Chapter Five

The way to a PA’s heart is not, as many think, food—it’s information.

A fifteen-minute tutorial on automating email responses is all it takes before Claudette, Steele’s (rather young but competent) assistant agrees to slip me into his eleven AM time slot on Wednesday (hump day) morning.

Playing to my strengths, I walk brazenly in his office without knocking, wearing a skirt that shows off my legs, yet isn’t too tight to be easily moved out of the way. I purposefully shut the door behind me loud enough to draw attention, but devil that he is, he types for several seconds before he looks up.

And then it’s just a glance. “You might lock it, too.”

He goes back to typing, and I stand frozen for a beat, teetering between my options. Locking the door means potentially more fun to be had. It also means following his orders, and I’m here on my terms not his.

I leave the door unlocked. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”

He types a few more words, then pushes his keyboard aside, seeming to give me his full attention. “I presume you’re here because you can’t get enough of me.”

“That ego again.” He’s not wrong, but I’m not admitting it flat out.

He studies me, from head to toe, his eyes darkening when he reaches my legs, and I take that as a point. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the clock?”

“Took a personal day.” Pretending not to notice how keenly he’s scrutinizing me, I survey the office, moseying past his desk as I do to look out the windows. It’s a nice office. A decent size with a notable view. “Donovan will be pleased to know his is bigger.”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should measure.”

I flip my head back toward him. “Your ruler or mine?”

“Definitely mine.”

I’m not even sure what we’re talking about anymore, but there’s absolutely innuendo. The tension is so thick, it could be served on a platter. Then he runs his teeth along his lower lip, and I know I have him. “Ask me why I’m here, Steele.”

“Why are you here, Simone?”

A shiver runs through me. Apparently, I’m a switch, because as much as I adored him bossing me around yesterday, I still love when a man does what I say.

I slink toward him and cock my hip against his desk. “You weren’t where you were supposed to be yesterday, were you? Your brother called. Said you were supposed to be attending a conference for him when you were harassing me.”

A single brow lifts. “Oh, really?” He sounds more intrigued than concerned, but I can work with that.

“No need to worry. I covered for you. But you know what that means.”

“That my brother doesn’t know how to best use my time?”

I resist a grin. “That you owe me.”

“Ah. I owe you.” He swivels his chair to face me completely. “You’re here to collect, I suppose. What, pray tell, do you need to even the score? I don’t imagine that you want to spank me.”

The thought had crossed my mind.

Several times, actually.

His clothes suggest a firm ass, and I’d love to have my hand on it. Would love to see if there’s any flesh to squeeze. Would love to lick my thumb and work it inside him. Wouldn’t it be something if I were the first?

It sounds divine, but I have other ideas to settle this debt.

Boldly, I climb onto his lap, straddling my knees on either side of his hips. “I need you to spank me .”

Finally, I’ve surprised him. I’ll take that as two points, though I’ve long lost track of the score.

“But this time” —I draw his tie through my fingers, pulling when I get to the end— “you need to fulfill the promise of dipping into the cookie jar.”

His eyes spark. Without looking away from me, he reaches over to the desk beside him and hits the intercom. “Claudette, please make sure I’m not disturbed for the next ten minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. Sebastian,” she says, and I almost get jealous thinking of how many times in a day she gets to say that. Yes, Mr. Sebastian. Whatever you say, Mr. Sebastian.

He replies with a thank you (which earns him extra credit in my book because hard-working employees should be treated with decency from their superiors), and clicks the intercom off.

“Ten minutes? You’re awfully confident.” Honestly, I could probably come in two.

Without warning, he spins the chair then lifts me onto his desk. His hands linger on my hips, burning into my skin through the material of my skirt. “How about a counter offer?”

He’s not in a place to negotiate. I came in with the blackmail this time. I’m supposed to be the one in charge. He can’t be proposing counter offers.

But I’m too curious not to hear him out. Damn, him . “Go on.”

“How about we skip the spanking.” He trails his palms down my thighs until they reach the end of my skirt. “And get right to the cookie jar.”

He pushes my skirt up, and I’m not going to lie, the expression he makes when he sees what’s there—or isn’t there, more accurately—will forever be seared in my memory. It’s the look that someone wears when they bite into something uniquely delicious. Like saffron crème br?lée or double nut baklava. I’ve seen the look many a time—worn it many more times.

I never thought someone would wear that look when they were looking at me.

“No panties?” His voice is scratchy. The same way I imagine his beard will feel between my thighs. “You walked out there in the world like this?”

Finally, he shows signs that he’s human. I was beginning to think he only played for the sport and not the prize. “It was a well-kept secret, I assure you.”

“Mm.” He pushes his hands back up my thighs until his thumbs graze the edges of my pussy. “I think I forgot what I was saying.”

“You were saying that you’d skip the spanking and go right to the cookies, which I’m fine with by the way.” I spread my legs to give him better access to the jar.

“Ah, yes. My counter offer.” He begins to massage my skin with the pads of his thumbs. Not quite where I’d like them to be massaging, but near enough to send all my blood to the area and fatten my clit into a hot, swollen nub. “No spanking, but you have to do something in exchange.”

Of course there’d be a catch. “Do what?”

“You have to list ten reasons why you shouldn’t go out with me before I make you come.”

The caress of his thumbs is distracting, and I’m finding it hard to concentrate. But I’m pretty sure the only thing I liked in that sentence he just said was the part where he said he’d make me come. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because if you do, then we’re even.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you owe me .” He moves inward now, spreading my lips apart with his fingers then leans forward to blow softly against my sensitive skin.

It’s maddeningly teasy, and I shudder with annoyed delight. I’m ready to get to the part where he makes me come and pronto. “Let me get this straight. I list ten reasons why I shouldn’t go out with you before I come, and we’re even. If I come before that, I owe you.” Owe him a date, I’m guessing. The thought makes me all sorts of giddy, which I’d never admit because gross.

And I come either way.

Sort of sounds like I win no matter what.

“Are you in?” He sends another stream of air against my throbbing clit, and fuck, if he keeps this up, I’m going to come entirely too soon. I mean, the guy really deserves to work for it.

Obviously, I’m in.

Instead of answering, I start counting. “One, I’m out of your league.”

He lowers his head, but not before I catch his grin.

Then he attacks the cookie jar in earnest, swirling his thumb over my clit with varying pressure that is sometimes just right but more often almost just right, and the man is an expert because that almost just right is really doing the job at getting me there in a hurry.

I force myself not to give into the pleasure. “Two. I only date men who respect women.”

“You don’t think I respect women?”

I level a glare. “You let me choke. Which is reason number three, by the way.” The last words come out more of a jumble because he’s suddenly added a finger to the action, tracing my entrance with the tip.

“You weren’t choking.”

“Four, you argue with everything I say.”

“Then say things that don’t deserve argument.”

I screw my face up, as much from his statement as from the pleasure that feels awfully close to cresting. “What do I say that deserves argument? I’m smart, and I only speak to things I know something about. I’m brash, but I’m honest. I’m only combative when provoked.”

Asshole has the nerve to laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Your warped sense of self.” He inserts two fingers inside me, still teasing with the just right/almost just right pressure on my clit, and immediately finds the spot inside me that makes me bonkers.

Letting out a cry, I reach out a hand to his shoulder to steady myself.

“Also, you’re about to come.”

“Am not.”

“And you claim to be honest. Liar.”

“Six—”

“You skipped five.”

“Five, you don’t believe women.” It’s too much—the dance of his fingers inside and out, plus the unsatiated state that he left me in yesterday—I’m struggling not to Niagara Falls all over Steele’s desk.

Honestly, I’m only punishing myself. That was likely his plan all along. Forcing me to think while he abuses my pussy—he knew it would stifle the pleasure. As soon as I surrender, I can truly enjoy what he’s doing to me, and get to go on a date with him where he might even do this to me again.

It’s a pride thing that makes me attempt to go further. I have to at least show a good fight before giving in. “Six—”

But then he leans his face in and swipes up my slit with his tongue. Liquid pools around his fingers. “Six?”

“Six, I hate people,” I say in a rush. “And that includes you.”

“You’re definitely going to hate me now.” He returns to my pussy, replacing the thumb on my clit with his hot mouth. His dirty, filthy mouth that, turns out, can do unspeakable things to a woman’s peach. Licking, biting, sucking—all in deliberate rotation—and yes I hate him very much, and I proceed to tell him so until my body seizes and my pussy gushes and my eyes roll back into my head and pleasure lights my nervous system from head to toe like I’m goddamn Times Square.

Somewhere in the ecstasy of maybe the most amazing orgasm I’ve ever had, I have the cognizance to realize I’m really going to hate this prick if he ends up making me not hate him at all.

When I come to—I seriously might have blacked out for a second there—Steele is licking his finger clean like he’s just had Kansas City barbeque.

So hot.

Steele, not the barbeque, though they do a nice job with the spice, I must say.

“You made a mess of my desk.” He acts unaffected, but a glance at his bulging crotch says otherwise. “And you didn’t finish the list.”

“I didn’t.” I’m surprised how easily I admit it. Maybe it’s because my defeat was too obvious or because of my post orgasmic haze. Or maybe just because it doesn’t feel like a loss considering the terms. “Now I owe you.”

“You do.” He grabs a tissue from the box on his desk and cleans me up like a gentleman, causing me to rethink number two where I said he didn’t respect women.

He finishes his cleaning with a kiss to my pubic bone. When he stands, he places another kiss on my nose, and my breath stutters. “Why do I like cleaning up after you so much, Simone Lima?”

I blush, but I play it off with a shrug. “Like I said. I’m out of your league. You’ll do anything to be near me.”

It’s said in fun—we both know which of us is top shelf, and it’s not the one of us who has been freshly fucked—but there’s a part of me that wants to believe it. I think I even could believe it, if I’m not careful.

Not wanting to be that girl, the one who gets obsessed and gaga over one expertly given O, I pull my skirt down and hop off his desk. “I’ll be on my way now.”

I start past him, but he puts a hand on the desk, his arm blocking my path. “Not so fast.”

“What?” I didn’t forget that I owe him. Are you kidding me? I’m already planning how I’ll do my hair and what outfit I’m going to wear and what pair of panties I won’t be putting on underneath.

“You know what.” He leans in front of me to grab a pen. He uncaps it with his mouth (why does that turn my insides to molten lava?), and grabs my hand. Such a simple gesture, but my heart skips a beat, and my silly little brain starts singing Here Comes the Bride like he’s about to propose.

Propose, he does not. But he writes an address on the back of my hand like we’re in seventh grade, and that’s almost just as swoony. “Are we going steady now?”

He smiles around the cap still in his mouth and waits until he’s put it back on the pen to speak. “My place. Be there tomorrow at nine sharp.”

“Nine at night?” He’s not even going to feed me dinner first? I mentally make that number seven on the list I didn’t finish.

“Nine AM.” He throws the pen on the desk and steps back to let me pass.

“Nine in the morning?” A day date. Well, well, well. “I’m supposed to be at work.”

“Your boss still out?”

I shrug because yes, but I’m not easy.

Okay, I’m not that easy.

“Take another personal day. You can spend it hating me instead.”

“Sure,” I say. “Though I’ll spend it hating you, whether I’m with you or at the office.”

Fine, Steele was right—I’m definitely a liar.