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Naughty Little Secret

Chapter One

Lauren

* * *

“Lauren?”

His voice haunts me… So deep it vibrates inside me, heating up my libido faster than anything that requires batteries. Low and controlled, like he’s murmuring to a lover, ensuring I know every delicious, creative way he intends to pleasure me. His dark timbre echoes in my head, igniting my body.

I’m going to strip you down to your skin, sugar, and kiss you until you can’t remember taking a breath you don’t share with me. Then I’m going to test how wet you are. With my tongue. Before I spend the night inside you, making you scream my name…

“Lauren?”

The man can make me wet with a simple hello. His killer voice has a hint of gruffness that suggests he’s coming off an all-nighter of whiskey and sweaty, amazing sex.

Then again, he probably is…with one of the endless string of twenty-something Barbie dolls he dates.

“Lauren?”

The snap in his voice yanks me back to the here and now. I blink to find his cluttered office and my hour-old coffee.

My recurring fantasies of Noah Reeves have to stop. I’m not remotely his type. Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, I’ve given up on faux golden highlights and let my hair turn a natural honey. Since I only manage infrequent trips to the gym, my body is hardly bikini-ready. I have two daughters, whom I love more than anything…but these days, I feel like Barbie’s frumpy Aunt Gertrude. I need a serious reality check for wishing that Noah would see me as anything more than his employee—a staff manager for the growing chain of upscale steakhouses he owns in Dallas with four other men.

Oh, and his buddy’s ex-wife.

Too bad I’m having a damn hard time remembering that he’s my boss, not merely my ultimate fantasy. My cheeks flush even hotter as I replay the vivid fantasies that have been tormenting me for months. Just picturing Noah’s penetrating gaze raking over my body, dark with want, makes my heart race. I can envision his powerful hands gripping my hips, pulling me flush against his hard body as his mouth crashes onto mine in a searing kiss.

At the thought of Noah’s kisses trailing down my neck while he murmurs husky endearments, I have to hold back a whimper.

Once more, I glance at Noah. Big mistake. His politely impassive expression tells me he views me as nothing more than a capable employee. The man is sin on two legs. Calendar hunky with spiked dark hair, eyes somewhere between blue and gray, ruthlessly carved cheekbones, and shoulders so wide they make me sigh. The whispers I’ve heard about him do nothing to cool me down. According to rumor, the man is a serious powerhouse in bed—big, built, and not afraid to use every inch God gave him. Dominant.

Noah is seriously hot.

Once. Just once, I’d like to know what it’s like for him to want me, to touch me. Wine-drenched fantasies of him ordering me to his bed, demanding I spread my legs before he becomes master of all he surveys… I can get off to that vision in about three minutes.

I’ve timed it.

And if I don’t stop mooning over my boss and start focusing on my job, I’m going to be unemployed.

“I asked if you have the site visit reports.” Concern softens his gaze. “Are you okay?”

“Great.” As long as I keep my panting to a minimum.

“You sure? You look flushed.”

Why can’t the earth open up and swallow me whole? I’ve been imagining him naked and aroused and ready to claim me. I even wore my sexiest short skirt and a sheer blouse that shows a hint of cleavage. His reaction? He’s looked everywhere except at me, focusing mainly on the reports I generated yesterday and our spreadsheets. If I can’t compete with columns of numbers… I sigh. It’s hopeless.

Why did I think it was a good idea to test Noah’s reactions to my “charms” again? Because hope springs eternal, and I keep drinking from the same poisoned well.

A few weeks ago, I convinced myself that maybe I’d been too subtle in trying to get his attention. But now that we’re closeted in his office, just the two of us—while I’m wearing a damn near transparent blouse and total fuck-me shoes—and he’s still not seeing me? I have to face reality. Noah is immune.

I feel like a fool.

“Sorry,” I murmur, wishing I’d brought my cardigan from my desk. “I’m not feeling well.”

“You need to lie down?” He gestures to the sofa against the far wall of his office.