Page 42 of Full Mountie

Something tells me he won’t care. He’ll try to convince me that they’re fun.

Finally he gets up. “Okay, I’m leaving now.” Moving in behind me, he bends low. “Tomorrow I want you come to work in a skirt, no underwear,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.

What? Where did that order come from? What part of his inquisition-style coffee date lead him to think I could just be commanded to leave my underwear at home?

I stare straight ahead and continue typing like I hadn’t heard him. But the thought of doing something so illicit because Hugh tells me to sends a tingle up my spine, among other places. It also scares the hell out of me. What if I get hit by a bus and my skirt rides up and the whole world discovers that the Prime Minister’s assistant doesn’t wear panties to work and all the sordid details wind up all over the news?

“Beth?”

I nod. “I heard you.”

He waits until he’s out by the elevators to chuckle, but I hear him anyway. And I start mentally flipping through my closet to figure out what I can wear.

The next afternoon, he shows up at my desk ostensibly to check on a scheduling thing, but I know it’s really to check on the skirt and underwear thing and, as it turns out, to arrange a dinner date.

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Your place.” He glances down at my skirt. “We can discuss how today went.”

On Wednesday night, he arrives promptly at seven with dinner.

Tipping my chin up with his fingers, he touches his lips to mine and I open for him. He only gives me a small taste of his tongue before he ends the kiss.

He always leaves me wanting more. So much more.

I take the bag of food from him and lead the way to the kitchen.

He takes a glass of wine that I offer, then gives me a stern look. “So I didn’t expect you to play dirty yesterday.”

“What are you talking about?” I grin at him. “I did as you asked. I’m surprised you didn’t demand proof.”

“I assumed asking you to flash me at work would cross some hard limits for you.”

He’s not wrong. “Thank you.”

“Although it would be a good punishment for wearing such a school-marm-esque skirt.”

Ah. I blush. “Well, it was kind of windy yesterday…”

And yes, I’d chosen the longest skirt in my closet. But underneath, I’d been completely bare, all day. For him. “Then you should have been more clear in your instructions. You said skirt, I wore a skirt. If you had something more specific in mind, you should have said so.” I don’t tell him that I’m not wearing any underwear beneath my skirt right now. It’s my little secret.

One I hope he discovers on his own, and he likely will, because today’s skirt isn’t school-marm-esque at all.

He clears his throat and gives me a look. Firm and bossy. “There’s a distinct difference between spirit and letter of the law. I expect you to adhere to both.”

I want to push back against that, but there’s something really sexy about Hugh taking charge this way. “Because you’ll be issuing more edicts like this going forward?”

“Yes.”

I hesitate, then smile. “Okay. Good to know.”

He laughs. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner passes quickly, with the conversation light and easy, but there’s a frisson of anticipation skittering around us. After, we take our wine to the living room, and I sit on the sofa. Hugh settles down right beside me—so close, our legs touch almost the whole way down.

He doesn’t beat around the bush. He brushes his fingertips against the back of my neck and leans in, his voice low and totally sexy. “Slide your skirt up.”

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