The Interview

“Coward,” I mutter, slapping the sheaf of papers down next to the binding machine. “He gave you the perfect opportunity to lay your cards on the table, but instead, you’re in here trying to impress him with your admin skills.” Jerking open the drawer, I pull out a binding coil and a couple of random colored front and back pages. “Could’ve had him eating out of your hand… maybe even some other place,” I add, lining the body of the report between the two. “But why settle for hot sex with your hot boss when you can get a hearty pat on the back for not only finding the damn report in his email but printing him a hard copy and binding it, too.”

It’s fair to say I’m disgusted with myself. It’s also fair to say I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to make sense of our exchange. I’m trying not to make my interest in him too obvious (because desperate is never attractive) while Whit pretends not to notice it. I know he’s not that oblivious—I’d studied his interactions with the opposite sex on many occasions. Granted, those were different times, but the man still has it. In spades.

To make matters worse, my coffee was cold when I got back to my desk. I was counting on it to tide my appetite over until I left the office for the day because it’s true, I had left my lunch of the Tube, which meant I felt compelled to give Joe, the homeless veteran who camps near the building, my last five dollars. I mean, pounds. This was problematic, to say the least, because I hadn’t at that point realized I’d left my bank card at home. It wasn’t a great start to the day, and I haven’t eaten since a slice of toast at breakfast. As Doreen would say, I was so hungry that my bum was eating my knickers.

Whit had left for a meeting off-site not long after our exchange, which I thought might leave me plenty of time to overthink. About ten minutes after he’d gone, a courier turned up with a pretty box wrapped in a blue ribbon instead of the usual paperwork. It had my name on it so, of course, I opened it. Inside was a gourmet packed lunch that outshone the ham and cheese roll I’d left on the Circle Line line. My very fancy-looking late lunch included an edamame salad, two tiny salmon and avocado bagels, a packet of gourmet nuts, a berry fruit salad, a strawberry smoothie, and a delicious lemon tart. All for me!

But did Brin order it or Whit? I know who my money is on.

For all its loveliness, I pick at my lunch while barely tasting it. My mind is awash with conflicting thoughts. Did he call me into his office to stop me from talking to Brin? I see the way he looks at me, and I feel the electric-like attraction bouncing between us whenever we’re close. But he runs so hot and cold, yet even when he’s being a grump, I still find him so hot.

I’ve got nothing. No ideas and no place to go. Which is how I find myself in the copy room after six thirty, in no great hurry to go home, completing my not-so-grand admin-overachieving plan.

“No!” My specially designed cover sheet snags on the coil, tearing at the corner. “Dammit!” What kind of idiot company buys a wire coil when plastic coils work much better? Sliding the cover sheet from the top of the pile, I scrunch it into a ball before launching it at the box designated for paper waste. Still muttering my disgust at binding machines, paper, men, and the universe in general, I whip out my phone and send the cover sheet to the colossus of a printer again. I slap my phone down, anticipating the machine’s whir as it digitally rouses itself.

It takes a moment or two for the machine’s lack of whir to penetrate my black mood. But when it becomes clear nothing is happening, I indiscriminately stab the buttons with my finger. The thing beeps in protest, then gives me a little attitude on the display panel.

No paper.

“Asshats,” I complain, tugging at the paper tray as though the thing is lying to me.

But it isn’t.

I stomp my way over to the supply closet, flip open a couple of lids because why wouldn’t people put the lids back on empty boxes? It makes so much sense! Urgh. I toss the empty boxes behind me, find a non-empty one, and pull out a couple of reams. Flattening the paper to my chest, I swing around in the cramped space when something hinders my forward motion in the doorway. The second law of motion states: force equals mass, multiplied by acceleration. That this mass is accelerating at a rate powered by frustration means I ignore the resisting tug at the door. At least, until I hear the ripping sound. I try to turn but my stupid skirt is caught on something.

My stupid skirt is caught on a stupid nail, and my stupid self is about to make matters much worse.

“No!” The fabric rips from my hip to the middle of my back. Worse, as I twist, I force the tear in another direction, making a huge flap over one cheek of my ass. A literal ass cheek envelope—a window to my butt! I think I might’ve caught myself on a nail too, but I’m too angry to pay any attention to that.

“This day is the worst,” I grate out as I try to work the fabric free. Of all the days for this to happen, it would be one when I haven’t paired my outfit with a longer jacket. Bare-assing it home on the London Underground is not the kind of experience I want to endure. Not that it matters because, at this rate, I won’t have a ripped skirt to wear because it won’t budge from the fudging nail!

But then, success! Success that sends me stumbling, a nearby desk the only thing preventing my fall.

My skirt is ruined, my ass might be bleeding, and my temper is more than a little frayed. I’ll need a dozen safety pins or maybe some duct tape. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them it’s a new look. Straight off the Milan catwalks.

I return to the store closet, much more carefully this time, and begin pulling open more boxes. Pens. Ballpoint. Sharpies. Highlighters. Folders. Toner and ink. There’s not even a packet of rubber bands in here. I find myself pausing in my rummaging. Why did Whit slip a rubber band over his wrist? Is it some kind of anxiety prevention? He doesn’t strike me as the anxious sort. Aversion therapy? Maybe it was just what he said it was; just somewhere to keep it. I forcibly push away my pondering. I have bigger problems, like getting home tonight without exposing my ass to half of London.

A search through the rest of the copy room offers nothing in the way of a solution. I end up slumped over the small desk, raking through the drawers, but there’s nothing there, either. Nothing beyond a couple of grungy old hair ties, at least, which might do in a pinch. Maybe? Somehow? Lord, I don’t know! I guess I should be relieved most people have gone for the day because maybe I can make it back to my desk and…

I have a stapler! I could staple this sucker together, then wrap my jacket around my waist! This is as far as I get with that plan as, in the periphery of my vision, the door begins to swing open.

“Don’t come in here!” I yell. Yeah, that’ll work because panic never sounds suspicious.

To my deep mortification, Whit’s head appears around the edge of the door. “Amelia?” Before I can whip around or protest, his eyes dip to where my ass is flying its underwear freak flag in the guise of a pair of tiny bright-red silky panties, the kind that bare more of my ass than they cover. “What are you doing in—”

“Oh, you know. Just hanging out.” I laugh a little. It sounds really weird. “Literally hanging out.”

His eyes dip to my ass, and it’s all I can do not to groan, and not in the sexy way I want him to be responsible for.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Whittington?” a perky female voice asks suddenly from the door.

Whit tilts his head like he’s about to ask if I’d like whoever that is to help. I give my head a sharp, adamant shake. Hell no! This does not require a larger audience. I’m not a circus!

“Ah, April, is it?” he says pleasantly as his head disappears again.

“Yes, that’s right,” she answers, sounding as pleased as punch, as Doreen would say. “I work with the back-end team. Downstairs.”

Urgh. I roll my eyes so hard, I’m surprised not to hear them rattle in my head. I don’t know, but I think I might be pleased to punch her because her words weren’t dripping with invitation—they were swimming in it. Girl, get your own boss man. This one is taken!

“Good for you,” Whit replies, and I actually snort. “Well, see you tomorrow. I just have to grab some… supplies.” He slips between the door without opening it wider than necessary.

“Hello, supplies,” he kind of taunts.

“Funny,” I answer, as my stomach turns over. He can grab me anytime. “Has she gone?”

“Think so.” He rests back against the door before his eyes coast down the length of my body. I realize I haven’t moved an inch—I’m still bent over the desk, my palms pressed to the melamine surface. Like I’m waiting for something, like I’m waiting for him.

“What have you done?” he drawls, his dark gaze belying the note of amusement in his tone. He pushes away from the door and my heart does this wild, stuttering thing. Something has changed. Something has changed in him, I’m sure of it.

I swallow, forcing my heart back into my chest cavity as I grab this opportunity. Hold on to it. Run with it.

“What do you mean?”

Whit arches a brow and makes a lazy gesture to my ass.

“You mean my skirt? You know what they say.” I arch my back, knowing full well he sees me do it. “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”

“Oh?” The corner of his mouth tips provocatively and he slides his hands into his pockets. “I can’t think what job you want dressed like that.”

“Can’t you?”

“What is it you want to do?”

His low spoken words feel like a taunt and my heart feels like it’s risen to my throat as I answer, “You.”

He freezes—not one muscle of his seems to move. Panic floods my system, my mind flicking over a dozen ways to take it back. I need a joke to steer this back on course, some kind of time machine to make it go away. He’s my boss. My pseudo big brother. I’m nothing but his PA. A friend of the family.

But then he pushes languidly from the door and begins to move toward me, those tiger’s eyes of his unrepentantly staring at my ass. He comes to a stop not beside me but behind me. I force myself to turn my head over my shoulder. God, those eyes. So full of heat and dirty promises.

“Amelia.” I’ve always loved the sound of his voice, low and smooth, but he’s never said my name like that. All growly with the lick of reprimand. But let’s be truthful. The man could read the Tube timetable and get me off.

“Yes, Mr. Whittington?” I purr. In for a dime, in for a dollar, right?

My breath catches as he reaches out, fingering the envelope of fabric. “It’s quite a view.” My fairy-tail prince is more a dark knight. “I just don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do with you.”

“Don’t you?” I drop my head, my answer almost a whisper. My mouth goes dry as I sense him moving, and a second later, his palms are suddenly pressed next to mine. The heat of him feels immense, though our bodies aren’t touching. At least, not yet.

Maybe you could enlighten me.” My heart begins to hammer as he shapes the words against my neck. “Because for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

His words, his lips, set off a wave of internal reactions I fight hard to resist. My insides pulse and flutter, and my heart yearns for him to mold those soft lips into a kiss.

“My suggestion,” I begin, once I’ve gotten a hold of myself, “would be for you to stop wearing this.” I slide my finger under the rubber band around his wrist. Wasn’t the last one blue? This one is red. Red for warning. Red for stop. I inhale a shaky breath as I continue. “I really don’t want you to have an aversion to me.”

“How about a partiality?” His body drops briefly, and the hard length of his cock pressed against me makes my insides pulse emptily. I almost groan, rolling my lips together to prevent the sound. “How about a near-constant hard-on?”

“Yes.” I roll my bottom lip inward, my whole being suddenly parched and aching for this.

“Is this what you want, Amelia?” His hand closes on my hip, holding me tightly. “Do you want me to fuck you? Here, in the copy room? Is that what you’re here in London for?”

My gaze drops to when his hand is splayed next to mine. He has such long, elegant fingers. Square nails, a strong wrist dusted by fine, sun-kissed hair. I’m in London for so many reasons, for so many things. But most of all, I’m here for the experience.

“Which of those questions do you want me to answer?”

Behind me, he swallows audibly. I can almost sense his internal struggle, but I need him to want this the same way I do. To want me with the same intensity.

“I can get fucked anywhere, Whit.” I curl my pinky finger over his remaining thumb. “Maybe the question you should be asking is why I’m here with you.”

“Why you’re here,” he repeats, “wearing such interesting underwear.” Without moving his hand, his thumb dips to caress the back of my bare hip.

“They’re just panties.”

“They’re very brief.” The word is a low growl in my ear.

“You bought me these panties. I’m wearing them for you.” Sensing his hesitation, I hurry on. “Every year on my birthday, you send me a gift certificate. Every year since I turned eighteen, I’ve bought panties with it.” It’s the truth, or at least, part of the truth, but I can’t believe I’m sharing it.

His hand slides from the curve of my hip, down over my thigh. Regret balls in my throat before my brain connects the dots because he’s turning me…

“Whit?”

… and dropping to his knee.

“I think you should show me how generous I’ve been.” Tipping his chin, he angles his gaze my way, those tiger striations more like flames. “Go on,” he instructs. Orders. Commands. Makes my insides turn to throbbing, heated goo. “Show me what my money has been buying.”

Something sweet and sticky winds through my insides as I slide my hands over my hips, gathering my tight skirt higher in tiny increments.

“Holdups,” he murmurs as my stocking tops come into view.

“The garter belt seemed a little obvious for the office.”

His head lifts sharply. “You bought one?”

“You bought it,” I whisper, loving the intensity in his expression. “Along with a matching bra.”

“Which you don’t have on right now.” His eyes are amber, his words honey dipped. “You think I wouldn’t notice.”

“I wasn’t sure you were interested.”

“I don’t get on my knees for just anyone, Amelia.” His finger and thumb tug at the hem of my skirt. “Less talk and more action,” he adds, fingering the hem of my skirt.

His eyes watch my face as I pull the fabric the rest of the way, the thoughts of what he might do swimming through my head. I tremble. I want. I ache as I stand in the copy room with my skirt around my waist.

Whit gives a satisfied hum as his thumbs skate across my hip bones. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not afraid.” I bite my lip against telling him this moment has been twelve years in the making. Half of my life wanting him in one form or another.

“You’re very lovely,” he whispers as his big hands curve around my hips. Curve and squeeze. “And I’m probably going to hell for just looking.”

“I hope you’re not just going to look.”

Once more, he tips his gaze my way. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Here, in the copy room, where anyone might walk in?”

Very few people are left in the office this evening, but there’s always a chance. But I’m just… “I’m worried I’ll never get this chance again.”

Relief washes over my skin as he leans forward and presses his lips to my bared stomach. The touch of them against me does something beautiful and frightening to my insides. Frightening because I’m terrified this is as far as he’ll go.

“Definitely going to hell,” his low voice rumbles as his lips make a pass over the elastic waistband of my underwear. Biting, he snaps the garment against my skin.

“In that case, you should definitely make it worth it.”

His shoulders shake with some semblance of a laugh, and he tips his head. “Were you always like this? Did I just not see it?”

“You never saw me. I was just a kid. But I’m not a kid now.”

“No.” He sounds almost resigned. “No, you are not.”

“As for what I want, I don’t really know. Not in these circumstances, at least.” That seems to give him pause for thought as he pulls back almost completely, his gaze suspicious. “I’m not—” Why is this so hard? “I have done this before.” The tension seems to drop out of him. “Just not a whole lot. Or maybe with anyone who’d had a whole lot of practice.”

“I see.”

My heart dips to my heels as he begins to stand. I want to protest—shout no, that’s not how this is supposed to end! But I can’t because if I do, the words will sound all warbly and watery, and I might just have a breakdown.

“Lovely Amelia,” he says, beginning to pull my skirt back into place. “As tempting as you are and as much as I want you. God, do I want you.” He shakes his head, refusing to look at me. “I don’t see how we can.”

My stomach dips, desperation curling my hands into fists at the sides of his shirt.

“You can’t do this, Whit. You can’t get on your knees and not—”

Voices sound in the corridor, and the sound of wheels before the door begins to swing open. Whit grabs my arm, pulling me toward the supply closet.

“Watch out for the—”

He shakes his head, pulling the door closed behind us.

“Aren’t you the boss?” I whisper. My heart pounds as my eyes adjust to the lack of light.

“I think that means I’m supposed to set an example,” he mutters. “Not to mention your arse is on show.” I don’t think I imagine the displeasure in his words.

“You weren’t complaining—” My words halt as he presses his finger softly to my lips. Voices carry, accents I don’t understand. Rustling, banging, a pfft of a spray, and the door handle rattles. My hands ball in the sides of Whit’s shirt as I pull him closer, anxious we’re about to be exposed.

“It’s just the cleaning crew,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my ear. I gasp as his teeth suddenly scrape the soft lobe, the noise shock but also part wonderment. How can the slightest brush create a wave of effects through my body? “And that wasn’t a complaint. I’m trying very hard to resist you because I feel like your arse should be seen by no one but me.”

Tingles. All the possessive tingles everywhere.

From the room beyond, the photocopier fires up.

“Illicit use of the copy machine?” I whisper.

“Hmm.”

“It’s just human nature. We can’t help but be drawn to break the rules.”

In the darkness, his expression is impossible to read. His soft, velvety laughter not so much. “Subtlety isn’t really your thing, is it?” But then his words are no more as, in a fit of daring, I reach for his zipper. “Amelia.” He makes my name a delicious reprimand.

“I can’t help it, Whit.” I press my hand over his rock-hard length. “You make me want to be a bad girl.”

“In here?” His hand loops a circle around my wrist.

“I know you’re not shy.”

“I’m not sure how you’d know that.” He drops his head to my shoulder as he slides my hand away with a quiet groan.

“Because you’ve always been beautiful. You’ve always been comfortable in your own skin,” I whisper. When I move my hand back a second time, he doesn’t stop me.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to pay me compliments.” His soft breath feels like a kiss blown across my cheek, the rasp in his voice inspires me to wrap my fingers around the hard fabric-covered length of him.

“My God, you’re so hard.” The recognition is a throb of desire between my legs.

“That’s not to say I don’t like to hear you compliment me,” he says, his tone hushed and hot, yet his fingers wrap around my wrists to pull them to my sides. His grasp tightens and, for a moment, I think it’s meant as a warning for me. But as he bends his head, I wonder if the caution was meant for himself. His lips brush mine before he presses a kiss to the corner. “I want you so badly,” he whispers, sweeping back and sucking on my bottom lip. “You make my life impossible.”

I make the kind of noise that’s full of encouragement, my body straining to get closer, to feel the brush of his.

“Shush, darling.” His lips make another pass. And then it’s happening. Oh God. It’s really happening. Whit is kissing me—really kissing me. It’s not just a dream. And what’s more, I’m kissing him back. Albeit with little say in the matter as he holds my wrists in his, his mouth fully in control as he coaxes and teases. The moment seems somehow more intimate than his fingers skimming my panties. More intentional, at least.

“Amelia, Jesus Christ. I’ve been desperate to kiss you since the day you turned up in my office. I should’ve known then. I should’ve sent you away then.”

“I wouldn’t have let you.” I’m surprised I can manage words because I’m pretty sure my feet have lifted from the ground as part of my ascension to heaven as light and heat and ecstasy wash through me. “Let me touch you,” I whisper tremulously. The tenor of the moment seems to change instantly. His hands loosen from my wrists and slide around to my ass as he pulls me flush against him. His mouth is on my jaw, my neck as I press up onto my toes, rubbing myself my soft to his hard. “Please, I want to feel you.” I slide my hands around him, spreading my fingers wide on the taut cheeks of his behind as though to maximize the contact, to make sense of this moment of fantasy.

“I want to fuck you,” he rasps in my ear. I make that noise of approval because I want that, too. I imagine it as he flexes against me, hot and thick. See his strong shoulders working over me in my mind’s eye. “But not here.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” In the dark, our chests heave, our harsh breath mingling when he huffs a quiet laugh.

“You’re such a pretty little thorn in my side.” His broad palm skims my waist and my ribs before the pad of his thumb skates across my nipple. It aches and stiffens under his touch. “I’ve no idea what to do with you.”

“That, I think, would be a first for you.” My body jerks beneath the rasp of his nail, and he swallows my moan before pulling back as though my words have just sunk in. “Because I remember more than you think and saw more than you probably realize. Like how the pool house was a favorite haunt of yours.”

“Amelia, were you a dirty little voyeur?” His reply is more approval than reprimand. Heck, it sounds more like supreme satisfaction “Did you enjoy watching me kiss other girls?”

In the dark space, I push up onto my tiptoes and bring my mouth to his ear. “The summer I turned sixteen, I began to pretend it was me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, “that shouldn’t be hot.” More kisses, harsher, deeper than the last. He tastes of fresh coffee and cool mint, and he feels like every temptation a cunning devil might offer. But this is not the devil. This is Whit. And I now know those girls in the pool house will remember those hours of his attention forever by the strength of his kisses alone.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” He breaks away, pressing his teeth to my shoulder as though to restrain himself. But I’m not done. I won’t let this moment slip away.

“At school, the kids would talk about porn, but I didn’t need any of that. I’d just close my eyes and think of you as I slipped my hand between my legs.”

He gives a quiet groan, the kind that makes me wish I could bottle the sound. Maybe I should whip out my phone and ask him to repeat himself. Thankfully, he can’t see that piece of ridiculousness playing across my face.

“Are you trying to make me embarrass myself?”

“Whit.” His name sounds like a chastisement, though my insides pulse at the strange compliment. “I know you better than that.”

“Do you, now?”

“These days, I have more to work with. I can slip my hand into my underwear and think of how easily you made me come during our interview.”

“A fucking interview.” His fingers tighten on my thigh. Lifting it, he widens me and cool air hits damp fabric. “Fuck, I wish I could see. You’re so fucking wet.” It’s not an accusation, more an expression of praise as his thumb passes over the fabric, making my insides ache. A brush, a touch, a scrape of his nail over my most sensitive place as he begins to play with me, play with my responses. I whimper and twist, so ready for this. I know one firm touch is all I need.

“Please.” I cant my hips to increase the contact, wondering if he can feel my pulse through fabric and flesh, if he can feel my needy pull, when he slips his fingers under the elastic. I moan, my body jolting because I almost came from the slightest of contacts.

The outer door slams shut, and his fingers curl around me. “Fuck,” he rasps as his finger swipes through my wetness. “I need my mouth on you.”

His body begins to lower and cool air hits my pussy as I gasp a desperate, “Yes!”

And then Whit’s phone begins to ring.