Page 76 of Modern Romance Collection Books (5-8)

For all that he was a playboy, he’d never flirted with her. Not even once. Though that might have been because she’d turned herself from a person into a mere extension of his will. A voice recorder he could murmur notes into. A computer who would send all his emails. A secretary to arrange his diary. A coffee machine who would bring him his coffee. All of which had been her goal. Him treating her that way only reinforced how well she did her job, a seamless transition between his will and action.

But this was not him treating her as an extension of his will. She’d become a person, a woman he noticed. This washishand on her hip,hismagnificent body up against hers, and he was naked. She could feel the warmth of his bare skin...

Her mouth dried, her heartbeat deafening.

She’d had so many fantasies about him. In the darkest part of the night, when old fears stalked her, reminders of the life she’d left behind, the life she’d run away from, along with the terrible thing she’d done, she’d allow herself to think about him instead. Of his hand on her the way it was now, and his voice murmuring in her ear. Him touching her, caressing her, doing all the things with her that she’d never done with anyone else because she’d had too many demons to outrun.

And now, right this very minute, all those hot, desperate fantasies were coming true.

His hand slid further down, warm and slow, the tips of his fingers brushing the curls between her thighs. She shut her eyes, a prickling heat washing over her, an aching, throbbing pressure gathering just below where his hand was.

He didn’t know who she was, she was sure of it. She was absolutely positive. This would never happen if he did, and of course the moment he realised her identity, he’d be furious. And he’d stop.

You don’t want him to stop.

She took a silent breath, shivering with desire. No, she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to keep going, to keep touching her, do whatever he wanted with her. Give her the pleasure she’d missed out on all her life.

So...what if he didn’t find out? What if you let him believe you’re whoever he’s waiting for?

The thought seemed ludicrous. His taste in women was wide and varied—she knew because she was also the keeper of his little black book. He liked them experienced and single-night affairs only. If he was particularly enamoured that could extend to two, possibly three, but never more.

She herself wasn’t his type, not at all. She wasn’t curvy or beautiful or witty or rich. She was bland. A professional blank space where he could direct his thoughts without ever seeing her, nother.Which was exactly how she’d wanted it. If he looked at her too closely, he might see beneath the veneer she’d cultivated, see the scaffold of lies she’d built around herself. Lies such as the fact that her name wasn’t even her own, that she wasn’t as English as she sounded, and that sometimes she was sure the crime she’d committed years ago had been branded into her forehead and everyone could see it.

If he saw it, it might shatter the precarious little life she’d found for herself.

That couldn’t happen. It couldn’t. She’d never get another job that paid as well, and she needed the money for her sisters.

Yet now, here, in the dark, she wasn’t his PA. He thought she was a woman and a woman he wanted, and she hadn’t been wanted for a very,verylong time, if ever.

His hand slid lower so very slowly and her inner thigh muscles relaxed, allowing his fingers to brush through her curls and cup the heat between her legs gently.

A quiver ran through her, all the remaining breath in her lungs escaping. She couldn’t move. Could barely even think. His thumb shifted, caressing, sliding over her slick flesh, and pleasure curled through her in a dizzying rush.

No one had ever touched her there before, no one ever, and it feltsogood...

Because it’s him.

She closed her eyes, trembling. Yes, itwasbecause it was him. Because she loved him. Because of all those fantasies she’d had, all that pent-up need.

You should tell him it’s you. Stop this before it goes too far.

But it had already gone too far. His thumb was circling, pressing, teasing that sensitive little bundle of nerves between her thighs, and now she could feel his mouth brushing her nape, nuzzling in the vulnerable hollow between her shoulder and neck.

His scent was all around her, a warm, woody smell, like cedar and sandalwood, and she could feel the hard press of every masculine inch of him, and suddenly hunger was all there was. She was made of it.

Keep going. Please, keep going.

Except he stopped, the caressing thumb pausing, the body behind her stilling, and a silence fell.

‘I thought you wanted this,’ he said in her ear, his voice hard. ‘So if you don’t, you’d better tell me now. I don’t take unwilling women to my bed.’

Oh. He’d clearly mistaken her shock for unwillingness. Which it was not. In any shape or form.

You should tell him who you are. You can’t let him believe you’re someone you’re not.

She almost laughed at that. She only had the life she had now because she’d let him believe she was something she wasn’t.

So how would doing this hurt? Her job—everything—revolved around keeping his secret and that meant doing whatever he wanted when he wanted it, and making sure he was happy, and he paid her astonishingly well for the privilege. But why couldn’t she take a little something extra for herself? A chance to live out her wildest fantasies?

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