Page 6 of The Boss's Forbidden Assistant

Salvador da Rocha was not a man who was surprised easily but in that moment he lost all command of himself. He could only stare at her, at the curves that had been completely hidden by her outfit, at her creamy soft skin, her delicate breasts and nipples hardened into nubs by the gentle sea air she’d welcomed into the room by throwing open the doors. That same breeze pulled against her camisole now, so it showed the flatness of her stomach, her rounded hips. Her legs were long and curved, perfectly proportioned.

She made a small gasping sound and he lifted his eyes to her face, to lips that were full, pink and parted, her tongue darting out to swipe over her lower lip, her cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling and filled with electricity. Or was that his blood? Sparks zinged through him and he heard a storm in his ears, in his brain, pushing all thought from his head.

‘Mr da Rocha,’ she said, but in a strange, strangled voice that showed she was as removed from her senses as he was.

‘You...’...left your bag, he finished internally, but he couldn’t speak the words, couldn’t form them with his tongue. She turned a little away from him, so now the curve of her bottom was visible, and he swallowed a curse because he’d never seen anything quite so perfect as that pert, rounded rear. His hands immediately tingled with the need to feel it fill his palms, to roll his hands over her, to slide his fingers into the elastic of her thong and glide it down her legs until she was naked. He imagined the warmth of her skin, the smoothness, and he groaned, a visceral, aching noise that showed how lost he was.

It had been a long time since he’d been intimate with a woman. A long time since he’d seen the unclothed form of one.

And now he was staring at his near-naked assistant like some randy schoolboy. It was a sobering thought, pushing his mind back into gear, even when his body was still growing hard, his blood pounding through his veins like a tsunami.

‘Why the hell did you tell me to come in?’ he demanded angrily.

‘Ididn’t!’ She gaped. ‘You... I...heard a knock...’

‘And called out—’

‘I squawked,’ she said with obvious anger. ‘I was in this state!’ Her hands gestured unhelpfully to her body, reminding them both that she was undressed. As if he needed the reminder. ‘I was trying to say “don’t come in”.’

‘But you didn’t say that.’

‘No, I was flustered.’ Her eyes dropped away, her jaw moving as she ground her teeth together.

He thought back, trying to remember what he’d heard, and realised her story could be plausible. Not in the mood to admit his own mistake, or to apologise, he clung to his irritation like a life raft. ‘Well, don’t you know how to lock a dammed door?’ he muttered, lifting the bag higher. ‘You forgot this.’

She recoiled physically, as though he’d slapped her, and he felt instant regret at his angry words. None of this was her fault—not that he’d stalked into her room to find her in a state of undress, or that she was so incredibly, sinfully beautiful. And definitely not that he’d sworn he’d never want another woman. His throat constricted, making breathing difficult, and finally, belatedly, he did what he should have done from the first moment he’d crossed the threshold and seen her like this: he turned his back.

‘I didn’t think I’d need to lock the door to my own room,’ she responded with a voice that was almost ice-like, except for a fine quiver at the end. He suspected he’d done the impossible on day one and upset the assistant Amanda has assured him would be unflappable. Then again, he was pretty sure he was breaking a hell of a lot of HR guidelines right now.

He placed the bag on a table near the door and moved back, spine straight, shoulders tense.

‘I thought you called for me to come in,’ he said.

‘I didn’t.’ Her cheeks were still flushed, her body on display, he saw, when he chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. The effect was immediate. His cock jerked in his pants and his chest swelled as he inhaled a breath that might as well have been filled with flames for how much it overheated him.

Before Anna-Maria, he’d dated women. He’d slept with women. He’d lived like a normal, red-blooded man with a billion-dollar empire at his fingertips and had had his choice of company any night of the week. He’d made love to women without compunction, without emotion, but Anna-Maria had changed him. Rather, her shock pregnancy had. For the first time in his life, he’d been faced with the consequences of his lifestyle—a careless one-night stand with one of his oldest friends who’d ended up carrying his baby because he’d failed to use a condom. She’d been on the pill, and they’d both been clean, but that hadn’t made it okay.

It had also brought him face to face with the ghost of his own past—of his father’s neglect and abandonment, of his father’s mistreatment of his mother. He’d been reborn that day into a different man. For almost two years, he’d been celibate, the price he considered it his duty to pay, his atonement for what had happened to Anna-Maria, even when he knew he hadn’t caused her cancer.

‘I had no idea you’d be changing so quickly.’ His voice was raspy. God, but she was beautiful. ‘You only came back here a few moments ago.’

‘Yes, well, it’s late and I’m tired,’ she snapped, her words husky, almost as though she was close to tears. That had him turning to face her once more, studying her for signs of distress, but she kept her features schooled into a mask of icy disapproval. ‘Naturally, I’m getting ready for bed.’

She had a very valid point, yet it was entirely the wrong thing to have said, because it reminded them both of the bed that was only metres away. His eyes shifted to it, imagining her against the sheets, her hair spread out across the pillows, and his pulse kicked up a notch.

‘You should go,’ she said barely audibly and, when he looked back at Ms Lawson, she was swallowing so hard her throat was shifting visibly.

‘Yes,’ he agreed without moving a muscle. It was as though his feet were glued to the ground.

‘Mr da Rocha...’ She groaned, her nipples so taut they were pulling at the camisole. His eyes dropped to her breasts and his gut rolled with the sheer force of his desire.

‘Salvador!’ His name was a plea, a desperate, anguished plea, and that alone finally got through to him. She was begging him to leave and he was standing there, staring at her like an idiot.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said with sincerity and shock. What the hell had just happened to him? As if finally regaining control of his senses, he forced his feet to move, one after the other, until he was out of her damned suite of rooms and away from the temptation of her beautiful, sensual body.

But it wasn’t so easy to put Harper Lawson from his mind. Having ignored his sexual nature for far too long, it had been dragged back to life with an epic bang. A cold shower didn’t help, nor did work. When he eventually gave in and went to bed, she filled his head and mind, then his dreams, so he woke harder than granite, so hard it was almost painful to move. And all he wanted to do was reach for her, lift that silk camisole and run his hands over her naked skin, cup her breasts and feel their weight in the palms of his hands. Drag her body against his and kiss her until she was trembling, her pale flesh pink from his stubble, signs of his possession, of his need for her.

He showered again, head pressed against the tiles, eyes closed, trying to focus on work, on anything other than his new assistant, but failing.

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