Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 4

Behind me, she's clattering some mugs and putting the kettle to boil.

"Do you take your coffee with sugar and creamer?" she asks.

"No. Just black." Actually, now is the time for a nightcap, I don't say.

She comes back with two steaming mugs. She sets them on the table and takes the armchair beside the sofa. She's making a statement by not sitting next to me. Wise move.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's boiling hot.

"Ouch," I say.

"Sorry."

"No problem." I set back the mug. Make conversation, I tell myself. She's your employee after all, and you need to get your mind off s.e.x. "I wanted to talk to you about the other day . . . with Lisa."

"Oh, right." She squirms a little in her seat. "It's OK, it's private. I understand if you don't want to tell anyone."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for what you did for me by calling security." I'm afraid to look to deep into her eyes lest I lose myself. "You were afraid for my safety, though you didn't have to be."

"Well, I couldn't be sure."

"But that was very quick thinking on your behalf, and I'm very grateful. So thank you."

"You're welcome." She hesitates a while before saying, "Is she . . . OK?"

"Lisa? Oh yeah. She just needed to talk to someone . . . well, me." I'm not sure of how much I should tell Elizabeth about Lisa. Most people don't approve of my lifestyle, but I can't help who I am. "She's a friend . . . who kind of wanted more than just to be a friend, and I couldn't give that to her."

"I see."

"Yeah."

"That's tough." Elizabeth's brow furrows, as if she can see someone she knows in that situation.

I didn't want to add 'friend with benefits'.

Because that's who I mostly sleep with these days, aside from the odd one night stand or two. Or three. I screen those 'friends' thoroughly these days because of what happened with Lisa. 'Friends' offer the convenience of regular s.e.x without the messy emotional fallout of a breakup . . . or worse. Though of course, there's the occasional Lisa, who wanted my heart in addition to my body, the latter of which I readily gave her.

Elizabeth says, "But she was your lover?"

This came out extremely hesitant, as if she thinks she's crossing a line by asking this. I don't think she's crossing a line at all. She has a right to know, after being frightened like that.

"Yes. A physical lover yes."

I think I just coined a new demarcation.

Elizabeth mulls over this. A friend who is a lover . . . without love or the hope of love. Perhaps a concept foreign to her sensibilities. I'm not quite sure how open they are in small towns (though I'm pretty they do have plenty of s.e.x), but perhaps she has been more sheltered than most.

She says, "Is that what people call . . . fringe benefits?"

I almost laugh out loud. "No, that sounds like something Sully would concoct in HR, but I think the term is 'friend with benefits', or adult dating."

"Where there's no romance and love involved?" she says.

"Yes." I'm aware this makes me sound like a cad, and someone alien even deviant in her world, but it's out there now and I can't take it back.

Anyway, that's who I am and I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not. It's best my PA learns that upfront because she's going to be dealing with more than one of my 'friends' occasionally.

"I see," she says. Her expression is thoughtful but not judgmental.

"Yes. I don't expect you to understand, but " I wave my hands as if to say 'there it is, on the table'.

We continue to talk, veering the conversation to the safer territories of office and work. Finally, I put down my mug.

"I suppose I should be going."

"Yes, of course," she says.

Does she sound a little relieved? Well, so am I, to be honest. I don't how long I can hold out before I unravel.

We both get up together. We walk to the door.

"Thank you, Chris," she says.

"It was nothing. Remember, you're moving out."

"I'll think about it."

"No 'buts'. This is about your safety."

"Thanks for your concern, but really, I'll need time to think about it."

Her brown eyes are large and alluring, and as she reaches for the doork.n.o.b, her hand accidentally brushes against my arm.

Big mistake.

Something inside me explodes, and I'm grabbing her by the waist and squeezing her against my body as I press my lips against hers. My reaction is swift and brutal and hormonally charged, and too late my brain tells me this is a mistake but I can't take it back. I'm committed. Even as I groan inwardly at my stupidity, my adrenaline courses through my veins, intoxicating me with freedom.

Her lips are so soft against mine, and so ready, and my mounting desire causes me to shove her against the wall and my hands to roam down her body.

So soft, so soft, my mind whirls its aphrodisiac litany. So beautiful. So desirable. I want you, Elizabeth Tyrell. Oh G.o.d, how much I want you.

To my surprise, she's not resisting. In fact, her arms creep around my shoulders, and she's kissing me back just as savagely and fiercely as I'm kissing her. A surge of desire hardens my ready c.o.c.k, and I'm reaching for the waistband of her jeans, and feeling for her b.u.t.tons. I undo one, and another, before she places her palms on my chest and cries but one word: "No!"

It takes every ounce of my willpower to rein myself back.

This time, I groan out loud.

I'm done for. I'm busted.

"Oh s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t," I burst out, "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm so sorry. It'll never happen again. I'll go."

Her sweet face is stricken, and her lips are swollen from my kisses. The sight of her stirs me so much that I have to look away lest I be tempted to devour her lips again.

I quickly open the door and let myself out. I slam it behind me, not quite trusting myself. Then I bolt for the stairs before I can lose myself again.

I can only hope I haven't scared her off for good.

f.u.c.k.

Maybe I'll get her resignation the first thing on my desk tomorrow morning. I really screwed up big time.

BETH.

My heart is racing from the kiss as I hear his footsteps pound rapidly away. My guts are churning and my belly is doing flip flops. I lean against the door with my fists bunched and the blood rus.h.i.+ng to my cheeks.

What was I thinking of when I kissed him back?

But oh that kiss! That amazing, overwhelming, all-consuming kiss that renders my knees still weak at their joints. I've never been kissed like that before with that fervent, ravenous hunger that fires up every atom, every molecule inside me. Especially down there.

I have never felt real l.u.s.t before, but I think I'm awash in it now. Why else would I be trembling and panting ever so slightly, and my face be that hot? Why do I feel that overpowering hollowness within my core, as though it's in agony to be filled? He's preternaturally, amazingly beautiful, and I close my eyes, thinking of that divine G.o.dlike face and that rock solid body so tight and hard under my hands. I can look at him forever, and I tried hard not to when he was in the room, because I was so afraid I'd end up staring.

He's bad news, Beth, my inner voice tells me. Stay away. Besides, he's your boss.

I'm just so floored that he even kissed me, which means he must remotely find me desirable. But that means he can only want one thing from me.

s.e.x.

s.e.x without the trappings. Pure unadulterated s.e.x that will leave me wanting more . . . and like Lisa, never receiving.

That's not me. I just can't have s.e.x for the sake of s.e.x. I can't revel in physical joy without the emotional. I need more. My head and heart need to be fulfilled before what's between my legs. s.e.x has got to have meaning for me.

From everything I hear about Chris Morton, he's the last person to give meaning to s.e.x.

So yes. I should stay away. No outcome with Chris Morton will ever be good.

Besides, he's my boss.

My mother would keel over if she knows I just pa.s.sionately kissed my handsome, multimillionaire CEO boss. She who raised me up to be a good girl with good, puritanical family values. I'm aware how much I'm emphasizing on being good. But I don't feel good now. I feel bad all over, but it's a good kind of bad, not a sleazy bad, if you know what I mean.

My skin tingles and my heart hasn't stopped pounding my chest into flat piece of ribcage. I feel more alive than I ever have before.

What do I do now?

Can I ever face him again?

Next morning, I'm at my desk before he arrives. It's seven fifteen and I'm one of the only people in the office. Chris usually arrives at seven forty five, and I want to be fresh and early with my computer started up for more Communicator message flow from my boss. Besides, I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed and turned and curled myself silly with blazing dreams of Chris his gorgeous, gorgeous face, that just-f.u.c.ked-somebody hair, and that chiseled diamond hard body he must possess underneath his ritzy clothes.

He hasn't even arrived, and already my body is sweaty and clammy with antic.i.p.ation. What do I say to him? Pretend nothing happened last night? Would he pretend along with me?

Maybe it was all a mistake, and he realizes it now that the sun is s.h.i.+ning and his senses have returned with the vengeance of reality.

He walks in at seven thirty, a good fifteen minutes before he's due.

Oh shoot.

He's as handsome as ever, so handsome that my breath stops in its tracks. No man should ever do this to me, I berate myself. Let alone my own boss.

He stops short too when he sees me.

"Good morning," he says before I can say anything.

I curse myself for being tongue-tied, and I can feel my cheeks blus.h.i.+ng furiously.

"Good morning, Chris."

We stare at each other, both self-consciously and awkwardly. I swallow, the lump moving visibly in my throat.

"Do you have a moment, Elizabeth?" he finally says, gesturing to his office.

"Yes, sure." My palpitations start up again, staccato and frenetic in their rhythm as I get up from my chair.

He waits for me and holds one of the double doors open as I compose myself enough to walk in without tripping. Once we are inside, he firmly closes the door.

"We have to talk," he says.

"Yes."

We are both standing and facing one another. I feel like s.h.i.+fting my feet I'm that antsy. I raise my eyes to his, and am almost blown back by the scorching intensity of his gaze. Oh sweet mother of G.o.d, he's so beautiful. How am I going to stand before him like this like an errant schoolgirl and wilt the way I'm doing now?

He begins in an earnest voice, "I'm so sorry about last night. I don't know what came over me. It won't happen again, you can be a.s.sured of that. I want us to continue to work together, and I promise you I won't do that to you ever again "

He pauses to gauge my reaction.

I don't know what my expression must be like to him, but inside, my conflicting emotions are roiling in a maelstrom. I won't do that to you ever again. A stab of disappointment (disappointment! I know . . . I'm amazed and shocked at myself too) so piercing that it's almost visceral a.s.saults me. Even now, the vivid memory of his hot melting kisses and the feel of his warm flesh against mine swarms in a p.r.i.c.kly wave across my consciousness.

A tide of what I now recognize as desire bubbles in my core to encompa.s.s my entire torso, up my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to my cheeks. From the look in his intense hazel eyes, I think he sees it too.

Oh dear G.o.d.