Читать книгу Her Intern / Double Dare You - Anne Marsh - Страница 17

Dev

AT SEVEN IN the morning on a Saturday, San Francisco’s Mission District is torn between waking up and getting the day started and going back to bed to shake the Friday night hangover. When I park in front of Calla for some covert investigation, I spot two drunks passed out in nearby doorways. The snack vendors trundling their carts up the street bob and weave around them. Even the cinnamon scent of fresh churros can’t erase the stink of days-old alcohol and piss.

Lola gave me the alarm codes for the door on my second day of work. This might have been a gesture of good faith, or it might have been insurance against a repeat of what happened after I accidentally set the alarms off when I arrived at 6:30 a.m. on my first day of work. I’ve never needed much sleep—a good thing given my chronic insomnia—and I like an early start.

Just in case I run into anyone, I’m wearing my usual work uniform of jeans, a button-up shirt and a tie. Today’s neckwear selection is the horny prep school special—a big, bold, look-at-me-or-better-yet-look-down-and-admire-my-awesome-hugeness number with pink-and-maroon stripes. No one’s around to appreciate it, however, when I enter.

The building is quiet, the lights off. Sunlight filters through the skylights and ricochets off the stupid disco ball hanging from the ceiling. It’s immediately clear people have once again failed to clean up after themselves. In some start-ups, engineer ego and the bro-culture keeps trash lying around. Calla’s engineers are simply oblivious, pushing code and driving toward launch while their dirty coffee cups overflow the kitchen sink, spawning mold and mutant germs.

I rearm the door and wage brief but effective war on the kitchen. The sink takes heavy casualties—a Hello Kitty mug that resembles a petri dish and various fossilized Tupperwares. Once I’ve got clean coffee cups lined up by size to dry, I place an online order for disposable coffee cups—the organic, compostable, made-by-some-worthy-charity cups that Lola prefers. Order coffee cups is probably on her to-do list, but her action items list is long and she refuses help.

OCD temporarily placated, I prowl my workplace, looking for magically delicious clues. It’s really freaking quiet, despite the occasional siren or car horn burst from the outside world. Everyone seems to have dutifully taken her laptop home for the weekend. My spying plans were stupid anyhow and hanging around Calla is a colossal waste of time. I should turn the theft over to my lawyer, except I sort of like my ringside seat for the Lola show. I’m not sure what, if anything, is happening between us, but for the first time in a long time, I’m not bored.

Wait.

Maybe not everyone has taken her hardware home.

Light glows dimly from the far side of the workspace. I follow it straight to Lola’s office.

And...wow.

Lola is truly hard core. Or dead. She’s curled up underneath her desk in a ball. It must be more comfortable than it looks because when I check, she’s not dead—just sound asleep on a yoga mat, head pillowed on her arm.

It feels like eternity while I watch her sleep, staring at the soft curve of her cheek. Her lips part ever so slightly, Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss, although I prefer Anne Rice’s dirty version to the happy cartoon princess story. I itch to crawl under the desk with her, wrap my arms around her and kiss her awake.

Peel back the cardigan she’s draped over herself like a blanket and taste her from those perfect lips to her bare toes. There are so many places I could start. All I have to do is reach out, to begin. I’ve thought about it more than I’ll ever admit. What I don’t know, though, is if she thinks about me. I think she might have a crush on my body, but I could be nothing more than her intern.

The strap of her tank top slips down one strong, toned arm when she shifts. Lola may not make time to go home, but she definitely makes time to work out. There are sculpted muscles beneath the soft skin. Somehow she feels almost naked, as if sleeping Lola is magically more vulnerable than awake, working Lola.

I don’t need Jack to tell me this staring thing is wrong. You don’t creep on a sleeping woman, and if you do, a restraining order and a long talk with Officer Not-So-Friendly are just a few of the well-deserved presents Santa Claus will deliver for Christmas.

So I force myself to walk away and pull out my phone. Not to take pictures—although I’m tempted—but to call for reinforcements. Ten minutes later, I’m armed with a chai latte courtesy of Uber Eats and ready to poke Sleeping Beauty.

In the sweeter versions of the fairy tale, the prince awakens Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. Anne Rice’s prince gets straight to the screwing, crossing all dubious consent lines. My beauty is asleep, though, and that limits my options. As much as I’d like to kiss her awake, she hasn’t told me yes. Yet. I thump the door frame with my free hand.

“Room service,” I bark at her comatose figure.

Lola wakes in a rush, shooting upright and banging her head on the desk. Ouch. Fortunately, the enormous hair bun she rocks cushions the impact.

Patting the bun back into its orbit, she mutters something in Russian. Per office gossip, she spent a summer at a Moscow software start-up and learned more than curse words. The same gossip suggests we may be under intensive FBI scrutiny as a result. Color me skeptical. Tampons aren’t terrorist weapons unless it’s five minutes before midnight, the store is closing and you’ve forgotten which kind you were sent to fetch.

“What are you doing here?” She squints at me from her desk cave, pulling her cardigan around her.

I pluck her glasses off the top of her desk and extend them to her. With my other hand, I extend the coffee cup to her. “Getting a head start on my Monday to-do list.”

She pops the glasses onto her nose and grabs the cup. She’s remarkably composed for someone busted sleeping on the floor. “A for effort, Mr. King.”

“Are you coming out?”

I shove my hand at her. It’s reflex, a vestigial trace of gentlemanliness instilled by my mother, and honestly, I expect Lola to ignore me. It isn’t easy being a girl boss and I hate that Silicon Valley so often put its women entrepreneurs through the wringer. Women have to play harder, fight dirtier and put up with stupid male shit because some of the most successful guys I know haven’t progressed beyond dirty jokes and hoping to score. To my surprise, though, she places her fingers into mine.

It’s the first time she’s touched me intentionally. She crash-landed on me and we shook hands at my interview, but those don’t count. We’ve also bumped shoulders, brushed arms. But this is different because she’s chosen to put her hand in mine when touching isn’t forced by gravity or dictated by good manners.

This is deliberate.

The heat from her fingers scorches my skin. Why do I want this woman? My brain yells that it’s a very bad idea, that I should step back, walk away, walk out of this building and Lola’s life and away from whatever it is I think I’m doing here.

Which is making a mistake. Making the worst possible, horribly awful, so-wrong-it’s-good mistake.

I tighten my grip anyhow. She’s my boss, or thinks she is. We’re in the office, and offices are officially a sex-free zone. But the seconds tick away, my fingers holding hers, and she says nothing. Or maybe like me, she doesn’t know what to say. Because my whole body’s tight, on full alert and begging for more. She just breathes harder, or maybe that’s my imagination.

I stroke my thumb against the palm of her hand as I pull her forward and up onto her knees. Her hand twitches in mine. She’s waiting for me to do more, and I’m waiting for her to stop me. To drop my hand, to tell me to go away, to leave and to never come back. I’m bigger, larger and standing over her. She’s shorter, smaller and kneeling in front of me. I take the decent half step back although I hate retreating. Sounds filter in from the outside world—the whir of pigeons sounding off and the Spanish bark of the snack vendors trundling their carts up and down the street. There’s no air in here. Just heat and each of us waiting for the other to make a move because there’s too much at stake to be the first.

“Sometime today, Mr. King.” Her firm voice breaks our standoff. She looks up at me, and I have no idea what she sees.

Heart pounding, I pull her up slowly. Lola’s on the tall side for a woman, maybe five feet seven inches, and she’s got a few curves. She says nothing about the helping hand even though she’s spent the last two weeks roasting my balls about not being a team player. Or maybe it’s because she almost-not-quite brushes said balls in her upward trajectory. Or maybe I’m just an asshole. But whatever the reason, my dick makes like the Grinch’s heart having a Christmas revelation and grows three sizes.

Lola’s chest rises and falls rapidly and she stumbles as she comes to her feet. And then somehow she manages to lose her balance entirely and crash-lands on my chest. It’s not my fault because I’m off balance, too, not expecting her to fall. But she does and my brain promptly goes off-line. If I had to pick a word, it would be soft. She’s got great tits and she’s not wearing a bra—just two layers of soft, fluffy fabric.

She barks something. It might be Russian or back off, King. I hesitate, however, to let go of her hand and her waist—somehow, yes, I’m groping the waistband of her leggings—because letting go means she definitely falls and her LZ will be me or the floor. And part of me wants to let her go, let her fall, and then I’ll fall with her and take her right there on the floor.

“What are you doing?” She slaps her hands behind her, bracing herself against the desktop. There’s too little space between us. Our thighs bump, our knees brush.

“Saving your ass.”

I set my own hand beside her hip and my thumb brushes black cotton. I still want to fight with her, but now I want to strip her down, too. Make her admit that she wants me, too. My balls tighten. My finger traces her hip, finding the line of her hips but no panties beneath the cotton. Is she commando? Dirty, dirty girl.

She hasn’t said no.

She hasn’t said go.

Her eyes lock on to mine. “Do you have a white knight complex?”

I smirk. “Knights were supposed to be chaste, Ms. Jones.”

Angry color flags her cheeks. “You suck.”

“An interesting professional assessment. I’ll give you mine. Your problem is that you think you like to be in charge. That you have to tell other people what to do or you won’t like the results. Here’s some free advice for you. Independence has teeth and it likes to bite people in the ass.”

Her eyes narrow. “Really, Mr. King?”

“Why, yes, Ms. Jones.” I snap my teeth at her.

“Because based on your work here, you very much prefer to work alone.”

“I’ve finished both of my projects.”

“They were group projects,” she hisses, pulling off her glasses. “You were supposed to be collaborating with other members of the Calla team. Instead, you just went ahead and did them yourself.”

“They’re done.” Point. Made.

Her pretty mouth tightens. “Perhaps your coworkers would have had valuable insights.”

“I knew exactly how to handle those projects,” I tell her. “You know it. I know it. You should be grateful to get that kind of work for twenty bucks an hour.”

“You are an intern.” She glares at me, trying to set my hair on fire with her eyes. “You are supposed to be learning.”

“And I am.” In the past two weeks, I’ve learned that fetching coffee sucks, that I dislike taking orders even more than I thought I would (which is a lot) and that working two jobs is exhausting (so my hat’s off to all of you who are doing it). Oh, and that I can program circles around anyone here at Calla.

She leans forward. “Name one thing that you’ve learned.”

I wink at her. “That I’m the best programmer you have. You should promote me now.”

Her eyebrows practically marry her hairline. “Are you serious?”

I smile innocently. “One thousand percent.”

“One thousand percent is impossible,” she scoffs. “Plus, you’ve only been here two weeks!”

“I move fast and I’m great.” This is like the fortune cookie game, where everyone breaks open his or her cookies and reads the fortune out loud before adding in bed to the end of it.

She just shakes her head. “You have to learn to work in a team.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s important. Because life is not an individual event.” And then she pulls out the big guns. “Because I said so.”

“You are the boss from hell.”

“How?” She actually throws her hands up in the air. “There is not one thing wrong with your internship except for you.”

“Because you don’t let anyone help you.”

And then it happens. Lola launches herself off the desk, her knees slamming into mine. “I’m in charge here. I’m the boss.”

“Really?” I drop onto her stupid, asinine yoga ball seat, tugging her down until she straddles my knees, her legs hugging mine. “We should definitely discuss that.”

“Yes.” The word explodes out of her mouth, a harsh, sharp burst of sound that I feel on my own.

My hands dig into her hair as my mouth slams into hers. Or meets hers halfway because she’s reaching for me, too, as if she could devour me with her lips and her teeth. Her tongue pushes into my mouth, taking the space it needs, and I bite back a groan and lean into her. She tastes so good. We kiss harder, deeper, a noisy, wet, perfectly messy kiss that makes me forget all the ways we hate each other and wonder only how she could surprise me next.

At first we kiss with our eyes open, both of us refusing to break eye contact. This is a game I’ve played before and I press myself against her, moving in a hard rhythm against her thighs and ass. I watch her lashes flutter down, as if she doesn’t want to watch what happens next and is raising the white flag.

“Please,” she whispers, eyes still closed.

“No,” I growl. “You have to use your words, Lola.”

I could touch her clit. I could rub until I find the perfect rhythm for her body, the pressure, the beat, the tease that makes her scream for me. Or I could come over her now, strip her down and ride her until we’re both shaking from our orgasms. I could bare her, kiss her, teach her to ride my fingers and my tongue, but I don’t. I don’t feel like playing nicely, so I slide my tie free and use it to tie her hands behind her back.

Her eyes fly open. “Do I need a safe word?” She’s laughing at me, her expression a little unsure, a whole lot amused.

“It’s the magic word no. Tell me stop and I stop.” I rock against her, teasing her.

Our second kiss is longer, slower, less mean. It’s as if the first kiss was two people bumping into each other, both angry but trying to hide it. This second one, however, we’ve discovered that maybe we’re not strangers after all, even if we don’t quite know each other. Yet.

“Is that it?” she demands when we finally break apart.

“So impatient, Ms. Jones.”

She growls, lunging for my mouth. Yoga balls make poor office furniture. Lola bounces off my lap, I roll to catch her and we both end up headed for the floor while the yoga ball streaks in the opposite direction. I twist so she lands on top of me. Lola holds her breath, as if she’s afraid someone else might have heard us. As if she can’t believe she’s reacting this way.

“Tell me,” I say quietly. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. How you want me to touch you. What makes you come the hardest. If you’re going to order me around in the office, you have to use your words here, too.”

The blush staining her cheeks is the hottest, brightest pink, but her eyes stare into mine.

“Slow,” she orders. “Today I want it slow.”

“Like this?” I cup the side of her face, running my fingers down her cheek. I skim the line of her throat, learning what she feels like.

She’s so warm and soft, the best weight pressing me down. Is she wearing panties? I plan on finding out. Why does this girl make me so crazy?

“Do you want to be naked?”

She thinks about it. “Not in the office.”

Part of me is disappointed. No, not that part. I’ve seen the outside parts and Lola’s gorgeous, but I’m a greedy bastard with a great imagination. I’ve been imagining what her tits look like underneath those cotton tank tops, how her ass curves like the perfect pear, if she waxes or shaves or just does whatever she likes.

I have to kiss her, so I reach up and shove my hand into her hair. She comes willingly, her face finding mine, her mouth open and seeking. We kiss, tasting, exploring, testing each other. I can’t stop thinking about other places I could put my mouth and what she’d taste like there. Her breasts press into my chest, her legs hug my hips and she grinds against me in a slow, hot roll.

“This is sweet.” She leans into me, catching my bottom lip sharply between her teeth, and nips. The sweet sting blossoms through me. Like she just rang the doorbell on my dick or something. I’ve never been into biting, but this I love.

“But I’m not in the mood anymore,” she continues. She must see my disappointment because she laughs. Somehow, smiling up at her beautiful, happy, take-charge face, I have the strangest thought. I like her. Don’t tell anyone. I’m not headed to Harry Winston to buy the biggest, most ethically sourced diamond available. It’s just that she’s more person than boss or business rival now. She’s Lola and that means she’s funny, sometimes vague, always game and quirky.

“I can make you be in the mood.” I slide against her where we’re pressed together.

She’s flushed, nibbling on her lower lip with her teeth. Her eyes sparkle with humor. “But did I ask you to do that?”

Point to Lola. “Tell me what you want.”

She manages to get her hands on the top button of my jeans. “Binary or infinite? How many options?”

“Do you want a list? Now?” I can’t stop looking at where we touch, can’t stop wondering how much better it would be if we were naked.

“Send me the list later. Boobs or mouth?”

“What?”

“Do you want to fuck my boobs or my mouth?”

Holy shit.

“Is it Christmas? Can Santa come twice?”

She grins at me. “Unless you’re really, really anatomically gifted, you have to choose, intern boy. You can’t be in both places at once.”

“Then boobs—although we may need to revisit that decision.”

She gets busy, sliding her tank top down with a sexy little wriggle. By the time I’ve got my brain working again, the shirt’s near her waist. I should either lean back and enjoy my show or I should be showing my appreciation. With my tongue.

She frowns down at her boobs. “I like them and they feel great, but Cleavage-R-Us I’m not.”

Small, medium, large or supersize, I’ve never seen a boob I didn’t appreciate, but I’ve spent too much time these last two weeks imagining what these particular boobs would look like. Now the only thing between me and dreams coming true is the cotton bralette skimming the top of her nipples. White has never seemed so sexy. She wriggles off me and I groan.

“Up.”

I can do up. I stand up and wait. It’s weird, letting someone else call the shots. It’s also the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. Maybe it’s because Lola’s really telling me what she likes, sharing her fantasies with me and letting me in. Or maybe it’s just dirty and, just this once, I’m willing to try something new.

“Lose the jeans,” she orders.

Her wish is my command. I shove the jeans and boxer briefs down. I watch her looking at me and get harder. “Can I touch you?”

“Only what you can reach,” she orders—and then she drops to her knees in front of me. God bless yoga because Lola turns out to be very, very limber. Her hair brushes the inside of my thighs as she reaches for me and I bite back a groan.

The disadvantage to tying her hands is that she can’t work me with her palms. My balls also regret that decision. The rest of me, however, thinks it’s fantastic. I work my fingers through her hair and discover it’s a ponytail tucked inside itself like that alchemy symbol of a snake eating itself. The long brown length comes apart in my hands and I wrap the thick length around my palm and pull her closer.

She looks up at me, mouth parted, my dick resting on her bottom lip, all impish eyes. This is Lola, my annoying, spacey, grouchy boss. Her tongue slips out to wet her lip, grazing me. Fuck. Me.

Her lips part wider and I slip inside an inch. She hums something and I push inside her mouth. Screw waiting. Everything about her turns me on. If I’m not careful, I won’t last long. She pulls harder, taking me deeper. Shit. Her mouth is sweet, wet heat. My balls tighten, ready to shoot my load.

“Tell me to come,” I growl.

I’m not sure how she’s supposed to answer when her mouth’s full, but Lola’s creative. She nods her head and groans something. Good enough—or maybe that’s the wicked edge of her teeth skimming my sensitive head. Girl boss is still trying to take control. Unfortunately, I don’t care because she’s sucking me off with a skill and speed I didn’t expect. I tunnel my fingers into her hair and fuck her mouth hard. Harder than is strictly nice, but she lets me. Nothing has ever felt so good and that makes this whole banging-my-boss thing an even worse idea.

I should pull out.

I should ask if she’s okay with this.

Instead I lose myself in the soft wetness and blow up in her mouth.

She rocks back on her heels as I pop free. Then she wipes her mouth on her shoulder as I put myself back together.

“My turn,” she says.

I shove her pants down her long, toned legs. She’s not wearing panties. She’s completely naked from the waist down, and it’s not enough. She leans back against the desk, off balance because her hands are still tied, and I lift her up until she’s seated on it before stepping between her legs. I can smell her, so wet and slick.

“Sucking me off turned you on.”

“I’m selfish.” She crosses her legs behind my back, her heels resting on my ass. “If it didn’t turn me on, I wouldn’t do it. Did you think I was faking it?”

I reach between us, sliding my fingers down, until they rest against her where she’s so wet. I lean into her, pressing her back against the desk until she’s flat beneath me and our mouths are so close that I feel her breathe.

“You’re wet.”

“Do something about it,” she challenges.

“Do you want my mouth between your legs? Or do you have other fantasies?” I pull my fingers free and paint her lips. “Tell me how to do it.”

Her breath hitches, her eyes drifting closed. She’s thinking about it. Lola loves fantasies. This is her favorite thing, imagining the possibilities. When her eyes open, I know she’s picked a favorite, her expression changing from slightly awkward awareness to 100 percent sensual.

Hazel eyes are hard to pin down. Are they goldenish or brownish green or do they change when you least expect it? This close, Lola’s eyes are almost amber today, and I fight the urge to keep tipping forward, to fall into her eyes. Falling would waste the time we have.

She levers herself up on her elbows. “Run your hands down my body. I love your hands. They’re big and a little rough.”

I do as she narrates, dragging my hands down her body and over her hips. My fingers press against her skin, traveling over her curves and digging in. She’s soft, her skin pebbling beneath my touch.

“Are you cold?” I slide my hands beneath her ass.

“Your mouth follows your hands so I’m not cold.” Her eyes darken. She’s watching me, waiting for me to do as I’m told.

I kiss my way down her body, learning what she tastes like. When I reach the soft curve of her belly, I turn my head, resting my cheek against her. “And then what do I do?”

She thinks for a moment. Or maybe she rehearses what’s coming next in her head because the sweet, salty scent of her arousal grows stronger. It’s as if she feels everything twice as intensely, once in her imagination and then once more with me.

“I might be shy, so you brush one cheek over me, and then the other. You haven’t shaved recently and I love the way your stubble feels.”

“Like this?”

“Yes.” She exhales, eyes still closed. “Do it again.”

“Perhaps I blow on you, teasing you,” I suggest. “Since you like it slow.”

“I like it slow today,” she says. “Maybe.”

Her breathing grows faster when I send my next breath skimming over her. And then the next. And the next after that. Her heels rub against my shoulders in a gentle, dreamy rhythm and I wish I could see inside her head. Her eyes are closed again.

“But you’re impatient, so you push my legs over your shoulder so you can see me. You love looking at me.”

“I do,” I answer. “I could look at you all day. You’re fucking gorgeous here.”

“That feels good,” she says. “But it feels even better when you taste me.”

She’s so right. She tastes unbelievable, sweet and juicy. I hold her open with my thumbs and I kiss her, breathing her in, licking up her wet. All the usual words tumble through my mind—peaches, sugar, cream—but those are fantasy words and the reality of Lola is even better. I wish I could tell her how good she feels, but instead I show her.

“Do I push a finger inside you?”

Another pause.

“No,” she says dreamily. “You lick me deeper, over and over.”

I do it. I drag my tongue through her slick folds, learning which spots make her moan and which make her squeal. She opens wider, her heels digging harder into my shoulders, because it feels good. Sweat dampens her body and I kiss her harder, rougher, surer. She’s told me her secrets and I know how to please her.

“You—” Her voice catches as her thighs tense.

I dig my fingers into her ass, controlling her movement and how she rolls against my mouth. “You want this.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

“But you want to be the one in charge.” I suck lightly at her clit and she makes a noise I haven’t heard before, a rougher, greedier sound. She’s so close.

I give her clit another kiss. “You think your way is best.”

And she breaks character, forgets the rules of our game. “Make me come now.”

“So bossy.” I give her pussy the smallest of smacks and she moans. “Always certain your way is the best. But what if you’re missing out on something better?”

Another tiny tap. Another moan.

“Too bad for you, princess. I’m not in the mood to play your games today. Naughty bosses don’t get orgasms.”

I could sink into her.

I should finish her.

Instead I step back.

She glares at me, dazed. It’s a bitch trying to lever yourself up with your arms tied. This is why I don’t let my lovers tie me up. Or take control. You end up out of control.

“See you Monday.”

I saunter out the door. I have to hand it to her, though. She doesn’t beg or plead. She pulls it together enough to yell after me.

“You’re the world’s worst intern.”

I’m not fired, though.

Not yet.