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Authors: Portia Da Costa
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just an uncannily efficient personal assistant who mostly
anticipates his boss’s needs, but who’s way off in this case.”
“So you say.” He tilted his head to one side, his sandy blond
hair glinting beneath the strip lighting. It was a bit curly and wayward, giving
him the look of an angel from a painting or a fresco. A very naughty, playful
angel, with all the earthy foibles of a man. “But I still think a few hours out
of the office would do you good.” He winked at her, no angel now, but more like
the very devil. “Give you what you need.”
The fluttering turned to a pounding, and enveloped her entire
body. Heart, brain, sex. She felt as if she were standing on a precipice, or
before a secret door, or at the edge of some narrow rickety bridge,
leading…leading somewhere.
“All right then. But just an hour or so, no more. I’ll order
the car.” Shoving her feet back into her shoes, she sat up and reached out
toward the keypad on her phone. “Where shall we go?”
Before she could actually depress the button, a warm hand
fastened about her wrist, immobilizing her. Normally she would have shaken off
the unsolicited grip of any man, even Patrick, but a delicious honeyed sensation
made her yield. Dear God, he was actually making her feel weak!
“No need for a car. I’ll drive.” His voice was quiet but
powerful. “Just do what you need to do and then meet me down in the car
park.”
His hand tightened on her wrist, just for one moment, then he
released her, winked again, and strode purposefully from the room.
* * *
This is crazy. I’m his boss and
he’s my personal assistant, for heaven’s sake. We shouldn’t be doing
this.
Well, if that were the case, why had she primped and preened
and fluttered in the cloakroom? Why was she smelling rather more than usual of
Shalimar?
Her rational self told her it was just an hour or two out of
the office, a change of scene, maybe a drink or a coffee somewhere. Patrick was
a good conversationalist, with smart opinions on politics, current affairs and
the media. It was always fun and mentally stimulating to chat with him, however
briefly.
But her irrational self said this jaunt was all about sex.
Score one for my irrational
self .
Especially when she turned the corner, reaching the car park,
and her pussy literally rippled at the sight of Patrick.
He didn’t look all that different, leaning against his
powder-blue vintage Citroën in the sunlight. In fact he looked exactly the same
as he usually did, in his sharp, but very traditional three-piece suit that fit
his body so beautifully. The only perceptible change was the absence of his tie,
and the opening of his collar—but in other ways, it was if a magic prince had
suddenly appeared and the relaxed energy in his lithe, athletic body seemed to
promise that anything, in fact everything , was
possible.
“Er…hi!” The slight squeak in her voice when she called out
made her sound like a nervous teenage girl on her first date rather than a
confident, powerful woman in her thirties and a senior partner in the firm.
“Hi, yourself,” replied Patrick, pushing himself off the car
with a smooth powerful shove, then opening the door for her.
The Citroën was low, and Miranda was acutely conscious of the
frisky slide of her skirt as she half flung herself into the passenger seat.
Patrick’s smile broadened and seemed to twinkle as if it’d been animated by
Pixar, while their eyes acknowledged the wedge of dark lace stocking top she’d
just flashed at him. “Nice,” he murmured, leaving her so flabbergasted at his
cheek that she couldn’t answer.
Clipping the buckle of her seat belt, she expected him to ask, Where to? But instead, he just set the car in
motion, drove out of the car park and headed off confidently without reference
to her or her preferences.
“Where are we going?”
Miranda swallowed, nerves and maniac butterflies fluttering in
her chest. She’d been in cars with Patrick before,
anticipates his boss’s needs, but who’s way off in this case.”
“So you say.” He tilted his head to one side, his sandy blond
hair glinting beneath the strip lighting. It was a bit curly and wayward, giving
him the look of an angel from a painting or a fresco. A very naughty, playful
angel, with all the earthy foibles of a man. “But I still think a few hours out
of the office would do you good.” He winked at her, no angel now, but more like
the very devil. “Give you what you need.”
The fluttering turned to a pounding, and enveloped her entire
body. Heart, brain, sex. She felt as if she were standing on a precipice, or
before a secret door, or at the edge of some narrow rickety bridge,
leading…leading somewhere.
“All right then. But just an hour or so, no more. I’ll order
the car.” Shoving her feet back into her shoes, she sat up and reached out
toward the keypad on her phone. “Where shall we go?”
Before she could actually depress the button, a warm hand
fastened about her wrist, immobilizing her. Normally she would have shaken off
the unsolicited grip of any man, even Patrick, but a delicious honeyed sensation
made her yield. Dear God, he was actually making her feel weak!
“No need for a car. I’ll drive.” His voice was quiet but
powerful. “Just do what you need to do and then meet me down in the car
park.”
His hand tightened on her wrist, just for one moment, then he
released her, winked again, and strode purposefully from the room.
* * *
This is crazy. I’m his boss and
he’s my personal assistant, for heaven’s sake. We shouldn’t be doing
this.
Well, if that were the case, why had she primped and preened
and fluttered in the cloakroom? Why was she smelling rather more than usual of
Shalimar?
Her rational self told her it was just an hour or two out of
the office, a change of scene, maybe a drink or a coffee somewhere. Patrick was
a good conversationalist, with smart opinions on politics, current affairs and
the media. It was always fun and mentally stimulating to chat with him, however
briefly.
But her irrational self said this jaunt was all about sex.
Score one for my irrational
self .
Especially when she turned the corner, reaching the car park,
and her pussy literally rippled at the sight of Patrick.
He didn’t look all that different, leaning against his
powder-blue vintage Citroën in the sunlight. In fact he looked exactly the same
as he usually did, in his sharp, but very traditional three-piece suit that fit
his body so beautifully. The only perceptible change was the absence of his tie,
and the opening of his collar—but in other ways, it was if a magic prince had
suddenly appeared and the relaxed energy in his lithe, athletic body seemed to
promise that anything, in fact everything , was
possible.
“Er…hi!” The slight squeak in her voice when she called out
made her sound like a nervous teenage girl on her first date rather than a
confident, powerful woman in her thirties and a senior partner in the firm.
“Hi, yourself,” replied Patrick, pushing himself off the car
with a smooth powerful shove, then opening the door for her.
The Citroën was low, and Miranda was acutely conscious of the
frisky slide of her skirt as she half flung herself into the passenger seat.
Patrick’s smile broadened and seemed to twinkle as if it’d been animated by
Pixar, while their eyes acknowledged the wedge of dark lace stocking top she’d
just flashed at him. “Nice,” he murmured, leaving her so flabbergasted at his
cheek that she couldn’t answer.
Clipping the buckle of her seat belt, she expected him to ask, Where to? But instead, he just set the car in
motion, drove out of the car park and headed off confidently without reference
to her or her preferences.
“Where are we going?”
Miranda swallowed, nerves and maniac butterflies fluttering in
her chest. She’d been in cars with Patrick before,
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