Chapter 3
MAYA
I put a brave face on it as I saunter out of Benedict’s office, pretending I’m still in control of the situation and my response to him – but, Jesus, what happened back there has rattled me well and good.
I went in there intending to get his attention, but I had no idea just how far I was willing to go in order to get it until the intensely erotic promise of the situation seduced me into total abandon.
That was pretty extreme, though. Even for me.
Not that I didn’t love every single second of it…
The rest of my afternoon is spent in a brain-addled haze, and I stumble home feeling the kind of euphoria I can normally only procure from a dealer.
I’m not usually one for repeat performances – famous for it, in fact – but as I sit in my father’s kitchen, gulping down a humongous glass of wine like it’s water, I can’t get Benedict Chivers out of my head.
That should be enough for me – that breathtakingly sexy culmination of our mutual attraction.
It should be, but it isn’t. Because he demonstrated something I’ve been looking for for a long time – a strength and self-possession I’ve been unable to find before now.
Normally when I force my, admittedly sometimes overwhelming, personality on a man he either turns into a gibbering wreck or blows it by getting selfish and carried away with a sense of his own importance.
But not Benedict Chivers. He somehow managed to give me exactly what I most needed.
Despite him maintaining strict control over the situation I still felt powerful, wanted, and majorly fucking sexy.
And sitting here, humming with echoes of the pleasure he gave me, I know for sure that I definitely want to feel like that again.
* * *
Unfortunately, it seems we’re not on the same page where that particular want is concerned.
I turn up at the office the next day, looking my absolute sex bomb best, only to find to my screaming frustration that he’s not in, and all my tasks are to be passed on through tersely worded emails or by word of mouth from one of the other PAs.
By the time I get home I seriously wonder whether I’m going to spontaneously combust from sexual tension. Is that a thing? Is it possible my body will actually catch fire and I’ll be found in the morning, just a pile of ash and false eyelashes?
It’s not as if I don’t have other options to satisfy this weirdly consuming need.
I’ve cultivated a comprehensive book of contacts for fun, no-strings sex over the years and, believe me, I’m not afraid to use it.
So I call up Freddie Valentine – a semi-regular hook-up of mine who fronts the indie band Blues and Dues, who’ve been getting a lot of press lately for their wild partying.
Mercifully he’s free and tells me to, ‘Come right over and sit on my face, babe.’
But for some reason, it’s not happening for me, and when he leans in to kiss me and slides his hands around my waist, pulling me against his rock-hard body, I freeze.
Usually I love having sex, because in those moments I can dodge the strange restlessness that follows me around like a toxic cloud and escape into pure, beautiful sensation.
My thoughts are centred entirely on how my body is being worshipped, and of course my interest in my partner’s – no one could ever accuse me of being a selfish lover – but not, it seems, today.
There’s nothing there. Not even a spark of desire.
Despite my acute awareness of the guy’s sharp looks and rocking body, I feel nothing. So, ignoring his huffy baffled protests I tell him I’ve changed my mind and I’m not in the mood after all and practically run out of his apartment.
I sit on my bed at home, wondering what the hell has happened to me.
I toss the question around my mind for the next couple of days, growing increasingly frustrated and not a little bit worried by the weird infatuation I seem to have developed for my boss.
My boss who is once again acting as if I mean absolutely nothing to him.
Friday morning, I finally get an opportunity to be in a room with him alone as I take him the coffee that the other PAs are too busy to fetch.
Despite my family name and social status, I’m still the last in when it comes to employment here, so I’m considered the bottom of the pile.
I’m sure my father must have insisted on that being enforced too.
He’s a wily bastard like that. Luckily, his irreverence actually benefits me today, which gives me an extra little kick of satisfaction.
I walk into Benedict’s office, making my strides long and confident as I cover the floor between the door and his desk. The memory of what happened on that thing the last time I was in here makes my whole body flush with heat as I approach it.
He looks up from what he’s doing at his computer and fixes me with a hard, distant stare.
‘What can I do for you, Maya?’
‘I thought you might be thirsty, Mr Chivers,’ I say, offering up the large mug of strong black coffee.
‘Thank you. You can put it right there.’ He gestures to a space on the desk before turning his gaze back to his computer, effectively dismissing me.
‘Can I do anything else for you?’ My voice is all smooth and warm. I’m determined not to let him snub me, and I wait until he looks up at me again and flash him a coy smile.
‘No. Thank you.’ The expression in his eyes is hard, but I swear I see a twinkle of something wicked behind his nonchalance.
‘This is a nice desk you have here. Sturdy.’ I give it a gentle tap with my fingertips. ‘I meant to say that the last time I was in here,’ I add, with a provocative raise of my eyebrows.
A muscle twitches in his jaw and his eyes widen infinitesimally, as if he’s thinking about what happened here too. ‘I’m glad you think so, Maya. I chose it myself.’
‘You have good taste.’
‘Thank you.’ He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on the apex of them, whilst maintaining his penetrating stare.
I think about the way he used those fingers on me – in me – and I feel echoes of the sensory memory of it all the way inside, which only increases the inescapable erotic hum of arousal I’ve been suffering ever since that day.
‘I hear you’re getting on well with the tasks you’ve been given,’ he says.
I experience a sting of annoyance at his change in subject, but front it out.
‘Yeah, well, I pride myself on doing a good job.’
He nods, then asks, ‘And are you finding being here stimulating?’
There’s a definite twinkle in his eye now.
He’s flirting with me. Finally!
I move closer to the desk and perch one bum cheek on the edge of it, looking down at him, holding his gaze.
The air is thick with tension and desire crackles through me.
There’s unquestionably something still going on between us.
I can feel it. I long for him to reach out and pull me towards him.
Kiss me like he’d stop breathing if he didn’t.
To prove he’s as desperate for my touch as I am for his.
‘Some days more so than others,’ I murmur. ‘It really depends on who’s around.’ I lean in closer to him, holding his intense gaze with my own.
My whole body is humming with awareness, as if I can feel every nerve-ending in my skin. My leg and buttock feel ultra-sensitive where they’re pressed against the hard wood of the desk.
Does he know what he’s doing to me?
Will he touch me again?
I want him to. So much I ache with it. In fact, I’m having enormous trouble keeping my seat and not jumping into his lap.
But I need to be cool about this. Benedict Chivers is clearly not a man to tolerate lascivious behaviour. Unless he’s the one perpetrating it, of course.
My breath is thick and shallow, and I have to swallow hard past the dryness in my throat as I wait for his next move.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re getting on well,’ he says abruptly, sitting back in his chair as if he’s suddenly bored with the conversation and keen to get back to work. ‘Your father will be pleased.’
I stare at him in confusion. Why the hell is he bringing my father into the room with us? Is he mad? It’s the ultimate bucket of cold water on my lust and I drag in a sharp breath as if I’ve just been slapped in the face.
‘Anyway, Maya, thanks again for the coffee. I have a meeting with the head of marketing now, so if you could show her in when you leave, I’d appreciate it.’
He’s looking back at his computer as he says this, all businesslike again.
If it weren’t for the cold tone in his voice I’d suspect he was still playing the scene, but as he glances up at me I see, with a lurch of sickening disappointment, that he’s not joking. He’s deadly serious. He’s calling a halt to this scenario.
My skin rushes with icy mortification.
I stand up shakily and brush down my skirt to give my trembling fingers something to do.
‘Yes, sir,’ I manage to force through my gritted teeth, and I turn and walk away from him, acutely aware of how stiffly I’m moving but not able to do a damn thing about it.
The distance from his desk to the door feels like acres, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I’m finally able to grab the handle and let myself out.
He’s not just going to let me have what I want when I want it. I get that now.
‘He’s ready for you,’ I mutter to the marketing manager as I pass her, striding back towards my desk with my mind racing.
This thing between us isn’t over yet, though.
Not even close.
I shake out the tension in my shoulders.
To be honest, I’m actually pleased he’s making it hard for me. It’ll be much more satisfying if I have to work for it – I like a challenge.
But this particular situation, I realise, calls for some seriously creative thinking.
* * *
Friday night I end up working late at the office, chasing confirmation for a conference call with clients in the US, and I’m just about to pack up for the night when Rosie, one of the other PAs, comes tripping across to my desk in a flap, her normally porcelain-pale cheeks flushed with colour.