My Secretary, My Mistress Read online

  My Secretary, My Mistress

  Eve Langlais

  When it comes to pleasure, she's making all the decisions

  Isabelle and her boss Grant had a one night stand that rocked, but since then he's been avoiding her.

  Miffed at his behavior, she's determined to bring him to his knees. Drawing upon her dominant and kinky side, she first makes him regret his actions, and then makes him come crawling back for more.

  But Isabelle is after more than just revenge and sexual satisfaction. The question is, can her boss let go of his inhibitions and let Isabelle take charge?

  Eve Langlais

  My Secretary, My Mistress

  My Secretary series 1, 2010

  Chapter One

  Grant sneaked out of her bed like a thief-tip toeing and barely breathing, desperate to evade capture. She watched him with one eye partly open, wondering if he could truly be so callous after the night of frantic lovemaking in which they’d indulged. Surely he felt some remnants of the passion they’d shared. Her body ached pleasantly.

  Once he was dressed, he approached the bed and gave her a soft kiss. She pretended to be sleeping, but couldn’t stop the half smile that curved her lips.

  He’s mine now.

  * * * * *

  Monday morning at the office, Grant acted like nothing had happened.

  “Isabelle, get me a cup of coffee and then dig out the files for the Peterman case,” he demanded without even looking up.

  Isabelle, who’d worn a brand new pantsuit that showed off her curvy figure, bit her tongue. We’re at work, and I know how dedicated he is. You watch. He’ll probably take me to lunch or dinner.

  That didn’t happen. Instead, her boss left the office on supposed business and didn’t return for the rest of the day, even though she lingered until well after five in case he came rushing back.

  Annoyed, she went home and made herself a nice martini with an extra olive. I could have sworn he liked me. After all, he couldn’t get enough of me on Saturday…

  Just thinking about that evening made her squirm in her seat. She’d had such grand plans for the two of them. But today, Grant had acted as if she barely existed. Surely he hadn’t been that drunk. And even if he’d over imbibed before they started, he sure as hell had been sober by the time they were done.

  Maybe he didn’t want to be caught socializing with romantic intent at work. That had to be it. The big boss, the one everybody in the company had to obey, frowned upon office affairs.

  Fine, I can respect that. I'll approach him after work. She refused to admit that he had her phone number and could have called her anytime.

  * * * * *

  The next day, Isabelle dressed to the nines and arrived at the office with an expectant smile, only to again be disappointed. Tuesday was a repeat of Monday. Grant barely acknowledged her existence and never once met her eyes. He couldn’t run away two days in a row, so instead he closeted himself in his office, feigning phone calls whenever she popped in to bring him files.

  The more aloof he acted, the more Isabelle's ire grew. How dare he ignore me after playing with my body so intimately?

  Her attempts at engaging him in conversation were met with polite evasions, and somehow she couldn’t manage to speak to him alone after work.

  She tried to corner him again on Wednesday. “Grant," she said, "about Saturday night-”

  "Sorry, I’m needed down in accounting," he said, cutting her off abruptly. “Can this wait until later?”

  Of course, later never came.

  By the end of the day on Thursday, Isabelle had reached her boiling point. Like a trained military operative, Grant evaded her using skills and techniques that defied belief. She even attempted the oops-I-dropped-my-pencil routine while wearing a stupidly short skirt. For a moment, when she’d straightened, she thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes, but just as quickly the polite mask she’d come to hate came over his face again.

  Screw him. She needed to go at this differently. Instead of waiting for him to act or say something to acknowledge what had transpired between them and continue from there, she plotted an operation of her own, called Operation: Get The Boss. It was simple, really.

  On Friday, she brought what she needed to accomplish her first objective in a large carry all. When he told her at five o’clock he would be working late, she was ready. He also ordered her to run across the street to fetch him some dinner before she left-with no mention of dinner for her, of course. No matter. It gave her the perfect excuse to implement her plan and bring him to heel.

  * * * * *

  Awareness returned to Grant slowly, discomfort immediately, and overall, confusion reigned supreme. What the hell?

  He opened his heavy eyelids to see that he still sat in his office. I must have fallen asleep. That's odd, because the last thing I remember is eating dinner.

  Grant tried to shift his stiff body into a more comfortable position, but discovered he couldn’t. His forearms were bound to the armrests of his chair, and his torso was lashed to the back.

  “What the fuck?” He pulled at the ties holding him, straining and cursing. After a few minutes, he realized he couldn’t break free. His many hours on the squash court were no match for the superman strength required to liberate him from the silver duct tape wound around his forearms.

  Still unsure how he’d gotten into this position, he debated calling for help. What if whoever did this to me is still here, though? They might come back and do something worse. And wait a second-where’s Isabelle? I remember her bringing me my dinner. Did they do something to her, too?

  At the thought of his secretary, burning shame crept through him. He’d noticed the way she’d expectantly watched him all week. Confusion had filled her eyes each time he’d met her gaze and pretended not to see her silent plea. Yes, he’d taken the cowardly route and ignored her, even if he couldn’t forget what had happened on Saturday night. The most glorious, passion filled night of his life.

  But one night of bliss was not enough to make him throw away years of dedication. Why the hell am I even thinking about that now? Who cares if I want to touch and taste her again? I need to find a way to free myself.

  Being a victim went against every grain of Grant's being. He liked to be in charge and make people dance to his tune. The fact that he’d been so easily subdued stuck in his craw. I am going to be a laughingstock.

  Grant eyed the touchtone phone on his desk. His hands might not work, but perhaps if he maneuvered himself, he could use his face to make a call like he’d seen in the movies. Dragging his chair, using his feet-and thanking himself for ordering one with wheels-he rolled to the left side of his desk where his phone sat. After several panting moments, he finally drew close enough to push the handset aside with his jaw. Then he was faced with a daunting dilemma.

  How do I push the buttons?

  Glad nobody was there to see him use his nose-a facial trait that had been described as aristocratic by more than one lady-he attempted to push the numbers for the guard in the lobby. He’d debated against nine-one-one, as the humiliation and emasculation at having been trussed like a turkey would have been more than he could bear. It’s bad enough that I’m going to have to ask that goof of a night watchman to free me.

  The phone double beeped, signaling that the call had been transferred. He waited impatiently for the guard to answer, sweating and thinking about what to say. A click sounded when the line was picked up.

  “Hello, Grant,” his secretary said in dulcet tones. “I see you’re awake.”

  “Isabelle?” Grant said, not at all happy to hear her voice. He didn’t want her to see him so ignobly captured. “Listen, can you get the guard up to my office
? I kind of have a problem.”

  “Oh, my,” she said, with a hint of mockery. At least he now knew his dilemma hadn’t extended to her. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  And with another click, she hung up.

  Grant cursed, his need to be rescued warring with his not wanting to look weak in front of Isabelle. Not that it mattered, for his door swung open only seconds later and she walked in wearing a long trench coat.

  “Isabelle, thank god you’re all right. I don’t know what happened, but I must have been knocked out-and when I came to, I was tied to my chair. Can you get me loose?”

  Isabelle closed and locked Grant’s office door, the click of the tumbler sending a frisson of fear down Grant’s spine. What the hell is going on?

  “Isabelle, why are you locking the door? Are my assailants still out there?”

  Isabelle turned to face him, and for the first time since the previous Saturday, Grant looked at her. His breath whooshed out as if he’d been punched in the gut. God, she is so beautiful.

  She perused him with those clear blue eyes, her mahogany hair upswept in a chignon that showed off her long neck. By all that was holy, he wanted to pull the pins out of her hair and see it spread wildly across a pillow as she gazed upon him with heavy lidded, passion glazed eyes. Her mouth glistened pink and tempting, her lips coated with a sheen of lip-gloss in the sweet flavor he remembered from their encounter a week ago. He still got aroused every time he remembered those luscious lips wrapped around his cock, sucking him expertly.

  His attraction to Isabelle still surprised him, for she was in her thirties with a figure more rounded than that of his usual conquests. She hadn’t drawn him in with her youth, however, but instead with her voluptuous beauty and confident manner. A confidence she’d drawn upon even in the bedroom as she told him what she wanted him to do to her full figured body. Glorious orders he’d obeyed eagerly. Desire rose like a beast and roared through his body.

  But therein lay the path to madness and sure unemployment. Isabelle might be his secretary and a delectable piece of ass, but she was also the owner’s daughter. Grant knew all too well how this would end. The last man to get involved with her had learned, to his misfortune, that to lust after Isabelle was to sign your own pink slip. His dismissal had led to Isabelle’s transfer to Grant’s office and the beginning of his obsession with her, which had culminated in one stupid-although sexually magnificent-night.

  “Grant, why have you ignored me all week?”

  "What?" Her blatant question took him aback. “Isabelle, I don’t think it’s the right time for this discussion. You need to untie me.”

  “When will be a good time?” she asked, coming closer, her eyes flashing in annoyance.

  Women always had such inappropriate timing. “Listen, I promise that when this is all over, we’ll sit down and talk about it. But right now, you need to set me free before those guys come back.”

  “Guys?” Isabelle sat on the edge of his desk with her legs crossed. One stocking clad leg peeked out from the opening in her coat, and for one insane moment, he wondered if she had on garters like she had worn last Saturday. Garters and stockings he’d gripped as he’d pounded into her tight, wet sheath. His cock swelled in remembrance, and he held back a snort of self-disgust. She smiled. “How many men do you think did this to you?”

  "I don’t know." Grant’s ego demanded he lie and tell her it had taken at least a half dozen thugs to subdue him, but the truth was he had no idea how he’d ended up in this situation. “I’m having a hard time remembering. They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “Why would you care?”

  "Please, Isabelle," Grant snarled. The idea of anyone laying an uncouth hand on her roused a jealous beast inside him, one he’d never met before. The protective, possessive instinct shocked him. He was a man who lived for one night stands. “I know I’ve acted like a jerk this week, but that doesn’t mean I want you to come to harm.”

  “So you admit being an asshole, do you?” she asked, her eyes glittering triumphantly.

  Taken aback by her foul language, Grant tried to defend himself. “You need to understand it from my perspective. I could lose my job.”

  Isabelle laughed, a throaty sound that, even given the situation, made his balls tighten and his shaft swell. “Oh, that’s good. So it’s okay to fuck the boss’s daughter, but not okay to treat her like a human being afterward? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.”

  "Well…" Said that like, he did sound like a grade ‘A’ asshole, not that he’d ever admit it. His reasons were sound-to him, at least. And this is why one shouldn't sleep with co-workers. One night stands and sexual flings worked best when one didn’t see the other person every day. Grant’s biggest dilemma, though, was that he wanted to see Isabelle again. Memories of being with her consumed him, and if not for the fact that he loved his work more, he’d have already caved. He swallowed. “Listen, I like you Isabelle.”

  She snorted.

  In spite of her derision, he continued on, “I really like you. But no matter how good Saturday was, it was a mistake. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I don’t want to lose it all because I forgot who you were for a moment. Can’t we just pretend it never happened and continue on in a professional manner?”

  “No,” she said, hopping off his desk. She propped a foot on the chair between his thighs and turned him to face her. Then she untied the sash to her coat. “Guess what, Grant?”

  “What?” he asked, mesmerized by the movements of her small, pale hands. Hands he remembered wrapping around his shaft, stroking him and guiding him into her moist center. "I don't-"

  “There are no intruders. I’m the one who tied you to the chair. Consider this your punishment for being a jerk.” With a wicked smile, she let her coat fall to the floor.

  Grant’s eyes almost popped out of his head, while his cock tried to drill a hole through his pants. I’m in trouble.Glorious trouble.

  Delighted that her plan had worked, Isabelle stood in front of a slack jawed Grant wearing her finest leather dominatrix outfit, which consisted of a black corset that laced up the front and pushed her tits together to give her shadowy cleavage. Barely covering her crotch was a black leather skirt that didn’t hide her garters and sheer stockings. To top off the outfit, she wore bitching, supple leather knee high boots with three inch stiletto heels. And beneath it all, she wore no panties-which he couldn’t tell just by looking, of course-but she knew about it, and it made her feel deliciously wicked.

  His eyes stayed riveted on her body.

  Isabelle reached up and pulled out the pins that held her hair up, letting its silky mass tumble around her bare shoulders. She knew he liked her hair loose. She knew a lot of things about Grant, even things he thought were secret.

  Licking her lips in a sensuous motion that made him swallow, she laughed. “You’ve been a bad boy, Grant. And you know what? I’ve got a special punishment for bad boys like you.” Just saying the words sent a delicious shiver throughout her body, one that made her wet.

  A tremble wracked his body, and the bulge in his pants twitched. Isabelle strutted around his chair prison to stand behind him. Grabbing his thick, dark hair, she forced his head back, lowered her lips to his ear, and whispered, “I'm going to make you sorry, Grant. Sorry you didn’t try and keep me when you had a chance.”

  She bit his earlobe and chuckled throatily at his cry and jerk of pain. This is going to be fun.

  Grant heartily regretted his decision to pretend he’d never touched Isabelle, especially when he saw her decked out in his greatest leather fantasy. He found this naughty, dominant Isabelle even sexier than the one he already knew. It was almost as if she’d seen the images he’d saved in the hidden folder on his computer at home. The ones where women took charge of men and punished them in delicious ways. A secret desire in which he’d never indulged.

  Even as she bit his ear lobe and threatened him, his cock strained inside his pants. He fervently wished he wasn
’t tied to the chair so he could bend her over his desk, lift that itty bitty excuse for a skirt, and fuck her hard. Hard enough to make her red manicured nails claw the glossy surface of his desk until she screamed his name.

  He wanted to gag her with his cock as he pulled on her hair to punish her for tying him up. Speaking of which, how had she managed to subdue him with him being none the wiser?

  “How-”

  “How did I manage to tie you up? It's simple, really. Who bought your dinner and served it to you?”

  You sneaky little bitch. He wanted to be angry with her, but who could be pissed at a leather goddess who stood just inches away? Especially one whose arousal he could smell.

  “Fine," he said. "You’ve made your point. Untie me, and we’ll go to dinner. Talk things over.” Then fuck like bunnies again, since you apparently didn't get enough of me the first time. He’d like another taste of her, too. And as for his job, it was beginning to look like pleasuring the boss’s daughter might be the only way to keep it.

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? What do you expect to accomplish with me tied to this chair?” Grant creased his forehead into a frown. He’d need his hands free to pleasure her and make her forgive him. "Isabelle-"

  “I plan to do lots of things to you,” she said with promise before moving to stand in front of him again. “But now-no more talking.”

  Isabelle placed one booted heel on his desk. Angled as she was, Grant couldn’t miss the fact that not only was she panty-less, she was also clean shaven and moist. Her pink folds glistened and beckoned for his mouth. Grant almost came in his pants. Fuck, she's hot!

  In front of his disbelieving eyes, Isabelle spread her nether lips, inserted two fingers, and withdrew a mini dildo. Its plastic length was coated in her slick juices. He held his breath as she stroked it across her clit, a move that made her lower lips quiver.