Overtime in the Boss's Bed

‘Hell, yeah.’

Without releasing her hand, he stepped into the lift as she stabbed at the twenty-five button, the adrenalin rush of doing something out of character making his head spin faster than the lift’s acceleration.

‘You’re awfully quiet.’

‘Just thinking.’

‘About?’

He pinned her with the glare that made most of his employees quiver.

‘What it is about you that’s so fascinating.’

She batted her eyelashes, her coquette’s smile adorably tempting. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘You should.’

‘So, have you figured me out yet?’

He trailed a fingertip down her cheek, tracing the soft curve.

‘I’m getting there.’

His fingertip reached the end of the trail, lingered on her jaw, savouring the soft skin. ‘You’re unique.’

‘And?’

‘And I want to know more.’

The bell pinged again as the doors slid soundlessly open.

‘I want to spend all night discovering more.’

He held his breath as she reached up, hooked a finger under his collar and tugged gently, bringing him tantalisingly close to her kissable lips.

‘That can be arranged.’

CHAPTER THREE

STARR fumbled with the key card to her suite, sliding it through the slot three times before Callum placed his hand over hers.

‘Let me.’

He tried the card again, the tiny button lit green, and she yanked on the handle, stumbled through the door. She was never this gauche, this flustered, but riding up in the elevator with this incredibly sexy man had been pure torture.

They’d barely touched, their hands simply brushing when she’d first punched in her floor, yet the tension between them had been indescribable.

Her skin prickled, her muscles clenched, and her pulse pounded in a rhythm she hadn’t experienced for ages.

She’d been a one-man woman too long. A woman who’d been sadly neglected in the bedroom. A woman who wasn’t terribly impressed with the supposed joys of sex.

Time to reawaken her flirty side.

As he reached out, his steady hand resting firmly in the small of her back, burning a sizzling path straight through the thin silk of her dress, zapping her in places in desperate need of some serious zapping, she could barely restrain herself from launching at him.

‘Come in. Make yourself at home.’

She silently cringed at her moronic, trite welcome, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards, creasing his right cheek with a delectable dimple.

‘I intend to.’

Flinging her sparkly evening bag on the hall table, she trailed her hand along the shiny glass surface, rearranged the fronds of a floral arrangement, fiddled with the miniature alcohol bottles on top of the mini-bar, while he stood just inside the doorway, looking utterly cool and controlled and scrumptious.

Deliberately stilling her hands, she clasped them in front of her before realising how prim that looked, quickly releasing them and settling for propping them on the table behind her.

‘I’m clueless as to the etiquette here. Do I offer you a drink? A chocolate bar? Me?’

His dimple deepened. ‘The last, thanks.’

Her heart leaped, and she clenched the table so tight the mini-bar bottles rocked and rattled. One tumbled.

‘Shaken or stirred?’

Laughing, he stalked towards her. Her pulse accelerated with each step. He stopped inches away from her personal space, his intentions clear in the dark depths of his eyes. The simmering heat sparked a response deep within her.

‘Relax.’

He reached out, ran a fingertip down her bare arm, and she shivered in anticipation.

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘You’re nervous?’

‘A little.’

‘Don’t be.’

The trail of his fingertip ended at her hand and he captured it, intertwined his fingers with hers, giving her a much needed anchor in a suddenly stormy sea of passion.

His hand engulfed hers, strong, capable, and a lick of heat shot up her arm. She searched her scrambled brain for the right words—any words that would sound remotely sane and nothing like ravish me now, I’m yours.

‘I can leave if you want.’

Cue the exit music. Cue the curtain call.

But not before they’d had a rousing performance.

Reaching out with her free hand, she bunched a fistful of his soft cotton shirt and tugged. Hard.

‘I don’t want you to go—’

He crushed his mouth to hers, snatching the rest of her words, the rest of her breath, in an explosion of heat and passion and driving need.

She clung to him, desperate to get closer, elated when he hauled her into his arms and backed her up against the nearest wall.

Wrapping her legs around him, she gasped at the bulge pressing against her core, her pelvis moving of its own volition, eager for more, demanding satisfaction.

‘Oh, yeah,’ she murmured, as he cupped her butt, moved back and forth, rubbing against her, teasing her, making her wild with wanting him.

He tore his mouth from hers, his passion-glazed stare mirroring hers.

‘This is crazy.’

‘Yeah, crazy…’

Resting his forehead on hers, he shook his head. ‘I don’t do impulsive stuff like this.’

‘Me either.’

Sliding her hands up from his chest, to cradle his face and push it back until she could look him in the eye, she knew she couldn’t stop this.

She didn’t want to.

The old Starr had crashed to earth around the time she’d walked in on Sergio, in their apartment, in bed with another woman.

Time to say farewell to her old life. Time for the new Starr to rise and shine brightly. Starting with losing herself for one incredible night with a hot guy.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘This.’

She didn’t second-guess her decision, didn’t give it another thought as she drew his face back to hers and plastered her lips to his, arching her pelvis, locking her legs tighter around his waist and squeezing.

His low, guttural groan ripped the air as he deepened the kiss, ravaging her mouth, their tongues mating in a sensuous dance as old as the waltz.

Long, hot, moist French kisses went on for ever, bringing her to the edge without him laying a finger anywhere near her throbbing core.

Tension tightened within her body, built, climbed, until she was boneless with desire. She clung to him as he left her mouth, his lips trailing downwards, nipping her erect nipples through the thin silk of her dress. His hands toyed with the edge of her panties beneath her bunched skirt.

Clamping her knees around his hips, she groaned, arched upwards—demanding more, demanding everything he had to give.

‘If you keep making sounds like that, this isn’t going to last long.’

‘Fast is good,’ she bit out as he nibbled her neck. She grabbed his hand from her butt and guided it between their bodies. ‘Hard and fast.’

He tensed, every magnificent inch of him straining towards her. ‘You sure?’

‘Sure…Ooh…yeah…’

Holding on tight, he moved her from the wall to a nearby chair, rested her butt on the padded edge before leaning back to devour her with his hungry gaze.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said, his husky tone bordering on reverent as he made quick work of the buttons holding her dress together, almost ripping it in his haste to get her naked.

She quivered with anticipation as he let out a long, low whistle, snapping the front clasp on her bra, pushing it aside before ducking his head to feast on her.

First the right breast, then the left. He licked and suckled and laved until her head thrashed, her hips arched and her hands delved between them, eager to feel him inside her. Now.

‘Wow.’

Her hand briefly encountered an erection, a very large erection, and then he pulled back.

‘You want fast? I’m assuming not that fast?’

She laughed, amazed they were trading banter as if they’d known each other a lifetime.

Sex with Sergio had been lacklustre, had never given her the true intimacy she craved. Not that this mind-blowing foreplay with a guy she’d just met could be classed as intimate, but there was something about him that set her at ease, despite the fact she was almost naked in front of him.

Reaching up, she scraped her nails lightly down his chest.

‘I want you. Now.’

‘Decisive. I like that.’

He tugged her panties off, delved his fingers into her slick heat and pleasured her until she screamed his name. Twice.

‘You’re so hot,’ he murmured, reaching into his back pocket, pulling a condom out of his wallet and sheathing himself before she’d even realised he’d ditched the pants.

Eyeing his impressive arousal, she said, ‘So are you.’

His blistering stare never left hers as he slid into her, inch by exquisite inch, until he filled her, fulfilled her.

‘Jeez…’

He braced himself over her, moved out a fraction, back in, the delicious erotic friction sparking fire as her hips bucked, her insides clenched.

With a low moan he drove into her, again and again and again, harder, faster, his breathing ragged as her hands dug into his hips, urging him on.

This time her orgasm smashed into her with the force of a Sydney hailstorm and she arched upwards, her mouth slamming into his as he tensed and exploded in his climax.

His barely audible expletive echoed her thoughts, echoed what they’d just done.

She’d just had mind-blowing sex with a virtual stranger.

The best sex of her life.

A life which was out of control—which explained why she’d done this.

What she couldn’t explain was the compulsion to do it all over again. Repeatedly.

Holding her close, he strummed her back and she closed her eyes, blindsided by the yearning to have him hold her and do this all night long.

‘I should leave,’ he said.

He should.

But she didn’t want him to—didn’t want to spend her last night in the only city she’d ever truly called home alone.

Leaning back, she cupped his cheek, looked him in the eye.

‘Don’t go.’

CHAPTER FOUR

STARR stared at the rumpled business card clutched in her hand and reread the address twice, before hoisting her backpack higher on her shoulder and pushing through the wrought-iron gate—the side gate, which would have been imposing in itself if it hadn’t been positioned next to the hugest pair of intricately carved black iron gates she’d ever seen.

Some place, she thought, straining for a glimpse of the house as she strolled up the hedged garden path.

Sydney Harbour was lined with posh suburbs, with mega-million mansions vying for the best views and highest position, but from what she’d seen of the swanky Melbourne suburb of Toorak, it had its fair share of ritzy manors too.

She’d once dreamed of living in a place like this—around the time she’d scored the coveted lead dancer role at Bossa Nova. Ironic that now she might be working in one.

With her résumé and reputation she should have waltzed into a top dancing role in Melbourne. But Sergio’s vengeance knew no bounds, and the few doors she’d tentatively knocked on had been well and truly slammed in her face.

He’d been at fault, unable to keep his tights hiked up while getting it on with a fellow dancer, and she’d gladly left him—yet she was the bad guy in all of this?

Prima donna. She should have left him a long time ago—had chastised herself countless times since for sticking around so long for the convenience of having a great apartment within walking distance of work, a partner who understood the demands of being a dancer, and a guy she felt comfortable around.

Waste of time and money, considering she’d ended up paying the rent while he invested in a new dance company for them.

He’d promised her stardom and she’d let her ego get the better of her—had ended up almost broke when she’d walked out on the jerk.

No home, no money and no dance prospects explained why she was here.

Now all she had to do was go through with it.

Battling a surge of bitterness, she picked up her pace, rounded a corner and caught her first glimpse of the mansion.

Absolutely breathtaking.

She’d devoured Jane Austen novels as a kid, and standing in the shade of towering hedges, staring at the grandeur, she could have sworn she’d stepped into the pages of Pride and Prejudice.

The house—though how anything this size could remotely be called a house—sprawled across a halfacre, its polished windows glittering in the morning sun, its pristine cream walls were blinding. Balconies dotted the upstairs rooms—elaborate twisted iron that accentuated the simplicity of the façade.

Classic, elegant, a grand old dame you couldn’t help but admire. If the house was a dance, it would be an elegant waltz, gliding into the present from a bygone era, demanding recognition, admiration.

I could work here, she thought, wriggling her backpack into position before continuing down the path, hoping this interview went well.

She might not want this job but she needed it—desperately.

Admiring the shining marble of the front steps, she traipsed up to the front door, stabbed at the intercom button. A crackly voice filtered through the speaker, ‘Around the back.’

Great. He wanted to make sure she knew her place right from the start. With a resigned huff, she followed the sandstone paved path to the rear.

If the front of the house had left her gob-smacked, the rear came a close second as she spied an Olympic-sized in-ground pool, a tennis court, a gazebo, and a terrace twice the size of the stage at the Sydney Opera House.

A lone figure sat a table on the terrace, phone glued to one ear, free hand hovering over a laptop keyboard.

He didn’t glance up as she dumped her backpack and tripped up the steps. She waited for him to finish his call, forcing her feet to settle as she realised she was en pointe, a nervous reaction she’d had since she’d first started ballet at five years of age.

When he flung the mobile on the table and didn’t glance up she cleared her throat, took several steps forward, hating how her knees wobbled a tad.

‘Thanks for seeing me.’

Callum stood, turned towards her, his lips thin, compressed, at odds with her memory of how warm and soft and sensual they’d felt against hers.

‘Good to see you again, Starr.’

His low, modulated tone reeked of formality, without a hint of what they’d shared.

‘Though I must say I’m surprised you called.’

‘Why? You gave me your business card, offered me a job.’

‘One you scoffed at, if I recall.’

Hating his coolness, she squared her shoulders. ‘Circumstances change. I’m interested in the position.’

His mouth quirked. ‘Oh, really?’

Heck, she had stepped into a Jane Austen novel, complete with her very own Mr Darcy: pompous, arrogant, and way too gorgeous despite the urge to slap him upside the head.

‘Is the job still available?’

‘Very available.’

There it was—the first hint of something more than a job interview, a subtle reminder of what they’d shared laced through his smoother-than-caramel voice.

And in that instant it all came flooding back. Every magical moment of their night together. Every cataclysmic, erotic detail.

How he’d stroked her to orgasm with his fingers, his tongue.

How he’d made her feel wanton and wicked and alive for the first time in for ever.

How he’d made love to her standing and sitting and in front of the bathroom mirror.

How she hadn’t slept over the last week, replaying every moment of that life-altering night.

Technically, that wasn’t right. Needing a job so badly she was now willing to work with the man she’d had an unforgettable one-night stand with rated right up there with life-altering.

Pressing her fingers to her eyes, she squeezed them shut in an attempt to block him out, blot out the enormity of all this. Spots danced and shimmered before them, and when she finally opened them, peeked between her fingers, her heart sank lower than the splits.

It was impossible to stand here and pretend to only view him as a prospective boss when she’d seen him naked.

‘Shall we start the interview?’

His mouth kicked up into a semi-smile—a simple action that slammed straight into her, its impact just as brutal as she remembered.

‘Yes, right. The interview.’

Inwardly cringing at her awkward response, she dropped her hands to her side, flexed her fingers, shook them out, mustered her best stage face.

‘What do you want to know? My typing speed? PC skills? Microsoft literate? Multi-tasker?’

Heck, she was babbling, sounding more moronic by the second, while his expression remained impassive. His gaze focussed on her with frightening clarity, and she suddenly knew she’d been a fool to mistake this man for anything other than an imperturbable, composed businessman who’d let nothing stand in his way of getting what he wanted.

‘I need you.’

‘You need me?’

She laughed—a harsh, humourless cackle that startled a nearby magpie, which squawked in protest.

‘By the looks of this place you don’t need anybody. You’re doing quite well on your own.’

His eyes narrowed, appraising, and she squared her shoulders and tossed her hair, glad she’d gone to the trouble of blow-drying it straight.

She needed to present a confident front—something she had no trouble with on the stage. Yet here, now, standing in front of this powerful man, she felt something deep inside quiver at the enormity of what she was doing: aiming to work for a guy who’d initiated her into the joys of sex. In a big way.

‘I need a PA. Desperately.’

And she needed money. Desperately.

A win-win for them both.

If she could just forget the fact she’d had the best sex of her life with him.

She’d weighed her options and chosen to follow up his job offer when she’d withdrawn twenty bucks from an ATM this morning and seen her bank balance slip to under a hundred dollars.

Time for further job-hunting wasn’t a luxury she could afford, and his offer had niggled at the back of her mind—so tempting, so easy to chase up, so available…if only she could get past this. Him. The glorious memory of him naked that constantly flashed across her mind as she stood there.

But memories were worth nothing. The cost of starting a new life in a new city was way beyond her means if she didn’t start working ASAP, and right now she’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this for the sake of her inner vixen, cringing with embarrassment at working for a guy she’d bedded.

‘How soon could I start?’

He didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle, his expression patient, as if dealing with a problem child.

‘Immediately. You have all those skills you mentioned earlier?’

She refrained from rolling her eyes. Not good interview skills for a woman desperate for this job.

‘I’ve temped before, in my early days as a dancer. Helped pay the rent.’

‘Good.’

‘Will I need book-keeping skills? Because—’

‘Your duties may include some housekeeping, alongside the personal assistant stuff.’

‘Housekeeping? But—’

‘You’ll find your remuneration more than fair.’

He ran roughshod over her, treating her like a subordinate, and she bristled, pulling herself up to her impressive five-ten. Pity it wasn’t a patch on his six-four.

‘Thanks. How much—?’

‘And of course you’ll be living in. The cottage will be yours, as part of your salary package, for as long as you work here.’

A cottage? All hers?

The next question died on her lips as she envisaged where she’d been staying for the last week: at a friend of Kit’s, whose ramshackle inner city rental doubled as a local hangout for uni students without a place to sleep.

If she hadn’t been haunted by memories of Callum she wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway—not with the crush of bodies littering the floor, the constant doorslamming at all hours, and the noisy bodily functions of uni students existing on a diet of stale pizza and baked beans.

She’d crashed there out of desperation and a lack of funds—counted on this job to get her out, depended on it for her first decent meal, something other than instant noodles and a recycled green teabag.

‘You’re welcome to check it out.’

Inwardly shuddering at the thought of any more tasteless noodles and weak tea, she said, ‘Great.’

She followed him past the pool and a glass poolhouse, tucked behind immaculately trimmed hedges, and into a small clearing.

A small clearing that featured the most gorgeous little house she’d ever seen.

A cottage, just as he’d said, but what he’d failed to mention was its lemon rendered exterior trimmed in duck-egg blue, a criss-cross veranda housing a white wicker love-seat with striped cushions, and a border of petunias.

It was beyond cute, and the terracotta-tiled roof, reflecting the sun, seemed to shine directly into her eyes with some secret code that said Live here!

‘Go on—take a look inside.’

He flung open the door and she exhaled, confronted by paradise. Her version of paradise: buttercup walls, their rich gold depths enhanced by honey floorboards, solid pine furniture, pot belly heater, monstrous suede sofas piled high with scattered cushions and a four-poster bed straight out of a fairytale.

This wasn’t just any old ordinary cottage, no sirree. This place was a home—a place where she could start to rebuild her life, a place where she could instigate plans to get where she wanted to go.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s nice.’

Nice? Nice? The place was a flipping palace compared to the dumpster she’d been living in the last week.

‘So you’ll take the job?’

Ah…the job…The major catch in all this.

If she wanted to live here, she needed to work for His Lordship.

Whom she’d seen in all his naked glory.

Whom she’d kissed and caressed and kept up all night.

Oh, heck.

Folding her arms, she propped herself on the back of the sofa’s headrest, ignoring how comfy it was.

‘Isn’t this at all awkward for you?’

There—she’d said it, flung it out there, trying to get a reaction out of him.

It didn’t work. He didn’t flinch, cringe, move a muscle. His expression was impassive.

‘Why? Because we slept together?’

‘You and I both know there was very little sleeping involved.’

It had been incredible—one of those once-in-a-lifetime nights that you stored away for wistful reminiscing in your old age.

The problem was the object of that fantasy night was standing right in front of her, looking way too cool in his designer duds, and the memory of the magic they’d shared was way too fresh.

‘That night was a little crazy. I guess we both felt like company. Let’s just leave it at that.’

She wanted to push the issue, wanted him to acknowledge there’d been far more between them than two people seeking company, but what was the point?

Nothing she could say or do would erase that night, and it sure wouldn’t make working for him any easier.

Working for him.

She was seriously contemplating working for a guy she couldn’t get out of her head, no matter how hard she tried?

‘Fine, we’ll leave it at that.’

It wasn’t fine, but what choice did she have?

The old cliché ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ sprang to mind, and as she cast a longing look around the cosy cottage she knew what she had to do.

‘I’ll take the job.’

She stuck her hand out to cement her decision, but as his hand enclosed hers, firm, solid, way too warm, she wondered if she still had time to flee.