Page 24 of Mr. Perfect

His free hand slides into place just above my hipbone and the one holding my wrist lets go and palms my breast.

“What are you doing?” I ask in a whisper.

“I don’t think your dress is appropriate, Miss Hatcher.” He slides the hand on my hip down the silky fabric until it comes in contact with my thigh. “It’s far too flirty for a Thursday.”

He forces me back into his body. I’m practically in his lap as he continues to sit on the edge of the desk. “Well,” I say. “If you want a completely professional outfit you have to wait for Tuesday.”

“What?” He laughs.

I laugh too, breaking the sexy moment and the hostile one at the same time. And then I turn to face him. I can look into his blue eyes now, because he’s sitting and I’m standing. “Mondays I wear pencil skirt with button-down oversized shirt and a thin belt at my waist. Tuesdays are business chic. Fitted trousers with a cami shell and a matching blazer. Wednesdays are A-line skirt with an interesting blouse—”

“Interesting blouse?” he asks. “Well, that kimono thing was certainly interesting once I got your bra off you. What’s today?”

“Today,” I say, “is sex-it-up-for-happy-hour day. Ming from IT and I go for drinks every Thursday night.”

“Hmmm,” he says, his hands wandering up my dress and coming to a rest on my ass cheeks.

“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly becoming breathless.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

“That wasn’t the question,” I whisper back.

“I’m feeling your ass. I’m waiting to be slapped. I’m giving you an out, but getting in a feel at the same time. I’m going to bend you over this desk in exactly ten seconds if you don’t walk out, Miss Hatcher. One. Two—”

“I have to go meet Adeline on the tarmac.”

“Three. So go. Four.”

“We’re going to get in trouble.”

“Five. Six. From who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seven. Last chance, Miss Hatcher. Take it or leave it. Eight.”

I chew on a fingernail and even though every voice in my head is screaming at me to walk out, just when I get the nerve to break away, his fingers slide down my ass and slip between my legs. “Oh, shit,” I moan.

“Nine. Ten.”

I stare at him for what seems like eternity. Looking him straight in the eyes, wondering what he’ll do next.

And then I know, because he’s got me bent over the desk, the heel of his hand pushing down on the small of my back.

“Lie still, Miss Hatcher,” he says. “I’ll take it from here.”

I can barely breathe, but I’m panting hard at the same time. That makes no sense. Nothing makes any sense at all.

He lifts my dress up, the air bathing my bare skin with a coolness that both excites me and makes me panic. “Wait,” I say.

His hands caress me. Over each round ass cheek. Down the front of each thigh. “Don’t waste my time, Miss Hatcher. Get up and pull yourself together, or lie still and take it.”

My mouth falls open at the audacity of this man. But he hooks his fingertips into the lace of my panties and slides them down. Not all the way down. Just far enough for him to get access. Just enough so they are positioned right in the crease where my cheeks meet my thighs.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, stepping back a pace or two.

His touch is gone and I turn my head a little to look over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”