Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,14

seriousness in his statement, I refused to laugh and give up the bluff too soon. Instead I ducked my head, pressed my lips to his neck. He groaned and moved against me. Apparently thirty-something-year-old men responded not dissimilarly to college boys.

“Isn’t it what you wanted me to do?” I prodded lightly, realizing, even as I did, that we said so much in the subtext, in the spaces between words. I needed to know how devious he was in our most basic interactions. I needed to know—

“No,” he said, punctuating his words with the breathtaking movement of his tongue down my neck. “Because I wouldn’t want to have to send you away. You’re coming home with me tonight.” A shiver cut through me as I imagined myself in his loft, in his bed. He rolled away, shrugged out of his suit jacket and straightened his tie. Gave me just enough space to gather my thoughts. To realize that he had not provided a conclusive answer to my previous question … and that, for the pleasure of his touch, I was far too eager to do exactly as he wanted and go with him tonight.

“You assume so much.”

He gestured to the food. “Pita, hummus, falafels, salad.” He paused a moment, then looked back at me. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes, you are,” I said evenly, proud of myself for my composure. For not outwardly jumping at the chance to see him undressed as soon as possible. Whenever I was next to him rational thought disappeared but, in rare moments of cold clarity, my actions shocked me.

Yet, it was all play, none of this real.

Which meant there was nothing wrong with doing exactly as I wanted, as long as it was on my terms.

“But,” I added, “if you ask me out, I might consider Friday.”

He reached for a slice of pita bread and then said, in the most aggravatingly mild tone, “I’ll check my schedule.”

Some part of me that was still the feminist, independent Emily, even when within a dangerous proximity of him, bristled. I reached for him, resting a hand on his thigh as I leaned forward and plucked my own piece of pita. After I relaxed back, I didn’t move that hand. I waited until I felt him shift, his breath just inches from my neck. Then I lifted my hand and leaned back.

I couldn’t let him be the only one with power here. I needed to even the playing field, and if physical touch was my only weapon …

I turned all my attention to my food. Until I very casually said, “Friday’s no longer available anyway.”

“That’s rather childish, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” I put down my fork and shifted so that I was facing him again. “More childish than you checking your schedule when we both know that if you want to see me you can cancel any plans you have?”

My quickened breath punctuated the silence between us. The phone in the outer office rang muted and distant. I tried to understand the play of emotions on his face, the seeming desire that warred with restraint, with that part of him that had tried to warn me away two nights before. Maybe I was making things too difficult for him, giving him space to be rational. Was that so bad since at least one of us should be rational?

“What I want, Emily, is something I shouldn’t even be thinking right now, with that door unlocked and Janine about to come back from lunch any minute.”

My eyes widened. My lips parted a bit more. I wanted the exact same thing and yet hearing him voice that desire startled me.

He laid his hand onto one of my knees, slid beneath the hem of my skirt, skimmed the edge of my stocking. He caressed my skin with his thumb.

“Hartmann?” I managed quietly, struggling not to tremble under his touch. “I’d better go.”

He slid his hand up an inch more, stroking, kneading the softness of my thigh. I liked his hand there and yet I was terrified of it at the same time. As if it suggested something irreversible, some line I was about to cross. What was I doing?

“I have a late meeting. I’ll send my driver to pick you up at eight. Tonight.”

“Right,” I said, shaking my head even as I agreed, knowing that I was saying yes to the wrong plan. I quickly stood, forcing him to remove his hand. “I’d better to get back to work.”

I couldn’t help but look back over