Page 26 of His Naughty Secretary

Or has it never stopped, since the moment he told me to take off my clothes yesterday—and never will stop as long as I’m his…

I swallowed hard, looking down again.

His secretary. His fuck toy.

I looked up, sure I would see an expression of displeasure on Joseph’s face. Instead, I saw sympathy. I felt my face soften from tension into surprised pleasure, gratitude even for his interest, since it seemed genuine.

“Yes, in the suburbs,” I told him. I twisted my mouth to the side, saw his lips quirk, and I understood with a helpless little rush of happiness that he found the expression endearing. That, plus the thought of what I meant to say next, and how it contrasted with what I had on under my dress—or rather didn’t have on—made the heat flash in my face yet again. Distressingly, though I knew I should have started to anticipate the mortifying sensation, I felt it down there, too. I looked down and said quietly, “Conservative parents.”

“Of course,” Joseph said. I looked up again sharply. Of course. The assurance in the words seemed to capture his intelligence, his arrogance, and his irresistible attractiveness. He knew all about me, and he wanted to make it clear.

His eyes widened a little, and his mouth curved upward a fraction of a millimeter more. He picked up his champagne class.

“Let’s drink to possibilities,” he said, raising it.

I reached out and picked up my own glass. Something in the way he had said possibilities thrilled me, warmed me, and frightened me in nearly equal measure. Joseph’s smile got wider as he touched his beautiful glass, full of wine that literally sparkled in the restaurant’s subtle light, to mine with a very soft clink.

He sipped, and I sipped. The bubbles, bursting on my tongue, seemed to bring the sparkling into my body itself. I knew nothing about wine, but somehow I could tell that this one had a very complicated flavor I didn’t necessarily like, but which I could tell cost a lot of money.

“Go ahead and have your amuse bouche, sweetheart,” Joseph said. “Then take another sip of champagne.”

He reached down and to my surprise picked up his little foamy pastry thing with his fingers and popped it into his mouth, closing his eyes to enjoy the taste. For a brief moment I felt utterly entranced by the sight: his strong, skilled fingers delicately handling the delicate morsel, his chin lifting slightly as he savored the flavors. He opened his eyes and looked at me, the ever-present smile playing at the corner of his lips.

My hand shook slightly as I reached for the similar pastry on my plate, lifting it gingerly between my fingers, with much less grace than Joseph had displayed. The seafood mixture was a symphony of textures and tastes, salty and rich and a little crunchy, that single bite revealing new complexities of flavor from moment to moment.

As I chewed, to my mingled embarrassment and helpless pleasure, I felt it between my thighs, too, a warmth that seemed to radiate from my taste buds deep within me to my bare, naked pussy. It seemed as if Joseph had somehow imbued the food itself with his dominance.

When I took the sip he had commanded, the champagne, too, seemed infused with his presence, the bubbles dancing against the inside of my mouth like a gentle caress—and the flavor… the flavor. I hadn’t understood what wine pairing actually meant until then, because of course I had never had the chance. I swallowed almost regretfully, because I wanted the music of that taste to go on forever.

From that moment on, I felt lost. I could feel myself getting tipsy, though the glasses of wine the waiter poured, one for each of the five courses, seemed so small. Joseph kept asking questions, gently, about my family, my experiences at my previous jobs. The wine seemed to help with that, at least; I spoke more and more freely.

By the beef course, a piece of steak that tasted like no meat I’d ever had before, like the cow had descended from heaven and offered itself to the chef with instructions from the angels on how to prepare it, I started to ask questions of my own. At first I felt very strange, turning the tables on the man who had the awful paddle and the terrible wand. Then—probably thanks as much to the alcohol as to the fascination I couldn’t help feeling about Joseph—I forgot for a little while at least that part of our relationship.

He shared his own story readily between bites: his humble beginnings on the East Coast and the apparently relentless determination that had propelled him to the top of Selecta’s communications division. I asked and listened, captivated by his unapologetic drive and the way his eyes seemed to darken when he spoke of the challenges he’d faced.

“And now,” he said, setting his fork down with a decisive clink, “I find myself intrigued by a young woman who is both naive and ambitious. It’s an intoxicating combination, Ingrid.”

My lips parted, but I had nothing to say. All the parts of Joseph’s ‘fun game’ that had for a while receded so far into the back of my mind that I hadn’t even thought about it came rushing back. His words had nothing the least bit lewd about them, but the way his eyes narrowed as he said intoxicating sent a shiver down my spine and a tingle to my clit. Joseph looked, suddenly, as though he planned to eat me for dessert.

The waiter cleared our plates. Joseph’s eyes stayed locked on mine for a moment, as if he meant to assess me—to evaluate my progress, maybe. Then he looked up at the waiter and spoke.

“Hold off on the dessert, would you, until the lady gets back from the powder room?”

“Certainly, sir,” the waiter replied smoothly. He used a little silver scoop on the table, clearing crumbs from the wonderful bread away, and moved off across the dining room.

I blinked at Joseph as his eyes returned to mine. I had just peed a few minutes ago. I didn’t understand: had I done something to my makeup? I opened my mouth, about to protest, but Joseph cut me off, not with words, but with a gesture.

I felt my pulse quicken as he reached into his inside breast pocket. Of all the things he might have fetched out, the small velvet box that he placed carefully on the table between us seemed the most utterly surprising. My heart leaped at the sight of it, the insane, unwelcome, but undeniable hope of it holding a ring flashing through my mind.

What the… My modest mind balked, then continued as I considered the absurdity of keeping myself from thinking the terrible, naughty words Joseph used as if people said them all the time. What the fuck?

Joseph’s eyes narrowed even more as he watched my reaction. His smile had faded slightly, as if he meant this moment to feel serious or even solemn.

“Open it,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. The mere return of that authoritative voice made my tummy flip. To my horror, I actually fidgeted in my seat, and saw in Joseph’s eyes that he knew precisely why: his voice had reminded me of all of it—the state of my private parts, of the whole region between my waist and my knees that he had so thoroughly claimed for himself over the past forty-eight hours.

With trembling hands, I lifted the lid, grateful to lower my eyes. I revealed something of a kind I had never seen before, a gleaming metal object adorned with a large, multifaceted gemstone. Next to it lay a little plastic tube that seemed to have a clear fluid in it. My eyes widened in confusion, the unfamiliar shape sending a jolt of uncertainty through me.

“Do you know what this is, Ingrid?” Joseph asked, his tone quiet but unyielding.

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