Ruthless Greek Boss, Secretary Mistress

By: Abby Green

She’d been a surprisingly pleasurable and easy date, offering intelligently insightful comments on more than one person, showing snippets of dry humour. At one point she’d caught him off-guard entirely, when she’d seamlessly switched to accentless and fluent French. He’d become accustomed to people saying they were multi-lingual and meaning they had the basics, like hello and goodbye. Something dark lodged in his chest. He’d also been inordinately aware of the keen male interest she’d generated and how seemingly oblivious she’d been to it. He wasn’t used to that.

Fighting the sudden surge of something very primal, he let his eyes drift down over her body and long legs; a vivid image exploded into his head of the moment her dress had split. He wondered how those legs might feel wrapped around his waist as he thrust deeper and deeper into her slick heat. Arousal was immediate and uncomfortable. He shifted on the seat, and even the evident relief in Lucy’s voice when she got through to the cab company did little to dampen it.

When Lucy put the phone down, she could finally turn and look her boss in the eye. Escape was imminent. She just had to make some small talk. ‘Ten minutes for the cab.’ She sat down gratefully in the chair beside the phone, relief making her feel weak. She was still clutching the torn dress over her legs, hanging on to it like a lifeline.

Aristotle leant forward and put down his coffee cup. He had an intense gleam in his green eyes. ‘We’re going to be spending a lot of time together in Athens.’ He looked around her apartment, and then back to her. ‘I thought this might be a good opportunity to get to know each other a little better.’

Something treacherously like disappointment rushed through Lucy, but everything within her rejected it. Had she been so blind? Had she truly suspected for a moment that Aristotle had been rushing her up here to try and make love to her? She felt very brittle all of a sudden.

‘Of course. I mean, I could…’ She racked her brain. Evidently she had to find some way of giving some information to Aristotle, so he didn’t feel as if he had to follow her up to her apartment to talk to her. ‘I could fill out a questionnaire…?’

He arched a brow.

‘A personal questionnaire…if you want to get to know more…about my history.’ A leaden weight made her feel heavy inside. She’d become an expert at putting a glamorous spin on her life with her mother. On her history. Glossing over the reality.

But Aristotle was shaking his head and standing up, coming towards her. He came and stood right in front of her, and Lucy realised that she was in a very vulnerable position, her eye level at his crotch. She stood too, so suddenly that she swayed, and Aristotle put out his hands to steady her. They were on her waist. Immediately it was an invasion of her space—especially when she was so self-conscious about her body.

With one hand she tried to knock him away but his hands were immovable. Her other hand was still clinging onto her dress with a death grip. She looked at him and her brain felt hot, fuzzy. He was too close. She could smell his fresh citrusy scent, mixed in with something much more male, elemental. All she could see were his eyes; all she could feel were those hands, like a brand on her body.

He was talking. She tried to concentrate on his words.

‘…more along the lines of this…’

And then, as realisation exploded inside her, Aristotle’s head was coming down, closer and closer. Everything went dark as his mouth covered hers, warm and firm and so exotic that she couldn’t move.

It was so shocking that Lucy continued standing there like a statue. Through her mind ran the comforting words, You won’t feel anything. You’re cold inside. You’re not your mother. You don’t react to this. You don’t crave men…sex…You’ve proved this to yourself…

But, as if disconnected from her mind, a radiating heat was taking over, spreading upwards from a very secret part of her. A core she’d never acknowledged before. A core that had never been touched.

Aristotle was pulling her closer. Those big hands were still around her waist, spanning it now, fingers digging into soft, yielding flesh. He was warm and firm, and as he brought her flush against his body she realised just how hard he was. How tall, and how strong. He was huge, and she had the distinct impression for the first time in her life of being…somehow delicate. No one had ever made her feel like that.

He moved one of his hands upwards from her waist, skimming close to her breast which tingled in reaction, the peak tightening almost painfully. But then he speared that hand through her hair, around the back of her head, angling her towards him more. She was aware of the rush of disappointment that his hand hadn’t lingered, cupped the weight of her breast.

His mouth was insistent, but something inside Lucy was like ice amidst the heat, still protecting her from fully feeling. It was a wall of defence she’d erected over a long time…and yet even as she thought that she suddenly visualised that defence crumbling.

As sensation got stronger, igniting an alien urgency, panic surged. Aristotle could have no idea of what was happening inside her, how cataclysmic her reaction was, but at that moment he took his head away and looked down into her wide eyes. Somewhere Lucy was dimly aware that she wasn’t pushing him away…which she could. But she felt so heavy, so deliciously lethargic, and she couldn’t think when he was so close and looking deep into her eyes like this.

He said gutturally, ‘Lucy…I can feel you holding back. You’re shaking with it.’

And then she became aware that she was shaking—like a leaf, all over. Reality exploded around her. She was in her boss’s arms and he was kissing her! The feelings rippling through her were intense to the point of overwhelming her completely, more intoxicating than anything she’d ever experienced, or thought she could experience. With that thought sanity tried to break through: she didn’t respond to kissing in this way. And yet…she was.

Aristotle chose that moment to kiss her again, and Lucy was caught between two worlds, defenceless and vulnerable, conflicting desires whirling in her head, making her dizzy. Making her weak against this far too seductive attack on her senses. One hand was curled against Aristotle’s chest, and as his mouth moved over hers once again her fingers unfurled, like the petals of a flower opening to the sun. When his tongue traced along the seam of her tightly closed mouth the sensation made her open her lips minutely, some dark and distant part of her wanting this, wanting to experience this, and Aristotle took immediate advantage, opening her mouth, forcing her to accept him. And to respond.

When his tongue-tip touched hers it set off a chain reaction in her body. Suddenly she was feeling for the first time, and it was too strong to resist—like a flash-flood carrying her downstream. She moved closer to Aristotle’s body and felt his growl of approval. His tongue stabbed deep, exploring and coaxing hers to touch and taste. The hand at her waist brought her even closer, and the evidence of his arousal pressing into her soft belly elicited a deep craving feeling not of disgust, but of desire to experience union  .

Her fingers tangled in surprisingly silky hair; she could feel her back arch wantonly towards him. He shaped the indent of her waist and hips and Lucy didn’t feel self-conscious, she felt exultant. When his hands moved to cup her buttocks and pull her even tighter into the cradle of his lap her breath caught.

Aristotle tore his mouth away and looked down at her. Their bodies were still plastered together. Their breath came swift and uneven, and he didn’t take his eyes off hers as he reached one hand down between them and found where her hand was still tightly clenched over the rent sides of the dress. He loosened her fingers and, helpless, Lucy could only look deep into his glittering eyes as she felt the dress fall apart and his hand smooth up over her thigh, then between her legs, climbing higher and higher.

He was looking at her. His eyes were on her…studying her. While his hand—

‘You’re so beautiful. Why do you hide yourself away, Lucy?’

It wasn’t his hand climbing to such an intimate place but his words that broke her out of her sensual stasis: so beautiful…

She wasn’t beautiful. She’d heard those words a million times before. Not directed at her—never at her. But at someone else. Someone who had craved them; someone who had spent her life being defined by men’s opinion of her.

The shock of everything suddenly hit her, and made Lucy jerk back violently, knocking his hand away and pulling her dress together again. She had the mortifying image in her head of wantonly pressing as close as she could, and the shame of her reaction to that made her feel nauseous. Between her legs she throbbed and tingled.

Her voice was shaking and thin, too high. ‘This is completely inappropriate. I’m your assistant.’

Aristotle’s face was uncharacteristically flushed. ‘You’re also the one woman I can’t stop thinking about and wanting. And it’s a bit late to put on the injured virgin act.’

He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, leaving it gorgeously unruly.

Lucy shook her head in rejection of that, trying to ignore the way her mouth felt so full and plump. She felt anything but virginal right now. In a few seconds he’d managed to blast to smithereens the knowledge that she’d comforted herself with ever since she had lost her virginity: she was frigid.

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