Hold Me - Anne Marsh Page 0,1
unknown suit is my very bad secretary.
If in my head he looks a lot like my last hookup, it’s just because I lack imagination and Jax Valentine had an amazing pair of shoulders. He was a big, bad-ass, scruffy surfer built on Goliath-like lines. A long-haired, inked-up giant with a soft spot for making me happy, particularly in bed. Really, I’m not sure why I ran off.
Okay. So I totally know why I did—I’m Ms. Anti-Commitment. I’ve had six different mailing addresses in the last four years and ten different jobs.
Josie pokes me. “Are you even listening or are you trying to telepathically update your résumé on LinkedIn?”
I grin at her. “How could I not be listening? Please describe our potentially hot new boss in intimate detail.”
This is me living vicariously because getting it on with my boss is firmly on my Do Not Do list. Or at least my Do Not Do Again list, which is longer than I’d admit out loud. Still, banging the boss is a fun fantasy and I sort of wish that Jax and I were still a thing so I could tease him into playing with me.
Come into my office, Mr. Valentine.
Shut the door.
Explain these mistakes in my spreadsheet. Are you trying to get into trouble?
In my head, we lean over a computer screen, our shoulders brushing as I point out his errors. He’s very apologetic, of course, and wants to know how he can make up this bad behavior to me, which leads to a discussion of extra credit projects.
Jax never had a submissive side—I took that part when we role-played—so maybe he wouldn’t be into me taking charge. Eh. This is my fantasy, so secretary he is.
“I want to see his suit,” Josie says wistfully. Apparently, our new boss has already made a big impression without getting naked. “I read online that he gets them hand-tailored. He flies to London in his private jet just to go shopping.”
“Glamorous if environmentally shortsighted,” I agree.
Josie thunks her head down on my desk and Melvil goes wild once again. “Do you think we can bribe him with sexual favors?”
“Ménage is a lot of work. I’m not sure our big bastard boss would be worth the effort.” Josie’s mouth drops open, so I barrel ahead as she clearly isn’t going to contribute to this conversation. As it’s highly probable I’ll get fired today, I don’t filter.
“You don’t agree? It’s all the logistics that bother me. You have to figure out where to fit together multiple sets of arms and legs. Unless you were envisioning something more like a spectator sport?”
Josie squeaks. Possibly, she’s having a stroke. Or mouthing the word boss.
Shoot. Me.
“Ladies.” The dry voice that comes from behind us is deliciously rough and confident. If cavemen or victorious Roman legionnaires could speak, they’d sound like this. Does that make any sense? Absolutely not, but I blame my mental twaddle on the inescapable truth that the voice is also—unfortunately—very familiar.
That has to be a sex-deprived hallucination.
I mean, I’ve never had one, but the Victorians were certain lack of orgasms led to hysteria and delusions. And there’s no way my new boss actually sounds exactly like my summer fling. He definitely hasn’t talked dirty to me.
Or issued dirty commands.
Or done dirty, dirty things while he was inside me.
It’s just the mother of all coincidences. I should have asked Josie more questions. Sadly, she’s spent so much time explaining why he’s imminently datable/beddable that I neglected to ask his name.
I don’t want to turn around, but certain mature behaviors are expected of adults and crawling under my desk isn’t really a viable option.
Reluctantly, I swivel in my chair.
The man watching me from the library door is a scary, hot bastard, all right. For a moment, I think I’m mistaken and that he’s not my Jax. He’s someone else’s Jax—a giant of a man in an expensive suit, crisp white dress shirt and dark blue tie. His thick, shoulder-length hair has been pulled back in a club that just brushes the top of his collar; the archive’s crappy canned lighting makes it look blue-black. Stubble roughens a jaw that’s sporting a faded yellow bruise as if someone popped him, which is impossible. He looks exactly like what the office gossip claims he is—a ruthless billionaire who not only owns us lock, stock, and barrel, but isn’t particularly happy with his purchase and is considering a refund.
This can’t be the man I played dirty pirates with.
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