The Secretary's Bossman Bargain

In silence, Marcos once again patted his side, this time more meaningfully.

After a moment’s debate, Virginia seemed to quickly make up her mind. Thrusting out her chin at a haughty angle, she began to edge toward him. “If you’re thinking I’m not good at this, I’ll have you know I can pretend just fine.”

Her scent stormed into his lungs. His nostrils twitched. His heart kicked. His temperature spiked.

Cautiously, as though petting a lion, she turned his hand over and set her cool, small palm on his. She gingerly laced her fingers through his. Lust kicked him in the groin at the unexpected touch. His head fell onto the back of the seat, a groan welling up in the back of his throat. Crucified by arousal, he dragged in a terse, uneven breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

She inched a little closer, tightening her grip. Her lips came to within a breath of his ear. “Does that satisfy you, Your Highness?”

He didn’t let it show, the emotion that swept through him, but it made his limbs tremble. He said, thickly, “Come closer.”

He wanted to jump her. He wanted all of her, right here, right now.

He inhaled deeply, his chest near bursting with the aroma of her. Clean, womanly, sweet. “Closer,” he said, hearing the growl in his own words.

When she didn’t, he glanced down at their joined hands. Hers was tiny and fair, nearly engulfed by his larger one. He ran the pad of his thumb along the back of hers, up the ridge of her knuckle, down the tiny smooth slope. She felt so good. And he felt eighteen again. “Soft,” came his trancelike murmur.

Transfixed, she watched the movement of his thumb, her breasts stretching the material covering them as she inhaled. He dipped his head and discreetly rubbed his nose across the shiny, springy curls of her hair. Christ. Edible. All of her. He could smell her shampoo, wanted to plunge all ten fingers into her hair, turn her face up and kiss her lips. Softly, so he could savor her breath, go searching deep into her mouth.

Ducking his head so the driver wouldn’t hear him, he whispered, “You might try to appear to enjoy my touch.”

Their bodies created a heat, a dark intimate cocoon in the confined car interior, enhanced by the warmth of their whispers. “Marcos…”

His hand turned, capturing hers as she attempted to retrieve it. “Virginia.”

Their gazes held. Like they did across his office, over the tops of people’s heads, in the elevators. Those clear, infinite eyes always sought out his. To find him looking right back. Their fingers brushed at the pass of a coffee mug, a file, the phone. At contact their bodies seemed to flare up like matches—tense, coil, heat up the room. Even with a wall separating them, his awareness of her had escalated to alarming levels. And she’d been more fidgety with him than she had in months.

“We’re pretending, remember?” he said, a husky reminder.

Pretend. The only way Marcos could think of that wouldn’t involve her feelings, or his. The only way they might be able to—hell, what was this? It had been going on so long it felt like surrender—without anyone hurting in the end. Without their lives changing, breaking or veering off in separate ways because of it.

“Yes, I know.”

“Then relax for me.” Lightly securing her fingers between his, he delved his thumb into the center of her palm with a deep, intense stroke, aware of her audible intake of breath as he caressed. “Very good,” he cooed. “I’m convinced you want me.”

“Yes.” Her voice was but a whisper, hinting at how the sinuous, stroking circles of his thumb affected her. “I mean…I’m trying to…appear that I do.”

But she seemed as uncertain and startled as a mouse who didn’t know where to run to, and Marcos was very much taking to the cat’s role. He wanted to play, to corner, to taste.

He glanced up. “Don’t tax yourself too much, hmm.”

Her warm, fragile fingers trembled in his. The excitement of a new country had left her eyes, replaced by a wild, stormy yearning. “I’m trying not to…get bored.”

His thumb went deep at the center then eased back. “Hmm. Yes. I can see you’re fighting a yawn.” His eyes ventured up along the top of her head, taking in its gloss. “You have pretty hair. Can I touch it?”

He did. It felt soft and silky under his fingers, tempting him to dig in deeper, down to her scalp.

She made a sound in her throat, like a moan. A hunger of the worst, most painful kind clawed inside him. She had a way of staring at him with those big eyes like he was something out of this world. It was a miracle he’d resisted her this long.

“A man,” he gruffly began, massaging the back of her head as he greedily surveyed her features, “would be lucky to make you his.”

Her eyes sealed shut so tightly she seemed to be in pain. She squirmed a little on the seat and, unbelievably, came nearer. “You don’t have to convince me. I’m already pretending.”

Her breasts brushed his rib cage, and the heat of her supple body singed his flesh through their clothes. He intensified the strokes of his fingers. “A man would be lucky to make you his, Virginia,” he repeated.

Her lashes fluttered upward, revealing her eyes. Pale green, ethereal. Distrustful. “What are you doing?”

His gut tightened. What does it look like I’m doing? He wanted to yank her onto his lap, feel his way up her little skirt, and kiss her mouth until her lips turned bright red. Her face blurred with his vision. With his need. He had to force himself to leave her hair alone.