Page 73 of Pride and Privilege

“Is this what we do now?” he breathed, the question guileless as a wondering child.We hug, we kiss, we touch…He kissed her hair, her forehead, and held her tighter.

Her arms settled more firmly around his waist, squeezing him to her the way he squeezed her. “As it’s all you’ll give me,” she teased, voice muffled by his chest. He felt her breath through the fabric of his t-shirt, was suddenly desperate for her mouth. He reached for her cheek, tilted her to him. But she drew back, wrapping her hand around his and tugging him to her room.

“But rightnow,” she said. “You need to sleep. Get in the bed.”

He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to kiss her breathless, undress her, palm her breasts and run his hands over every inch of her. Touch her until she whimpered. But she was businesslike. Stern Secretary Poppy, with her hand on her hip, insisting he get in bed. Go to sleep.

At least it was her bed. At least she got in beside him.

He reached for her, but she took hold of his hands, held them between hers. “I’m trying to be good, Roscoe,” she teased him with his words from the other night. “But you have to help.”

“I don’t want to be good.”

“You need to sleep. You’ll be up in four hours.” She held his gaze, serious, implacable. He knew this look. Knew she meant it. So he wrestled his lust back down to something simmering. Something he could almost ignore. Almost. She reached out, stroked his hair from his forehead and kept stroking.This isn’t going to work,he protested silently.I’m too wound up to sleep right now…

His eyes closed, and as he tumbled down into sleep, his weary, unguarded brain murmured, “I like you so much.”

Wednesday was busy. When was it ever not busy? Roscoe was in off-site meetings all morning, out for lunch, back for a client meeting, then straight into some tax strategy call. Poppy hardly saw him, though she sat in on the client meeting. He had made sure to invite her to as many as he could now that he knew her interest. She took notes, listened intently, made her own silent suggestions in her mind, then was gratified when they matched what Roscoe told his client. She studied the line of his knee in his dark blue suit trouser, and the cuff of his shirt, crisp against the skin of his wrist. She looked at his hair, growing longer again now, wavy down to the nape of his neck, and her gaze traced the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his lashes as he listened, intent and serious, to the needs of his client. He flashed her a look, and she dragged her gaze to the window, to the pad on the table, to the pen in her hand.

I like you so much.

He’d been gone when she woke up in the morning. She had been expecting it. Had begun training herself to think that Roscoegoing, gone,was what she should plan for. Soon this little blip that had brought their worlds colliding would be over and Roscoe would be gone forever. A strange, glittering dream she’d once had, like those ones in which she was suddenly famous, or had won the lottery, and life was brilliant, perfect, wonderful. Until she woke.

Adjoa had invited her for drinks after work, but well after six she was still at her desk, lingering. Roscoe was in his office, on the phone. A few people headed out, wished her goodnight. By seven, almost everyone was gone.

Was this pathetic? She’d see him at the flat, surely. It wasn’t too late to join Adjoa and the others. She turned off her computer, reached for her bag.

“Poppy?” Roscoe stood in his office doorway. “Can you come in here for a moment?”

“Of course.”

She walked over, stepped past him. He closed the door and looked at her. A one-second look before he moved closer, crowded her back against the wood, the size of him everywhere, eyes pinning her in place as she tipped her head back and swallowed at the heat in his expression.

Her back was against the door. Roscoe gripped her hips, pressed her more firmly against the cool wood. There was a window to the side, but from this angle, no one could see, no one could see… Her heart pounded, pulse racing, setting her core throbbing, the pressure there, the need for him, already insistent.

“It’s torture,” he said, “not being able to touch you.”

“So touch me.”

The breath he let out sounded like a curse. But just like before in the lift, he held himself back, seeming to savour theanticipation even as it killed her. He moved his hands up from her waist, slowly sliding them up her body, watching their path with maddening intensity until they reached her breasts, the thin fabric of her blouse shifting over the silk cups of her bra. Her nipples were already hard, and the pressure of his palms against them sent heat surging to her clit. She made a noise, a needy, betraying grunt, and Roscoe’s smile turned wicked. One hand squeezed and cupped her breast while the other continued up to her throat, to the back of her head and curled into her hair. He tipped her head back and kissed her, mouth melting and hot.

He kissed her as though he wanted to unmake her. As though he had thought of nothing but this for days. Every move of his mouth was deliberate, certain. Taking, not asking. His tongue coaxing her to groan, to beg, to sayyes, yes, I’m helpless, I’m yours.

She forgot they were in the office. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe it just added to the eager way her knee angled to the side as his hand reached down and slipped under her hem. She couldn’t help it, she reached for him, too, fingers skimming the hard ridge of his cock before he grunted, breaking their kiss to grab her hands. He tsked, grinning darkly, and spun her around so her front was against the door. He brought her hands up and placed them palm down against the wood.

“Keep them there.” His voice was low and husky against her ear, his lips dragging down the side of her throat. He was heavy and huge, crowded up against her, his weight trapping her. It was so like her fantasy, so likeAll night, Poppy, can you take me all night?that she whimpered and squirmed, feeling him deliciously hard against her backside until he stepped back, just out of reach.

His hands came back to the hem of her skirt, drew it up, his fingers trailing up the back of her thighs. “The things I’ve imagined doing to you in this office…” One hand reached roundher front, slipped into her underwear, hot and heavy against her. She moaned, thoughts blurring now as pure sensation took over. Her forehead dropped against the wood as he stroked her clit with that hand, the other slipping between her thighs from behind, sliding in to where she was slick and wet.

He made a noise of appreciation as he circled her wetness, then pushed a finger inside, gently pinching her clit between the fingers of his other hand. She must have moaned because he murmured, “Quiet, Poppy.”

But it was too much, too much sensation. He added another finger inside her while his other hand circled her clit, slid all over her slick skin, lighting up every nerve all at once. Her legs trembled. She bit her lip and whimpered, panting breath damp against the door, pinned between his relentless hands. Fuck, fuck, she was going to die. He was going to break her mind. Leave her senseless and wrecked. He crooked his fingers, eking out still more pleasure, and fuck, fuck—

There was a knock at the door.

“Roscoe?”

George Blackton.

---