Page 30 of The Unplanned Wedding

"Even sweeter than I expected." He jerks his chin. "On your knees.”

When I comply, he nods in the direction of his sock and shoe. I follow his lead and slip the sock onto his big, wide foot, then pick up his polished, Italian leather dress shoe. It seems huge in my hands, and when I help him slip it on… I realize, the size is borne out by the massive tent at his crotch. I want to flick a glance in the direction of said tent, but don’t dare. Once again, instinct dictates that I follow his orders to the letter. If I do, he’ll reward me, surely?

“Up now; put yourself to rights,” he murmurs.

I scramble up, not very gracefully, then straighten my dress over my knees.

He pulls a pristine white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, wipes his fingers on it, then pockets it. The careless gesture turns my insides to jelly. That I do not warrant any more of his attention is so right. That my boss would look me up and down, then glance away with a bored expression like this interlude didn’t mean anything is so...perfect.

He knows that his not paying attention to me is just what I need to feel worthwhile. He knows that every bone in my body craves that I supplicate myself further to him, but it will be at his pleasure. It will be when he demands it of me, and not a second more.

I realize, with shock, that I’ll do anything to earn his approval.Earnbeing the operative word here. How well he knows that I crave his appreciation, but I don’t want him to give it to me easily. I need to work for it. I need to beg for it. I need to tear myself open and expose my innermost desires before he'll grant his acceptance of my place in his life. I’ll do anything to please him. My pussy swells with need again. I’ll do anything to make life easier for him. I’ll do anything he asks of me.

Somehow, it’s an extension of the role I’ve taken on in the real world,where I’m there to anticipate his every need. I’m there to make his life easier. To do whatever he asks of me. I don't deserve his attention, and I’ll follow his every command in the hope he’ll reward me with it.

As if he’s read my mind, he rises to his feet, then flicks imaginary dust away from the lapels of his jacket, while I wait, head bowed.

He takes his time, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves, then tugs on his bowtie. The need inside me builds and builds, until finally, when he cups my cheek, peers into my eyes, and nods as if he’s satisfied by what he sees there, I feel this strange urge to cry.

I feel like I’m on the verge of something monumental. Like I’ve changed in a way I never thought I could, but which also feels so very right. So very me. He’s managed to unlock that hidden part of me I didn’t know existed, and I feel so incredibly grateful. I lower my eyes and my chin, and by his change in breathing, I know I’ve pleased him.

He walks past me, toward the desk, then returns with a carafe of water and a glass. He hands me a full glass. "Drink it."

I follow his directions. And when I’m done, he fills up my glass again.

"Take your time, drink as much as you need. There’s an ensuite bathroom. Put yourself back together, and when you’re ready, I’ll see you outside."

He walks back to the desk, places the jug down on it, then turns and walks past me and out the door.

I take a few more sips of water—it does not occur to me to disobey his orders. It’s only when I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom and take note of my flushed features and my glittering eyes that I realize what happened. I run cold water on my wrists, use a fresh napkin to pat my fiery cheeks. By the time I finger comb my hair, I feel more myself.

Jesus, what happened there?I lost myself completely in that scene. I’ve read enough erotic romance and watched enough porn to know I took part in something which was kinky and enjoyed it more than I would have expected. Even more than the spanking, if I’m being honest. I suspected it then, but I know now, for sure, that my boss is dominant.

I’ve never thought of myself as submissive, I'm certainly not submissive in daily life; definitely not as his secretary, now executive assistant. But when it comes to role-play? I swallow. I love being subjugated by him. Not thatI’ve role-played before. But I know enough from my 'research’ to realize the way he commands me and the way I rush to obey him, when it’s just the two of us in a non-work situation, I fold into the persona of a subservient.

He’s made it clear that none of it means there’s anything personal between us. I’m nothing but his…sex-toy? He hasn’t said so, but his actions signal that.

A rush of pleasure fills me at the thought. At the same time...How I wish it meant something more to him. And how do I stop myself from taking everything that happened so personally? Fact is, I can’t stop thinking of him.I square my shoulders. I need to remind myself that he’s out of my league.Whatever happens between us is simply two adults having a bit of fun, is all. So, why is it that I can’t stop myself from wanting more?

I spin around and walk out of the bathroom, then toward the door of the study. When I pull it open, it’s to find Jeeves waiting there with my handbag.

"Mr. Davenport said you’d be needing this." Jeeves offers me my clutch.

I take it from him. "Thank you, Jeeves."

Some of the uncertainty subsides.So, my boss was thinking of my needs as he left?And that’s reassuring and makes me feel looked after.Though he was, perhaps, simply being polite? Enough to track down Jeeves and my purse and have him wait here for me?My head swims with all of these thoughts.Maybe, I’m making too much out of what is a kind gesture on his part?

"Mr. Davenport asked that I escort you to where he’s waiting."

It’s with relief I follow him.Did my boss know I’d be befuddled and worried about putting a foot wrong and breaking some kind of protocol at this event? Was he watching out for my comfort again? Did he realize I’d prefer to have someone guide me through the next steps, so I wouldn’t have to think for myself for a while? If so, why send Jeeves? Why not wait for me outside himself? Jeez, I’m going to drive myself crazy with these thoughts.

I settle for following Jeeves up the hallway and into the grand room, then through the crowd. He threads his way through gaps between the well-dressed with an alacrity I envy. They really do teach you everything in butler school.

Then, I see him. Head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, he’slistening with what seems to be polite interest, but which I know indicates he’s bored.

The woman opposite him is grey-haired and wearing a dress that falls to below her knees. It’s dull grey in color with full sleeves. However, she makes up for the unremarkable dress with a hat on her head in a brilliant yellow. It has swirls and shapes and a big disc-shaped object in the center, and on it are two roosters—yes, I did say roosters— facing each other.

The woman must be no more than five feet four inches tall, but the height of her hat swoops up to being at eye level with my boss. It should have caught my eye first—it acts like a lighthouse beam in a crowd of largely grays, and blacks, and whites—but my gaze was caught by him. At how he stands indolently, his muscles seemingly at ease; but there’s an aura of tension surrounding him, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity to him. Except, he’s looking at me.

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