I lunged forward. I heard a loud “Shit!” escape his lips—the coffee now nothing more than a scorching stain on his expensive suit.
“Oh my God, Mr. Ryan, I am so sorry!”
I rushed over to the sink in his bathroom to grab a towel and ran back, falling to my knees in front of him and attempting to wipe off the stain. In my haste, and in the midst of humiliation I didn’t think could get any worse, it suddenly occurred to me that I was furiously rubbing the towel against his crotch. I averted my eyes and hand, feeling a heated blush spread from my face down my neck as I caught a glimpse of the noticeable bulge in the front of his pants.
“You may go now, Miss Mills.”
I nodded, rushing out of the office, mortified that I’d made such a horrible first impression.
Thankfully, I proved myself pretty quickly after that. There were times when he even seemed impressed with me, although he was always short and on edge. I chalked it up to his being a giant asshat, but I had always wondered if there was something specific about me that rubbed him the wrong way.
Besides that towel, of course.
When I arrived at work, I bumped into Sara on my way to the elevator. We made plans to have lunch next week and said good-bye as she reached her floor. Arriving at the eighteenth floor, I noticed Mr. Ryan’s office door was closed as usual, so I couldn’t tell if he was here yet. I turned on the computer and tried to mentally prepare myself for the day. Lately, anxiety hit every time I sat in this chair.
I knew I would see him this morning; we went over the schedule for the coming week every Friday. But I never knew what kind of mood he would be in.
Although his temper had been even worse lately, his last words to me yesterday had been, “Get the garter belt too.” And I had. In fact, I was wearing it now. Why? I had no idea. What in the hell had he meant by that? Did he think he was going to see it? No fucking way. Then why had I worn it? I swear to God, if he rips it . . . I stopped myself before I could finish.
Of course he wouldn’t rip it. I was never going to give him the chance.
Keep telling yourself that, Mills.
Answering some e-mails, editing the Papadakis contract for intellectual property issues, and making a few hotel inquiries took my mind off the situation for a bit, and about an hour later his office door opened. Looking up, I was met with a very businesslike Mr. Ryan. His dark, two-button suit was impeccable, complemented perfectly by the pop of color in his red silk tie. He looked calm and completely at ease. No trace remained of the wild man who had fucked me in the La Perla dressing room approximately eighteen hours and thirty-six minutes ago. Not that I was counting.
“Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded once and turned back to his office.
Okay, so that’s how this wa
s going to play out. Fine by me. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting but was somewhat relieved that things weren’t different. Things between us were getting more and more intense, and it would mean a harder crash when it all stopped and I was left to pick up the pieces of my career. I hoped we could limp through this without further disaster until I finished my degree.
I followed him into his office and took a seat. I began going over the list of tasks and appointments that needed his attention. He listened without comment, jotting things down or entering them into his computer when needed.
“There’s a meeting with Red Hawk Publishing scheduled for three this afternoon. Your father and brother are also planning to attend. It will probably take up the rest of the afternoon, so your calendar has been cleared . . .” And so it went, until eventually we got to the part I’d been dreading.
“Lastly, the JT Miller Marketing Insight Conference is in San Diego next month,” I said, suddenly becoming interested in what I was doodling in my calendar. The pause that followed seemed to drag forever, and I glanced up to see what was taking so long. He was staring at me, tapping a gold pen on the desk, his face completely void of any expression.
“Will you be accompanying me?” he asked.
“Yes.” My one word created a suffocating silence in the room. I had no idea what he was thinking as we looked at each other. “It’s in the terms of the scholarship that I attend. I, uh, also think it’d be good to have me there to, um, help manage your affairs.”
“Make all the necessary arrangements,” he said with an air of finality as he resumed typing on his computer. Assuming I had been dismissed, I stood and began walking toward the door.
“Miss Mills.”
I turned to look at him, and even though he didn’t meet my gaze, he almost seemed nervous. Well, that was different.
“My mother has asked me to extend an invitation to you for dinner next week.”
“Oh.” I felt heat bloom across my cheeks. “Well, please tell her I’ll look at my schedule.” I turned to leave again.