Forbidden Pleasure Read online

Their breath mingled as she brushed her lips softly against his.

  The sweet shock of what she’d done made her knees weak, and she steadied herself with her right palm against his chest. The hard muscle leaped beneath her fingers, like he was bracing himself for whatever came next. Emboldened by his reaction and warmed by the afterburn of the best Scotch the world had to offer, Emma leaned closer and pressed her mouth to his again, lingering this time to sample the delicious heat flickering between them.

  She kept her eyes closed as she settled back into her black heels, cementing the feel of his lips beneath hers, the tingle of contact racing through her veins, even as she pulled her hand back from his chest. When she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her, controlled and handsome as ever, his face devoid of any particular expression. The way he looked at the negotiation table.

  She let herself smile anyway. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. You’re right. Taking what you want is incredibly...satisfying.”

  He stepped even closer, and Emma’s head swam from his proximity as she lifted her chin to maintain eye contact.

  “Are you?” The question, delivered without emotion, caught her off guard.

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you satisfied? Because I’m not.”

  She didn’t even realize that she was still holding the highball glass in her left hand until he tugged it from her numb fingers and set it on the edge of his desk. The muted thud barely registered on her consciousness as something wicked sparked in the amber gaze that held her rapt. “What’s happening right now has always been...”

  She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t move.

  Time slipped by to the heavy thud of her pulse and her mind spun, desperate to fill in the blank.

  Inappropriate?

  Illogical?

  Insane?

  Max slid his hands in his pockets, the outward picture of relaxed male elegance, but when he spoke, his tone was low and rough.

  “Inevitable.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  INEVITABLE.

  The word reverberated through her entire body, confirmation that Max wanted her.

  She wanted him, too. All of him. All of this.

  He was standing there, his eyes lit with challenge, hers for the taking. And all she had to do was reach out.

  With trembling fingers, Emma grasped his tie, tugging until she’d released the silk from its Windsor knot. For the first time since this had started, she broke eye contact, dropping her gaze to the tanned column of his throat as she unfastened the first button.

  Her fingers grew defter as she worked her way down the placket of his shirt, eyes hungrily following the swath of skin left in the wake of the gaping fabric—his collarbones, the smattering of dark hair across his broad chest, the ridged perfection of his abs and the intriguing trail of hair that narrowed before it disappeared behind the square buckle of his black belt.

  She tugged his shirttails free from the waistband of his pants, then dropped her hands to her sides, beholding the perfection of him. Of the moment. This was it, she realized. Her first memory. And she didn’t want to forget a single detail.

  Max pulled his right hand from his pocket and reached toward her. With a deftness that she found intensely erotic, he traced his finger along her skin, from her exposed collarbone down to her cleavage, the light touch singing her nerve endings.

  Her whole world narrowed to the sweet friction of skin on skin and her breasts swelled against the confines of the black lace cups of her bra. She gasped at the instantaneous reaction and something wicked kindled in her belly as he began a methodical assault on her buttons, popping them open one by one until he’d reached the waistband of her skirt. He regarded his handiwork for a moment, the thin band of skin revealed by her open shirt, before unpocketing his other hand. Her breath caught in her chest as he grabbed the edges of her blouse, spreading them apart so she was exposed from neck to navel.

  Max grasped her hips, then pulled her to him. The air temperature spiked from tropical to volcanic as her breasts made contact with his chest, heat rolling off him in waves. So damn hot. Her nipples puckered painfully against the scratchy black lace, and she sucked air into her lungs on a gasp. He smelled like sex and man and hard liquor, and the heady combination had her halfway to wherever he wanted to take her.

  As if he could sense it, Max’s fingers flexed against her hips before his big hands traced the side seams of her skirt. His leisurely exploration made her restless, antsy, but before she could do something about it, Max fisted the material and began the trip back up her thighs, bringing her skirt along for the ride, higher, higher, and Emma thought she might die from the slow, sweet torture of anticipation.

  Cool air swirled around her legs, wringing a moan from her. Oh God, just a little more.

  It took a second before she realized his hands had stopped moving, that he’d taken a step back. Her eyes fluttered open and she was startled by the hungry look on his face. Emma followed his gaze, realizing he’d revealed the black garter belt that held up her nude stockings.

  His face was dark and his voice was rough. “You’re full of surprises tonight, Ms. Mathison.”

  She swayed toward him as heat pooled between her legs. He always called her Emma, but this fit the fantasy that was playing out right now, and it was so perfect, so deliciously naughty, that she thought she might come.

  “Yes, sir.”

  His head jerked up at that, eyes flaring with an emotion that Emma couldn’t identify, but whatever it was, it was the first time she’d ever seen him lose that steely edge of control that was part of his legend. The jolt of it was like a lightning bolt to her core.

  Whatever silly game they’d been playing was over.

  In one fluid motion, he hiked her skirt up over her hips, then backed her up against his desk. The hard edge of it dug into her thighs.

  Emma’s teeth scored her bottom lip in anticipation, and his deep chuckle ignited something warm and twisty in her gut. “Not yet,” he told her, but the promise of soon echoed in the timber of his voice. She sucked in a breath as his fingers traced the black elastic of her garters down to the clasp.

  “These are so fucking sexy.”

  He was pretty fucking sexy himself, she decided as he traced the lacy edge of her stockings from front to back before his big hands gripped her thighs and boosted her onto the smooth onyx surface. It was cool against her bare skin, but her shiver had more to do with the man in front of her filling up the space between her parted knees.

  She’d always known Max Whitfield was a force to be reckoned with when he had a goal within his sights, but now that she was the goal, the true depth of his focus was staggering. When he looked at her, the world narrowed to the heat in his eyes and the pounding of her pulse.

  He leaned close, planting a hand on the desk on either side of her hips. Eagerness fizzed in her chest and time slowed as he wet his lips. She braced herself for impact, but it was futile. There was no preparing for Max.

  He pounced like the predator she’d likened him to, devouring her mouth with such singular determination that she had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling back. Finally having her hands on him was a revelation. He was hard muscle and leashed power and it felt so damn good to touch him. To taste him.

  He kissed like a man who knew what he wanted, teasing her until she welcomed the invasion of his tongue, then retreating only to start the entire process over, lowering her back onto the desk until she was almost horizontal.

  Emma was so focused on his kiss that she didn’t realize he’d shifted his position until his hand slipped between her legs. The brush of his thumb against the wet lace of her underwear was like the zap of a live wire, sizzling through her, and Max swore into her mouth when her hips bucked at the intimate touch.

  He pulled back so quickly every part of her cried out a
t the loss of his touch.

  She levered herself up onto her elbows.

  Please. More, she wanted to say, but when she looked up at him, he was breathing hard, staring at her with such speculative intensity that she couldn’t form words.

  He just stood there, raking his eyes down her body. There was something so deliciously raw about being sprawled back on her elbows on his desk, her blouse spread open, her skirt pushed up around her waist, her knees spread apart and her fancy underwear on display for him.

  “Don’t move.”

  The order made her breath come faster, and she obeyed as he rounded the desk.

  She spared a moment to be thankful that she’d let the saleswoman talk her into the garter belt when she’d splurged on the sexy undies, but then Max stepped back into view, his eyes full of promise and a condom packet in his hand, and suddenly she cared less about what was under her clothes and more about what was under his.

  Her eyes widened as he unbuckled his belt.

  Undid his pants.

  Pulled himself free of his underwear.

  Oh God. Yes, please.

  The sight of his hand on his cock made her wet. He was so starkly beautiful, hard and masculine, and her body was vibrating for him. She pushed herself up to a sitting position as he sheathed himself with the condom, desperate to be closer to him.

  His eyes cut to hers, pinning her to the spot. “I thought I told you not to move.”

  Emma burst into flames. She must have. Spontaneous combustion was the only explanation for the wave of heat that washed over her.

  Then he grabbed her by the backs of her knees and jerked her hips to the edge of the desk, and she went molten.

  Emma couldn’t get enough of him. He’d been a fantasy for so long, but the reality of him surpassed everything she’d ever known. The perfect mix of heat and ice.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, slipped her hands under his shirt so she could feel the smooth expanse of his skin and let Max do what he did best: take control.

  * * *

  Fuck.

  Things were under control until the goddamn garters. Until she called him sir. Now the woman in his arms wasn’t a pleasant diversion but an all-consuming need.

  Max prided himself on being disciplined, but Emma was undoing him with nothing more than a garter belt and eyes so expressive that he could read her soul. Right now, though, it was her body that had his attention.

  Her high heels digging into the backs of his legs, her hands kneading his shoulders. A scrap of black lace was all that stood between him and the kind of physical gratification that drowned out all the issues that were pounding like a nail gun in his brain—lawsuits and tech glitches and launches and the bullshit that came with righting a sinking tech company. He wanted to bury himself in her and forget the rest.

  Max ran his knuckles up the inside of her thigh, stopping short of those pretty, lacy panties that had him riding the edge of anticipation.

  He was so fucking turned on, galvanized by the erotic turn the evening had taken. Despite the overwhelming ache in his balls, the desperation in his muscles, he held back. Stayed perfectly, agonizingly still. Just for a minute. Just to be sure he was in control of himself. Just until she was frustrated enough that her eyes flicked from dazed pleasure to “is this happening, or what?”

  Only then did he give her what they both wanted.

  In one fluid movement, he slipped her underwear aside and thrust deep, his thumb riding her clit. She moaned, raking his skin with her nails, and everything faded into pure, raw sensation. The slick, scorching friction of their joining was all exactly what he needed right now. Her breath was hot on his neck. She smelled like booze and sex, and he was ravenous for her.

  Max removed his hand from between them, bracing it on the desk so he could tip her back farther. She tightened her legs around him as he sped his hips, short-stroking until she was wild beneath him. She was close. Restless and panting, clutching him to her, her lace-covered breasts scraped against his sensitized chest, driving him mad.

  And Max was so goddamn ready to feel her come apart in his arms.

  He shoved the fingers of his free hand into her hair, cradling her head as he laid her back, kissing her hard. He reached down, hooking his right elbow under her knee, and braced his forearm on the desk, opening her. The change in angle made her gasp, allowed him to pull out almost completely before pumping into her with slow, deep thrusts designed to push her over the edge.

  “Come for me, Emma,” he ordered, or maybe he begged. It didn’t matter, not when he was drunk on her whiskey-flavored tongue and the pressure of her impending climax as her muscles drew tight with anticipation. Fuck yes. “Just like that. I want to feel you squeezing my cock.”

  She cried out as his words pushed her over the edge and with a groaning curse, Max gave into instinct, his chest crushing her breasts as he buried himself deep and took what he’d wanted since she’d sat on his desk, all womanly curves and dawning confidence. Pleasure exploded through his veins and he came fast and hard, his hips jerking with the aftershocks of the powerful orgasm.

  It took a moment to steady his breath in the aftermath, and another moment after that before he stood, freeing her leg and helping her up to a sitting position.

  She didn’t look at him, and Max didn’t like that it bothered him.

  Frowning, he watched Emma stand, turning modestly as she adjusted things, tugged her skirt back into place, dealt with the buttons on her blouse.

  Max disposed of the condom and fastened his pants but didn’t bother rebuttoning his shirt or grabbing his tie from the floor beside his desk. Instead, he kept a wary eye on her body language, preparing himself for whatever awaited him when she turned around.

  His decisions tonight had been deliberate—he didn’t do anything without considering all the implications. But the passion that had flared between them had been...unexpected. And technically, she’d quit before anything had happened. They were both adults. The rationalization did nothing to stem his sudden unease. For the first time that evening, he wondered if he’d been right to take things as far as he had. Was she thinking the same thing?

  He was expecting recriminations in those expressive blue eyes, or worse, hero worship. But when she finally turned to face him, what he saw almost dropped him to his knees. With sex-tousled hair, a misbuttoned blouse and her skirt slightly askew, Emma Mathison looked radiant and satisfied and deliciously well-fucked.

  “Thanks for everything, Max.” The words were husky and low, and he felt them in his groin, even before she added, “It’s been a pleasure.”

  With her head high, her shoulders squared and a Mona Lisa smile tilting the corner of her kiss-stung lips, she walked out of his office, grabbed her purse from Sherri’s desk on her way to the elevator. And she didn’t look back once.

  Double fuck.

  Max reached for her unfinished Scotch, then downed it in one swallow.

  It had been a very, very long time since he’d underestimated someone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOCUS AND DECISIVE ACTION...that was the difference between losing and winning, the difference between winning and winning big. Timing was everything. It was a lesson Max Whitfield knew better than most. He had no time for visits from the ghost-of-sexual-encounters-past.

  So why the hell was he sitting there, half-hard, remembering things best forgotten?

  Remembering her.

  That mouth. So prim, even when it was painted scarlet.

  Fuck, the things he’d wanted her to do with that mouth. Down on her knees, calling him sir with a wicked gleam in her blue eyes.

  Now he couldn’t look at his desk without remembering the press of the black garter belt against the pale skin of her thighs, without hearing the gasps that escaped her lips, as though she was surprised by the heat between them. He wasn’t sur
prised. Hell, he was consumed, and he’d barely gotten his hands on her.

  He exhaled at his lapse in judgment.

  Taking her on his desk has been a mistake.

  “Am I boring you, Whitfield?”

  Max’s gaze snapped to the man in the chair across from him.

  Wes Brennan. Founder and CEO of Soteria Security. World-class asshole.

  A brilliant asshole, obviously, but an asshole just the same.

  “Not at all. I believe you were telling me about the massive breach in security you failed to prevent.”

  Max took an inordinate amount of pleasure at the flat, cold look that invaded Brennan’s eyes.

  “That spyware was caught in less than twelve hours. That’s worth every zero you pay Soteria.” Brennan always distanced himself from the company.

  “It had goddamn better be. I want this handled.”

  If this got out, it would ruin him. Whitfield Industries was on the brink of reinvention. Five years after Max had ousted his corrupt father and begun to erase the era of scandal and questionable morals that had dogged the company during Charles Whitfield’s reign, he was on the verge of reestablishing his grandfather’s company as a leader in the world of financial services. He couldn’t afford any screwups, and he certainly couldn’t afford any bad press.

  “Handling things is what Soteria does,” Brennan assured him, like Max had insulted his honor or something.

  Not that he gave a shit. The only thing Max could afford to care about right now was results.

  A flash of movement in his peripheral vision tugged Max’s attention to the glass door with his name on it.

  “What’s so important that you need me here on a Saturday afternoon?” Vivienne Grant breezed into his office, her red skirt suit almost as impeccable as her confidence.

  Max allowed himself a glance at Brennan and was vindicated by the momentary crack in the man’s cool facade before it was swallowed up behind bored hostility. The stiff formality that invaded the room whenever Vivienne and Brennan were present was unmistakable. He didn’t know what had gone on between his chief counsel and the cybersecurity specialist, and as long as it didn’t affect his business, he didn’t particularly give a damn. Still, he allowed himself a moment to revel in Brennan’s discomfort.