Читать книгу Wild Child - Christy McKellen - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

Maya

I PUT A brave face on it as I saunter out of Benedict’s office, pretending I’m still in control of the situation and my response to him—but, Jesus, what happened back there has rattled me well and good.

I went in there intending to get his attention, but I had no idea just how far I was willing to go in order to get it until the intensely erotic promise of the situation seduced me into total abandon.

That was pretty extreme, though. Even for me.

Not that I didn’t love every single second of it...

The rest of my afternoon is spent in a brain-addled haze, and I stumble home feeling the kind of euphoria I can normally only procure from a dealer.

I’m not usually one for repeat performances—famous for it, in fact—but as I sit in my father’s kitchen, gulping down a humongous glass of wine like it’s water, I can’t get Benedict Chivers out of my head.

That should be enough for me—that breathtakingly sexy culmination of our mutual attraction. It should be, but it isn’t. Because he demonstrated something I’ve been looking for for a long time—a strength and self-possession I’ve been unable to find before now. Normally when I force my admittedly sometimes overwhelming personality on a man he either turns into a gibbering wreck or blows it by getting selfish and carried away with a sense of his own importance. But not Benedict Chivers. He somehow managed to give me exactly what I most needed. Despite him maintaining strict control over the situation I still felt powerful, wanted and majorly fucking sexy.

And sitting here, humming with echoes of the pleasure he gave me, I know for sure that I definitely want to feel like that again.

Unfortunately, it seems we’re not on the same page where that particular want is concerned.

I turn up at the office the next day, looking my absolute sex bomb best, only to find to my screaming frustration that he’s not in, and all my tasks are to be passed on through tersely worded emails or by word of mouth from one of his other PAs.

By the time I get home I seriously wonder whether I’m going to spontaneously combust from sexual tension. Is that a thing? Is it possible my body will actually catch fire and I’ll be found in the morning, just a pile of ash and false eyelashes?

It’s not as if I don’t have other options to satisfy this weirdly consuming need. I’ve cultivated a comprehensive book of contacts for fun, no-strings sex over the years and, believe me, I’m not afraid to use it. So I call up Freddie Valentine—a semi-regular hook-up of mine who fronts the indie band Blues and Dues, who’ve been getting a lot of press lately for their wild partying.

Mercifully, he’s free and tells me to, ‘Come right over and sit on my face, babe.’

But for some reason, it’s not happening for me, and when he leans in to kiss me and slides his hands around my waist, pulling me against his rock-hard body, I freeze.

Usually I love having sex, because in those moments I can dodge the strange restlessness that follows me around like a toxic cloud and escape into pure, beautiful sensation. My thoughts are centred entirely on how my body is being worshipped, and of course my interest in my partner’s—no one could ever accuse me of being a selfish lover—but not, it seems, today.

There’s nothing there. Not even a spark of desire.

Despite my acute awareness of the guy’s sharp looks and rocking body, I feel nothing. So, ignoring his huffy baffled protests I tell him I’ve changed my mind and I’m not in the mood after all and practically run out of his apartment.

I sit on my bed at home, wondering what the hell has happened to me.

I toss the question around my mind for the next couple of days, growing increasingly frustrated and not a little bit worried by the weird infatuation I seem to have developed for my boss.

My boss who is once again acting as if I mean absolutely nothing to him.

Friday morning I finally get an opportunity to be in a room with him alone as I take him the coffee that the other PAs are too busy to fetch. Despite my family name and social status I’m still the last in when it comes to employment here, so I’m considered the bottom of the pile. I’m sure my father must have insisted on that being enforced too. He’s a wily bastard like that. Luckily, his irreverence actually benefits me today, which gives me an extra little kick of satisfaction.

I walk into Benedict’s office, making my strides long and confident as I cover the floor between the door and his desk. The memory of what happened on that thing the last time I was in here makes my whole body flush with heat as I approach it.

He looks up from what he’s doing at his computer and fixes me with a hard, distant stare.

‘What can I do for you, Maya?’

‘I thought you might be thirsty, Mr Chivers,’ I say, offering up the large mug of strong black coffee.

‘Thank you. You can put it right there.’ He gestures to a space on the desk before turning his gaze back to his computer, effectively dismissing me.

‘Can I do anything else for you?’ My voice is all smooth and warm. I’m determined not to let him snub me, and I wait until he looks up at me again and flash him a coy smile.

‘No. Thank you.’ The expression in his eyes is hard, but I swear I see a twinkle of something wicked behind his nonchalance.

‘This is a nice desk you have here. Sturdy.’ I give it a gentle tap with my fingertips. ‘I meant to say that the last time I was in here,’ I add, with a provocative raise of my eyebrows.

A muscle twitches in his jaw and his eyes widen infinitesimally, as if he’s thinking about what happened here too. ‘I’m glad you think so, Maya. I chose it myself.’

‘You have good taste.’

‘Thank you.’ He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on the apex of them, whilst maintaining his penetrating stare.

I think about the way he used those fingers on me—in me—and I feel echoes of the sensory memory of it all the way inside, which only increases the inescapable erotic hum of arousal I’ve been suffering ever since that day.

‘I hear you’re getting on well with the tasks you’ve been given,’ he says.

I experience a sting of annoyance at his change in subject, but front it out.

‘Yeah, well, I pride myself on doing a good job.’

He nods, then asks, ‘And are you finding being here stimulating?’

There’s a definite twinkle in his eye now.

He’s flirting with me. Finally!

I move closer to the desk and perch one bum cheek on the edge of it, looking down at him, holding his gaze. The air is thick with tension and desire crackles through me. There’s unquestionably something still going on between us. I can feel it. I long for him to reach out and pull me towards him. Kiss me like he’d stop breathing if he didn’t. To prove he’s as desperate for my touch as I am for his.

‘Some days more so than others,’ I murmur. ‘It really depends on who’s around.’ I lean in closer to him, holding his intense gaze with my own.

My whole body is humming with awareness, as if I can feel every nerve-ending in my skin. My leg and buttock feel ultra-sensitive where they’re pressed against the hard wood of the desk.

Does he know what he’s doing to me?

Will he touch me again?

I want him to. So much I ache with it. In fact I’m having enormous trouble keeping my seat and not jumping into his lap.

But I need to be cool about this. Benedict Chivers is clearly not a man to tolerate lascivious behaviour. Unless he’s the one perpetrating it, of course.

My breath is thick and shallow, and I have to swallow hard past the dryness in my throat as I wait for his next move.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re getting on well,’ he says abruptly, sitting back in his chair as if he’s suddenly bored with the conversation and keen to get back to work. ‘Your father will be pleased.’

I stare at him in confusion. Why the hell is he bringing my father into the room with us? Is he mad? It’s the ultimate bucket of cold water on my lust and I drag in a sharp breath as if I’ve just been slapped in the face.

‘Anyway, Maya, thanks again for the coffee. I have a meeting with the head of marketing now, so if you could show her in when you leave I’d appreciate it.’

He’s looking back at his computer as he says this, all businesslike again.

If it weren’t for the cold tone in his voice I’d suspect he was still playing the scene, but as he glances up at me I see with a lurch of sickening disappointment that he’s not joking. He’s deadly serious. He’s calling a halt to this scenario.

My skin rushes with icy mortification.

I stand up shakily and brush down my skirt to give my trembling fingers something to do.

‘Yes, sir,’ I manage to force through my gritted teeth, and I turn and walk away from him, acutely aware of how stiffly I’m moving but not able to do a damn thing about it.

The distance from his desk to the door feels like acres, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I’m finally able to grab the handle and let myself out.

He’s not just going to let me have what I want when I want it. I get that now.

‘He’s ready for you,’ I mutter to the marketing manager as I pass her, striding back towards my desk with my mind racing.

This thing between us isn’t over yet, though.

Not even close.

I shake out the tension in my shoulders.

To be honest, I’m actually pleased he’s making it hard for me. It’ll be much more satisfying if I have to work for it—I like a challenge.

But this particular situation, I realise, calls for some seriously creative thinking.

Friday night I end up working late at the office, chasing confirmation for a conference call with clients in the US, and I’m just about to pack up for the night when Rosie, one of the other PAs, comes tripping across to my desk in a flap, her normally porcelain-pale cheeks flushed with colour.

‘Oh, God, Maya, I need your help!’ she pants at me. ‘I’m so late for my dinner with Nico and I’m supposed to drop this package round to Benedict’s house. Apparently he’s been waiting for it for ages and wants it right away.’

‘What is it?’ I ask, intrigued, eying the large padded envelope in her hand.

She shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. Laura didn’t say when she thrust it at me and ordered me to take it to him. The bitch. She thinks her position here trumps mine because she’s slightly more senior, so I always end up saddled with the after-hours errands.’ She wrinkles her nose in disgust. ‘From the size and weight of it, I’d guess it’s a new mobile phone or something.’

I give her a supportive eye-roll. Laura is a bitch, and she takes the piss with everyone, though she seems to particularly pick on Rosie—perhaps because Rosie seems so happy and settled with her boyfriend who, as she excitedly whispered to me at lunchtime a couple of days ago, may be about to pop the question. Perhaps even tonight.

I hold out my hand. ‘Give it to me. I’ll take it to him. You shouldn’t have to be late for your dinner date just so he can have his new toy to play with.’

‘Don’t you have somewhere you need to be too?’ she asks with a guilty look in her eye.

‘Nah. I’m free as a bird tonight,’ I reply, flashing her a reassuring smile.

I’m actually genuinely happy to help her out. She’s the only PA here who’s treated me like a person rather than Maxim Darlington-Hume’s nepotistically advantaged daughter. She’s also saved my arse a couple of times, catching silly mistakes I made in my first few days here, and has since taken me under her wing, giving up time during her lunch breaks to show me exactly how our perfectionist boss likes things done.

‘You’re an absolute angel!’ she says, relief lightening her voice.

She passes me the parcel, then a Post-it note with a handwritten address on it. Benedict’s handwriting? I wonder. It’s neat and cursive, with a confident upstroke. Whoever wrote it was pressing the pen down firmly onto the paper, because as I run my fingers along the back I can feel the indentation of the words.

‘Enjoy your night,’ I add with a smile, before pulling on my coat.

I certainly intend to enjoy mine.

Back at my father’s house, I steam open the envelope and extract the small, neat box containing the newest release of the world’s most popular mobile phone, scoffing at his unoriginality.

Going up to my bedroom, I toss the phone onto my bedside table, then pull open the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers. I rummage around until I find what I’m looking for, unable to suppress a grin as I imagine how he’s going to react when I deliver this into his large, capable hands.

The thought arouses me so much I have to sit on my bed and take a few deep, calming breaths, feeling the insistent throb between my legs that’s been ever-present since that first incident on his desk intensify. My stomach jumps with nerves at the thought of what I’m about to do, but I fight the urge to chicken out.

Instead I stand up and tuck the package firmly under my arm.

Whatever happens from this point on, I’m pretty sure this is going to be a night I won’t ever forget.

Benedict’s house isn’t far away from my father’s, on one of the picturesque leafy green squares in Kensington, and I walk quickly and confidently—despite my nerves—up the black-and-white chequered tile steps and ring the large brass buzzer. Like my father, he appears to own the entire house.

By himself? I wonder, as it suddenly occurs to me that he might not be on his own this evening. Perhaps he has a housekeeper or a butler who will insist on taking the package to him, so I won’t get to hand it over myself.

But before I can formulate an alternative plan the door swings open to reveal the man himself in all his glory. He’s dressed casually, in faded jeans and a black shirt that fits snugly across his broad shoulders. There are definitely some well-sculpted muscles hiding under there, I think as I stare up at him, my attention trapped by this vision of male perfection.

Goosebumps rush across my skin as I take a moment to fully appreciate the magnificence of him. There’s something inherently virile about him—as if he oozes sex and power from every pore. I’m surprised he doesn’t have women throwing themselves at him everywhere he goes.

But then, maybe he does.

The thought sends a prickle of alarm up my spine, for some reason.

‘Maya. What can I do for you?’ he asks. He sounds a little wary, as if he thinks I’m here to cause mischief.

Smart man.

I reach under my arm and pull out the package I’ve carefully stuck back together to make it look as if it hasn’t been opened. ‘I have an urgent delivery from the office for you. I offered to bring it because I live so close,’ I say.

He eyes me for a moment longer, as if waiting for the punchline, but when I don’t provide one he nods and holds out his hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say, realising with a thump of fear that he might just take it and dismiss me on the doorstep—which means I’ll miss all the fun.

‘Could I use your bathroom?’ I ask hurriedly, making pleading eyes at him. ‘I’ve come straight from the office and I’m bursting.’

I do a little jiggle for good measure, like a little kid might when she’s desperate for the loo. He doesn’t answer for a second, but then he seems to decide that he can’t be rude and refuse me entry—or perhaps he just doesn’t want me peeing myself on his doorstep—and steps back to let me inside.

Accidentally on purpose, I forget to hand him the package on my mercy dash to the downstairs bathroom—which he shouts is the second door on the right—under the grand sweeping staircase. I scoot inside and lock the door, taking a few moments to calm my erratic breathing and check my reflection in the mirror.

You’re strong, you’re in control, you’re capable of getting what you want, I tell myself, practising a composed smile in the mirror before flushing the loo and washing my hands, in case he’s listening out for it.

I have a moment of terror as I contemplate what I’m about to do, but I know there’s no going back now. I want to go through with this. I need to.

Okay. Show-time.

Benedict

I wait in my kitchen for Maya to reappear, not wanting her to find me hanging around in the hallway as if her presence here is unsettling me.

Even though it is.

What’s she playing at, turning up at my house like this? I’m uncomfortable with her being here in my personal sanctuary without any prior warning—especially since I seem to be having so much trouble keeping her out of my head when we’re at work.

Not that I’m going to let her know that.

I hear her footsteps and the bang of the door as she leaves the bathroom.

‘I’m in the kitchen,’ I shout, not wanting her to have an excuse to go snooping around my house.

‘Nice place,’ she coos as she enters, the parcel swinging loosely in her hand.

‘Can I have my package now?’ I ask with a wry smile, holding out my hand for it.

‘Sure.’ Holding it up, she wiggles it at me and wrinkles her nose, as if she’s only just realised she’s still holding it, and then strolls casually over to where I’m standing, thrusting it towards me when we’re close enough for it to pass between us.

‘It says “urgent” on the front, so it’s probably best if you open it right away,’ she points out.

I swear I hear a slight hitch in her voice and I lock eyes with her, trying to read her expression for a sign of what kind of game she’s playing. My heart stutters in my chest as a whole host of unnerving possibilities rush through my head.

‘Just doing my job as your PA,’ she says breezily, though I’m sure she’s keenly aware of my suspicion that she’s here to do more than just fulfil an errand.