Page 8 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 2

“Oh, right,” I reply, as if the notion had just occurred to me. Damn, if I’d known I was such a good actress, maybe I could have moved to LA after graduation. I’d be well on my way to an Oscar by now. I shrug as I heave my leather tote onto my shoulder. “I guess I’ll just stop by on my way out.”

The elevator ride is interminable, and it gives me time to build up a good foundation of worry. What if Friday night was an anomaly? Or worse, what if it was a mistake? What if he spent the weekend second-guessing what happened, and he’s ready to tell me that I’m not his after all. What if he’s calling me up to his office to apologize and tell me it can never happen again?

I’d take it like a professional, of course. I wouldn’t fight, or beg, or plead. But holy shit would I be disappointed. Because all I’ve thought about since Friday night was that supply closet and what happened in there. And the muscular expanse of Nixon’s chest. And that incredible cock, which, while I felt every inch of it, I got to see very little of, thanks to the darkness and the fact that he was behind me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to set my eyes on it.

And my hands.

And my tongue.

By the time the doors slide open, I’m sure my cheeks are as flushed as strawberries, and I fan myself to try and mitigate the damage. I need to prepare myself for the worst.

The twin desks for Nixon’s assistants are empty once again. So I approach the glass door to his office and give it a tentative knock.

“Come in.” His voice is low and rumbles from inside his office. It sends a rush of heat through my body, and a rush of moisture into my panties.

I push the door open and step in. I’m aware that the red sundress I’m wearing, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate straps (topped with a very professional black blazer, of course), is providing the only color in the room. Nixon himself is wearing a pair of gray jeans and a black cashmere v-neck sweater, the sleeves pushed up on his tanned muscular arms. He’s sitting at his desk, a table in his hand, his other pushing his thick, dark hair back from his head. There are deep worry lines across his forehead, and he looks exhausted.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask. I adjust the bag on my shoulder just for something to do. I sort of feel like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office, and here I am standing in the center of the office, waiting for my scolding.

He glances up, and as soon as he lays those ice blue eyes on me, whatever tension he was feeling visibly melts away. He places the phone on the desktop, and the hand that was in his hair goes to his jaw, rubbing across the sexy shadow of stubble that’s grown there.

“I did,” he says, the growl that I recognize from our previous encounters creeping into his voice. “If that’s ok.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “It is,” I reply.

He rises from his chair and strides around to the front of his desk, leaning back against it, his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He crosses his arms across his chest, then lifts one hand to beckon me closer. And now my smile is full-blown. I can’t even begin to hide it.

I approach slowly, because I know as soon as I’m in front of him, any sense of control over this situation will be gone. This is my only chance to own him. To make him mine. And so I walk slowly. I make him wait.

Boss Bitch.

When I’m finally in front of him, I make a show of taking my time to set my bag down in one of the metal chairs opposite his desk, until finally he clears his throat and levels a chilling stare at me.

“You’re taking too long,” he tells me.

I beam at him, batting my eyes like a Pollyanna. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Blake, is there something I could do that would make up for it?”

He laughs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

“No, I’m very much not,” I say, completely enjoying that I can play, too.

“I like that,” he says, suddenly leveling a gaze that’s all fire at me. He rises from his perch on the desk and steps close, so close that I can feel the heat coming off his body. “You fight back.”

“I bite,” I reply, my voice a low whisper.

I barely get the words out before his hands are in my hair, pulling me to him, his mouth covering mine. As much as I’d like to keep playing, to show him what I’ve got, I’m no match for this kiss. I melt into him. My hands press into his chest as his tongue parts my lips. He spins us around until I’m the one with my back to the desk. He reaches down to cup my ass, lifting me until I’m sitting on the edge of the glass desktop, then he uses his hips to part my knees, stepping into the space. All the while, his mouth never leaves mine.

We make out like teenagers, his teeth nipping at my lower lip, sometimes tracing a line up my jaw and planting kisses in the spot behind my ear that makes my toes curl and a moan escape my lips. I’m so lost in his lips that I don’t even notice that one of his large hands has migrated south until I feel his thumb pressed up against the silk of my panties. A breath leaves lips in a long, low whoosh, my head dropping back as I revel in the pleasure of just that one touch.

“A dress,” he growls. “That’s convenient.”

“Uh huh,” is all I can say as his thumb starts tracing firm circles around my clit.

“Is it possible you were thinking about me when you chose it this morning?” He asks. His lips are at my ear, the hot breath from his deep voice pushing me closer to the edge than it should. “Were you thinking about how easy it would be for me to fuck you while you were wearing this?”

Before I can answer, he drops to his knees, his hands sliding the hem of my dress up around my hips. He bends low between my legs, nuzzling at my pussy, still covered by red silk. I cry out.

---