At Her Boss's Bidding

Thinking of Justin’s wife and Eric reminded Rachel that what she was doing here—and what Justin was doing here—had nothing to do with love and relationships, and everything to do with need. Need for sex, and the need to be needed, even if only sexually.

At least, that was the way it was for her. Justin’s wanting her, even for this one night, had done more for her feminine self-esteem than all the physical make-overs in the world. He’d brought out the woman in her again. If nothing else, after tonight she could not go back to being that pretend plain Jane who’d been playing the role of his prim PA in such a piteous fashion.

Even if it meant having to resign, she would truly move on from this point, and live her life as she once had. There would be no more wimpishly making the least of herself. No more hiding behind dreary black suits and spinsterish hairdos. Definitely no more being afraid of other people, and men in particular. That sad, lonely chapter in her life was over.

‘You’re thinking,’ Justin grumbled as he joined her under the water and turned up the hot tap.

‘And you’re talking,’ she reminded him as she lifted her hands to slick her dripping hair back from her face.

‘That’s my prerogative. I’m the boss. Keep your arms up and your hands behind your head like that,’ he ordered thickly. ‘Lock your fingers together. Keep your elbows back.’

Rachel was staggered by his request. But she obeyed, and found the experience an incredible turn-on. By the look in his eyes, Justin did too. His gaze roved hotly over her body, which felt extra-naked and extra-exposed as she stood there like that. The now steaming water kept splashing over her head and running down her face, into the corners of her by now panting mouth. Down her neck it streamed, forming a rivulet between her breasts, pooling in her navel before spilling down to the juncture between her thighs, soaking the curl-covered mound and finally finding its way into the already hot, wet valleys of her female flesh.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, his voice low and taut. ‘Now close your eyes and don’t talk. Or move.’

Her eyes widened but then fluttered closed, as ordered. Rachel was far too excited to even consider not obeying him. She’d never played erotic games before, and the experience was blowing her mind.

Now, within her self-imposed prison of darkness, she could only imagine how she looked, standing there so submissively, with her elbows back and her breasts thrust forward, their nipples achingly erect. Was he looking at her and despising her for her unexpected wantonness, or delighting in her willingness to play slave to his master?

The shocking part was she didn’t seem to care, as long as he looked, and touched, and satisfied her once more. By the time his hands started skimming lightly over her body, she was already craving another climax, her mind propelling her forward to that moment when he’d surge up into her, filling her, fulfilling her.

She moaned softly when something—not his hand—rubbed over her nipples. Soap, she soon realised. A cake of soap. He wasn’t washing her as such, just using the soap, caressing her with its slippery surface, making her nipples tighten even further. Every internal muscle she owned tightened along with them. When the soap started travelling southwards Rachel sucked in sharply.

No, not there, she wanted to warn him. But before her tongue could formulate her brain’s protest the soap was between her legs, sliding back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She tried to stop the inevitable from happening, but it was like trying to stop a ski-jumper in mid-jump. When her belly grew taut and her thighs began to tremble she knew the struggle for control had been futile.

She came with a violent rush, her knees going to jelly and her arms falling back down to her sides. She might have sunk into a wet heap on the floor had he not snapped off the water and swept her back up into his arms. Her eyes must have conveyed her shocked state as he carried her back to his bedroom, but he just ignored them and spread her dripping body face down across the bed, pushing a pillow up under her hips.

Was she too shattered to stop him at that moment? Or was this what she secretly wanted as well? For him to take her like that. For him to take her over and over in every position imaginable. To make her come again and again. To show her…what?

That she could be as wickedly sexy as the next woman? As Charlotte, perhaps?

When he didn’t touch her—or take her—straight away an impatient Rachel glanced over her shoulder, only to see he was busy with a condom. She was tempted to tell him that he didn’t really have to use protection. Not unless he was a health risk. Perversely, she was on the Pill for reasons which had nothing to do with contraception. It simply stopped her from having dreadful PMT, which she hadn’t been able to cope with on top of the stress of minding Lettie.