burst into flames. She must have. Spontaneous combustion was the only explanation for the wave of heat that washed over her.
Then he grabbed her by the backs of her knees and jerked her hips to the edge of the desk, and she went molten.
Emma couldn’t get enough of him. He’d been a fantasy for so long, but the reality of him surpassed everything she’d ever known. The perfect mix of heat and ice.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, slipped her hands under his shirt so she could feel the smooth expanse of his skin and let Max do what he did best: take control.
* * *
Fuck.
Things were under control until the goddamn garters. Until she called him sir. Now the woman in his arms wasn’t a pleasant diversion but an all-consuming need.
Max prided himself on being disciplined, but Emma was undoing him with nothing more than a garter belt and eyes so expressive that he could read her soul. Right now, though, it was her body that had his attention.
Her high heels digging into the backs of his legs, her hands kneading his shoulders. A scrap of black lace was all that stood between him and the kind of physical gratification that drowned out all the issues that were pounding like a nail gun in his brain—lawsuits and tech glitches and launches and the bullshit that came with righting a sinking tech company. He wanted to bury himself in her and forget the rest.
Max ran his knuckles up the inside of her thigh, stopping short of those pretty, lacy panties that had him riding the edge of anticipation.
He was so fucking turned on, galvanized by the erotic turn the evening had taken. Despite the overwhelming ache in his balls, the desperation in his muscles, he held back. Stayed perfectly, agonizingly still. Just for a minute. Just to be sure he was in control of himself. Just until she was frustrated enough that her eyes flicked from dazed pleasure to “is this happening, or what?”
Only then did he give her what they both wanted.
In one fluid movement, he slipped her underwear aside and thrust deep, his thumb riding her clit. She moaned, raking his skin with her nails, and everything faded into pure, raw sensation. The slick, scorching friction of their joining was all exactly what he needed right now. Her breath was hot on his neck. She smelled like booze and sex, and he was ravenous for her.
Max removed his hand from between them, bracing it on the desk so he could tip her back farther. She tightened her legs around him as he sped his hips, short-stroking until she was wild beneath him. She was close. Restless and panting, clutching him to her, her lace-covered breasts scraped against his sensitized chest, driving him mad.
And Max was so goddamn ready to feel her come apart in his arms.
He shoved the fingers of his free hand into her hair, cradling her head as he laid her back, kissing her hard. He reached down, hooking his right elbow under her knee, and braced his forearm on the desk, opening her. The change in angle made her gasp, allowed him to pull out almost completely before pumping into her with slow, deep thrusts designed to push her over the edge.
“Come for me, Emma,” he ordered, or maybe he begged. It didn’t matter, not when he was drunk on her whiskey-flavored tongue and the pressure of her impending climax as her muscles drew tight with anticipation. Fuck yes. “Just like that. I want to feel you squeezing my cock.”
She cried out as his words pushed her over the edge and with a groaning curse, Max gave into instinct, his chest crushing her breasts as he buried himself deep and took what he’d wanted since she’d sat on his desk, all womanly curves and dawning confidence. Pleasure exploded through his veins and he came fast and hard, his hips jerking with the aftershocks of the powerful orgasm.
It took a moment to steady his breath in the aftermath, and another moment after that before he stood, freeing her leg and helping her up to a sitting position.
She didn’t look at him, and Max didn’t like that it bothered him.
Frowning, he watched Emma stand, turning modestly as she adjusted things, tugged her skirt back into place, dealt with the buttons on her blouse.
Max disposed of the condom and fastened his pants but didn’t bother rebuttoning his shirt or grabbing his tie from the floor beside his desk. Instead, he kept a wary eye on her body language, preparing himself for whatever awaited him when she turned around.
His decisions tonight had been deliberate—he didn’t do anything without considering all the implications. But the passion that had flared between them had been...unexpected. And technically, she’d quit before anything had happened. They were both adults. The rationalization did nothing to stem his sudden unease. For the first time that evening, he wondered if he’d been right to take things as far as he had. Was she thinking the same thing?
He was expecting recriminations in those expressive blue eyes, or worse, hero worship. But when she finally turned to face him, what he saw almost dropped him to his knees. With sex-tousled hair, a misbuttoned blouse and her skirt slightly askew, Emma Mathison looked radiant and satisfied and deliciously well-fucked.
“Thanks for everything, Max.” The words were husky and low, and he felt them in his groin, even before she added, “It’s been a pleasure.”
With her head high, her shoulders squared and a Mona Lisa smile tilting the corner of her kiss-stung lips, she walked out of his office, grabbed her purse from Sherri’s desk on her way to the elevator. And she didn’t look back once.
Double fuck.
Max reached for her unfinished Scotch, then downed it in one swallow.
It had been a very, very long time since he’d underestimated someone.
FOCUS AND DECISIVE ACTION...that was the difference between losing and winning, the difference between winning and winning big. Timing was everything. It was a lesson Max Whitfield knew better than most. He had no time for visits from the ghost-of-sexual-encounters-past.
So why the hell was he sitting there, half-hard, remembering things best forgotten?
Remembering her.
That mouth. So prim, even when it was painted scarlet.
Fuck, the things he’d wanted her to do with that mouth. Down on her knees, calling him sir with a wicked gleam in her blue eyes.
Now he couldn’t look at his desk without remembering the press of the black garter belt against the pale skin of her thighs, without hearing the gasps that escaped her lips, as though she was surprised by the heat between them. He wasn’t surprised. Hell, he was consumed, and he’d barely gotten his hands on her.
He exhaled at his lapse in judgment.
Taking her on his desk has been a mistake.
“Am I boring you, Whitfield?”
Max’s gaze snapped to the man in the chair across from him.
Wes Brennan. Founder
