A Very Personal Assistant (2 page)

“Look, what’s all this about?” she demanded, feeling off
balance.

“Like I said, it’s therapy…symbolic. I wanted you to throw your
knickers away as a representation of you discarding your worries and the stress
of work.”

“And there’s nothing in it for you, then, knowing I’ve got no
panties on.” She glanced very pointedly at his groin, and her heart thudded. Was
he even bigger?

“Of course there’s something in it for me,” he said softly, his
voice more intense and not quite as serene and controlled as before. “The
thought of your naked sex is giving me an enormous horn. Do you think I don’t
think about you that way?” He snuck her another fleeting glance, then
concentrated on a right turn, down a smaller road. “Hell, I think about your
pussy all the time, Miranda. And your breasts and your bottom and your thighs
and every other bit of you. I’m a man, and you’re a beautiful woman. I can’t
help myself. Why wouldn’t I think about your body?”

“So, no real interest in my mind at this time, then? I’m just a
sex object to you?” she snapped out, covering her shock.

The mock-chastened expression he assumed was utterly adorable.
Both sweet and wolfishly sexy at the same time. Miranda’s heart pounded harder,
and if she hadn’t been securely buckled in, and he hadn’t been at the wheel of a
swiftly moving vehicle, she would have launched herself at him to kiss him, and
a lot more.

“Oh, I’m in awe of your mind, boss. Really I am. Why else would
I so enjoy working for a woman? With anyone less smart than you, it’d be
irritating…and against my nature.”

Frowning, Miranda tried to absorb what he was saying.

“You’re a dominant?”

His smile was slow now, and narrow. Not threatening, but
certainly possessed of power.

“Of course.”

He worked for her. He took her orders. Yet all the time, his
natural inclination was to give
her
orders. What an
irony. What a performance. He never showed it, nor any sign of irritation. What
a tour de force.

Miranda fell silent for a while, as Patrick negotiated what was
becoming an increasingly twisty lane. They were out in the country now, in the
wilds, and he controlled the car with only the lightest touch, effortlessly and
economically.

Just the way he was completely controlling her.

“So what do you want me to do now?”

He changed gear before he answered, rounding a bend.

“How about showing me your pussy?” He didn’t look at her, but
he smiled, how he smiled.

There weren’t many vehicles about around here, but occasionally
they passed the odd one. Miranda realized her alarm must have shown on her face,
because Patrick spoke again, almost immediately.

“Okay, that’s a bit too extreme, for now…. So how about just
the tops of those delicious stockings you wear. Mmm, lace…I love it.”

“How do you know I wear lace-topped hold-ups?”

He laughed again, a free, happy sound. A little like the way
Miranda was starting to feel.

“A man can sometimes catch a sly glimpse when a lady is
reaching for something.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “And then there’re the
couple of spare pairs you keep in the filing cabinet…I’ve dreamed about
them.”

Along with my pussy, and my breasts, it
seems.

She didn’t speak, but she edged the hem of her skirt up her
thighs, inch by inch. He’d told her to, after all, and even if a passing
motorist got an eyeful, it could be attributed to inadvertent creep of the
fabric, not a deliberate act.

Patrick scored a quick glance, then bit his lip, looking
pleased as punch with her.

Again, they drove on for a while, in companionable yet dynamic
silence. Miranda had never felt this excited and needy in her life before, even
after hours of diligent foreplay by previous lovers. It was a state of peaceful
desperation. High lust, but almost restful, too.

He’s going to fuck me. And touch me. And
do things to me. It’ll make things hellishly complicated and awkward back at
work, but I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!

* * *

Eventually, they pulled up in front of a timber-built
cottage, the last one in a small row, built alongside a lazy, leafy canal bank.
They were clearly holiday homes, but Miranda could see no sign of life in any of
them. Maybe they were weekend occupancy, and stood empty in the middle of the
working week?

“It belongs to my gran. She likes to come here for little
breaks, and she lends it to anyone in the family who wants a few days peace and
quiet,” said Patrick conversationally, nodding toward the blue painted door of
the quaint little structure. “No one’s here now, though…it’s all ours. We have
total privacy.”

Total privacy. What did that mean? Miranda shuddered, not
afraid, more excited.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

She nodded, her heart racing as he leapt of the Citroën.
Shoving at her skirt, she caught the top of one of her stockings and it
slithered down her thigh. She was still hitching at it when the passenger door
swung open.

“Let me…”

The contact of Patrick’s fingers on her bare skin was like a
jolt of sweet energy barreling through her. Kneeling beside the seat, he
smoothed the lace up her thigh again, deftly righting it, then slid his hand
beneath the hem of her skirt for just a moment, touching the soft hair at her
crotch and brushing his thumb over it.

Miranda moaned. His touch was fleeting, barely there, and yet
her clitoris leapt and her sex rippled as if he’d been fondling and fondling her
and almost brought her to the point of orgasm. Maybe he
had
brought her to it, just with words, with his glances, and with
his presence.

And then he was standing up, reaching for her hand, helping her
out of the low car and onto her feet. Her bag tumbled to the path and he swooped
it up and handed it to her, the perfect personal assistant. It was all
completely normal and polite, and yet he’d just touched her sex—well, nearly—and
her panties were nestled in his jacket pocket.

He led her to the cottage and let her in, the soul of courtesy.
It was almost the way he was with her at work when he let her in and allowed her
to precede him.

“Well, here we are.” The genial host, he pulled out a chair for
her, one of several set around a small kitchen table covered with an
old-fashioned wipe-down cover.

Miranda slid onto the seat, her skirt rising a bit. He was
looking at her with that sweet devil-imp smile again, teasing her. Not telling
her what to do, yet not exactly subservient.

“What happens now?” She hung her bag over the back of the
chair, still feeling off-kilter. “Do you spank me or fuck me, or what?”

“We can do either, or both, or neither…. But I really would
like to see your pussy now.” Eyes on her all the time, he shrugged out of his
jacket and tossed it over the back of a nearby armchair. “I’ve been wondering
what it looks like since I first came to work for you.”

“Really…it never occurred to me that you were interested,” she
lied. Subliminally, it
had
occurred to her.
Subliminally,
she’d
thought about it all the time.
too.

Patrick took his seat, too, stretching out his long legs in
front of him. His pose was elegant and relaxed, one elbow on the table, his
other hand resting on his thigh, and yet everything about him suggested quiet
power and readiness.

For what?

“Of course, I’m interested, Miranda,” he purred, tilting his
head on one side. He’d ruffled his hair somewhere along the line, and his blond
curls looked even more boyish and angelic. His eyes looked like Lucifer’s, sharp
and blue. “But you wouldn’t think much of me as P.A. if I perved you all the
time, would you?”

“I suppose not.” She placed one hand on the table, mirroring
his, fingertips just inches away from his.

“Well, then…now we’re on neutral ground. Why don’t you put me
out of my misery and show me the goods?”

Her heart thudded, leaping in her chest while sweat popped out
all over her body. She’d had plenty of sex in her time, even a little kink now
and again, but this was different…strange, ridiculously thrilling and forbidden.
Feeling as if she wanted to gasp for breath, she hooked the hem of her suit
skirt with the fingertips of her right hand and edged it up again. Patrick’s
eyes followed every movement, unwaveringly, even though his body was still and
quiet. She loved the look of him in his classy waistcoat, with his shirt open at
the neck, a tantalizing combination of the formal and the casual. As the edge of
her skirt reached her groin, he took in a breath.

She hesitated. He smiled. She bit her lip. He shook his head,
as if despairing of her. In a rough, impatient gesture she hauled up the hem,
showing him the triangle of dark hair covering her sex and rumpling her skirt in
a bunch at her waist.

“So now what?” she demanded, edging around a bit on the chair.
She felt as if she had an engine running in her sex, creating a build-up of
energy. She wanted to make wild movements, do extreme things. The urge to part
her legs wide and push her pelvis forward, opening to him, was a rampaging
hunger.

Patrick didn’t speak. He just quirked his blond eyebrows at
her, his eyes flicking to her pussy, then to her lips, and then back to her eyes
again. His smile widened.

He’s got me right where he wants me. He
doesn’t even have to touch me and he’s driving me crazy.

“Well?” she persisted. She was worked up, wound up, and wanted
action.

“Feeling horny, are we?” Patrick just stared at her, his
fingertip moving in a tiny circle on the smooth, shiny surface of the
tablecloth, so close to hers. The action was suggestive beyond belief, and his
next words came as no surprise. “Why don’t you masturbate?”

Her first thought was,
I can’t!
But
she knew she could. She knew she wanted to, desperately. There was nothing she
wanted more, other than to have Patrick fuck her, right now, across the table.
She glanced at the space between them, and the movement of his long elegant
fingers, the slow circles that incited her to touch herself.

“All right. I will!”

Shuffling her legs wider, she thrust her hand between them,
diving straight in with two fingers, searching and finding her clit. She’d
wanted to put on a show for him, a grand performance, but she couldn’t wait. She
couldn’t prevaricate. She needed to come.

“Oh!”

The jolt of immediate pleasure took her breath away. Her clit
pulsed, fluttered, right on the edge. She backed straight off and began to slick
around her folds. Patrick tilted his head on side, as if assessing her
performance.

“You want to come,” he stated, “so why don’t you? Why hold
back?”

“I…I don’t know…. It’s what I usually do—I make it last…well,
I try to.”

Those blue eyes narrowed a little, looked more dangerous.

“Well, I don’t want you to make it last. I want to see you come
now.” Reaching out, he placed his right hand over her left one, on the table,
sliding his thumb to her wrist and settling it lightly over the pulse point
there.

It was like being linked to him, blood to blood, the tiny
contact as intimate in its own way as cock in cunt. Her heartbeat, and its
racing rhythm, cried out to him.

With another little gasp, she went for her clit and began to
rub, fast and hard, working herself without finesse or real accuracy, just
pounding away at the sensitive center.

Barely seconds passed. Her body surged, clenching fiercely on
empty air, rippling, grasping for Patrick’s as yet unseen cock, the flesh she so
longed for.

Moaning, she closed her eyes, as she always did, but he cried
out, “No! Look into my eyes! Keep it here!” He passed his hand in a circle
before his face, like a hypnotist. “Continue! Come again! You can do it!”

Sinking into a world of blue, of deep, glittering blue, she
rotated her fingertip more lightly this time, with more delicacy. Her
consciousness was balanced between three points: her clit, his eyes, the touch
of his thumb. Silvery messages darted between the three nodes, circling and
building up like some arcane power source. Pleasure rose again, buoyed up the
circuit, the movement of Patrick’s thumb as arousing as that of her finger, and
the light in his eyes more incendiary than both.

“Come, Miranda, come!”

Pleasure swelled again, wild and ascending, her sex pulsating
as she pitched forward in the hard old chair, breaking the magic triangle as she
curved over her own rubbing fingertips. Patrick caught her shoulder with his
free hand, supporting her, guiding her head toward his. As she came and came,
their foreheads were pressed against one another’s.

“That’s it baby…that’s it,” he softly chanted, his breath as
warm as a zephyr against her cheeks.

How weird. How odd. I’ve never come like
this before….

The thoughts flitted through her mind as she came back to
earth, and finally straightened up, Patrick’s warm hand slipping to the nape of
her neck and down her arm as she did so. She withdrew her hand from her crotch,
and he clasped it and squeezed it, almost as if he were praising her somehow.
And all the time he smiled and his eyes glowed with a strange, magical
triumph.

“Phew! That was really something.” She sounded breathless, even
to her own ears, like an innocent after sex for the first time. “And
different…not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” Patrick drew her hands together,
folding both into his own, vaguely like a therapist focusing the attention of
his patient. Miranda was aware that her skirt was still around her waist, but it
didn’t seem to matter.

“I…I don’t know…. A fuck, I suppose.”

“A fuck would be nice,” replied Patrick roundly, his tongue
touching the center of his lower lip for a moment, naughty and enticing.