Off Limits / Ruled

Except I don’t think that’s necessarily true...

I’ve dated a fair few guys—most of them smart, handsome, powerful. I have a thing for that sort of man, I suppose. But none of them has done this to me. My mind is still mushy. I only have to close my eyes and remember the way it felt to have his body pressed hard to mine, almost holding me up with the weight of his strength, and I’m having palpitations and flushing to the roots of my hair.

The lift whooshes up and reminds me of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It seems to be building up speed as we get nearer the top, and my tummy lurches as I imagine it bursting through the ceiling and flying into outer space.

It doesn’t.

Is it wrong that I’m just a teeny bit disappointed? I always thought that looked to be so much fun—the way that elevator flew all over London’s skyline.

The offices are buzzing, and it’s so strange to be back in this kind of environment that I freeze for a moment, simply soaking in the noises. Anywhere else I’ve worked, it’s been like this. I was like a headless chicken most days, surrounded by people who were every bit as harried and exhausted as I was. Exhaustion used to bleed into energy, so that I fed off a state of perpetual tiredness.

Someone rushes past, arms full of papers, and that reminds me that I need to do something with the files I’m carrying. I begin moving quickly down the carpeted corridor, eyes straight ahead lest I be called upon to answer a query. The problem with being Jack’s right-hand woman is that people see me as a substitute for him. I cannot visit this office without being waylaid with a dozen queries at least. Only I don’t feel like talking to anyone at this point in time.

The conference room is at the end of the corridor. Two enormous timber doors provide entry to it. I shoulder my way in, making straight for the table, and I’ve just dropped the files down onto its glass top when I realise I’m not alone.

There’s a movement to my right. No, a shadow more than a movement. But it captures my eye and I turn around slowly, careful to keep my expression neutral, because deep down I know who it is.

‘You’re here already,’ I murmur, pleased with how unaffected I sound.

Especially when he’s wearing his charcoal Armani suit with a crisp white shirt. And a dark grey tie. Oh, God, help me. I turn around, on the pretext of straightening the documents, but I feel the moment he starts to walk towards me and sweep my eyes shut.

My heart is pounding and my blood is gushing. What happened to pretending not to be affected by him? To keeping him at a distance?

‘I’d say it’s quicker to get here from City Airport than it is from my place.’

His voice is barely above a growl. It’s primal and animalistic and a slick of heat runs through me.

‘How was Tokyo?’ I skirt around the table, laying information packs down as I go, checking each space has a glass of water.

He shrugs. ‘Fine. And here?’

But his eyes are dropping. He’s looking at my breasts as though he wants to take them into his mouth. As though he’s remembering the way it felt to suck my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.

I moan, low and soft, so soft I don’t think he catches it, but his lips flicker and I am in serious trouble. They are beautiful lips. Not full, but rather sculpted as if from stone. His face is peppered with stubble, as though he hasn’t shaved the whole time he’s been away.

I turn away, my breath uneven. I don’t know what to do.

‘As usual,’ I say, no longer dispassionate, no longer smooth. My voice is jerky and unnatural.

I want to kiss him.

I need to kiss him.

I realise it in an instant and I turn around, back towards him. Our eyes meet and I feel a pulse of heat that I know I’m not imagining. It’s a need so deep, so desperate, that I instantly imagine us fucking on the glass-topped conference table.

Is he thinking the same thing?

He takes a step towards me, his eyes latched to mine, his expression almost haunted. I part my lips on a breath and he stops just in front of me, catching that breath with his chest, and I can almost feel his lips on mine. It’s a phantom kiss, but no less mesmerising than a real kiss because he’s so close I can smell him...I can feel the warmth emanating from him.

‘Did you get the chocolate bar?’ he asks, and I feel my skin heat with memories.

I nod.

‘Did you miss me?’

His voice is low and hoarse. I should laugh at him. That’s what I would usually do. So why does his question fill me with a dawning despair? I can’t ignore it. I’m suffocating under the realisation that I have missed him.

‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter, hoping it sounds more convincing to him than it does to me. ‘I’ve been sitting in my office pining for you every day. One kiss and I’ve been writing your name in my notebook with little love hearts around it.’

I roll my eyes for good measure and so miss the moment he narrows his.

Jack isn’t a man to be mocked. I know that, but honestly I wasn’t intending to goad him. And yet I’m in no way surprised when his mouth crashes down on mine—for real this time, nothing phantom about it.

His hands pull through my hair, letting it out of the bun I looped it into earlier this morning. His fingers fist around it, holding my head under his so that his mouth has full access to me. And he plunders me. There’s no other way to describe it. His mouth is a weight on mine and his tongue is angry.

Fierce heat pools between my legs.

He pulls on my hair as his mouth pushes mine, bending me backwards until my spine is on the conference table.

‘Did you miss me?’ It’s a demand now, as he separates my legs and stands between them.

His cock is hard. I can feel it and unconsciously I writhe lower, trying to press myself against him, to connect myself to him.

His laugh is a dark imitation of the sound. ‘Not now.’

It’s a gruff warning, but insanity is cutting across me. I need him. If I don’t have him I am going to scream. Sense is gone. Rational thought impossible. Even my brain seems to have momentarily forgotten itself.

I’m wearing a grey woollen dress and he rubs his hand over my breast, cupping it, holding me tight as his fingers graze my nipple. The fabric of the dress is coarse and the friction is unbearable.

His kiss is an insufficient prelude. I need so much more.

‘More?’ he murmurs, and I realise I must have spoken aloud.

He pushes my dress up my legs, and groans when he connects with the lace tops of my stockings. He digs a finger under one of my suspenders and then snaps it, hard, so that I make a sound of complaint. It’s quickly muffled by a groan of pleasure as his fingers find my panties, pulling them roughly down my legs.

He stares at me and I wonder if I look as wanton as I feel. Hair tumbling around me like a golden halo, face pink, dress hitched up around my waist, legs spread around him.

His eyes are mocking as they meet mine. ‘Haven’t missed me, huh?’

I know I should say something sassy, pithy. Put him in his place. If his hard-on is anything to go by he’s missed me, too. Or fantasised about me, at least.

‘Like a hole in the head,’ I murmur, but it’s lacking spark.

He laughs, his hands firm around my calves as he spreads my legs wider, and before I can anticipate what he’s going to do he brings his mouth down on me, running his tongue across my opening, lashing me with that same intensity he’s just kissed me with. He pummels me, his tongue flicks my clit, and I am crumbling. I arch my back and stretch my arms over my head, my whole body trembling as wave after wave of need builds inside me. I’m so close to coming that I have to bite down on my lip to stop myself crying out.

‘Have you missed me?’

He brings his mouth higher, dragging his tongue over my belly button, and his fingers push my dress up my body. His fingers find one of my nipples through the fabric of my lace bra and I jerk, because I am too sensitive already. I am only seconds from falling apart.

‘Please...’ I groan, moving my hips nearer to him, needing him to release me from this sensual torture.

‘Please what?’ he asks with a quiet anger I don’t understand.

‘Please,’ I insist.

‘Say it.’

Our eyes clash; it’s a battle of the wills. I don’t care enough to try to win it. At one time I would have fought tooth and nail, but not now. Now only one thing matters to me.

‘Fuck me, Jack.’

‘Here? In the boardroom at my office?’

I am going to hell. I don’t even want to think about what my brain’s going to have to say.

‘Yes. Now. Please. Fuck me,’ I whimper, so hot that I need him to do something. To fix this.

I drop my hand to my clit, but when I touch myself he grabs my wrist and pulls it away.

‘No, that’s cheating,’ he whispers, his eyes on me as he loosens his belt and pushes his pants down just enough to release his gorgeous, glorious cock for me to see. I’ve seen it so many times, but now...? It’s for me.

‘Please...’

His eyes hold mine as he layers protection over his length, quickly, easily.

I push forward on the table, seeking him, and then he thrusts inside me, slamming me hard, and I feel the coiling of a pleasure that I cannot control. It is hot and fierce, and I cry out at the invasion that is so much better than my wildest fantasies.

His hands on my shoulders pull me up; he’s so strong and I am lost in the moment. He pulls me against him and lifts me off the table so I can take him deeper, and I have a fleeting moment of gratitude for the heavy tint on the windows that surround the boardroom. His cock is spearing me, and I am wrapped around him, and he kisses me again—a kiss of such ownership and possession that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to lie to him again.

I did miss him.

‘You want this?’ he asks me, lifting my hips easily, gliding me up his length before pushing me down and making me cry out, my back arched, my nipples hard.

I nod.

‘I didn’t hear that.’

‘I want this,’ I groan, my fingers tearing through his hair, my mind completely scattered.

His laugh is throaty as he lifts me once more, but this time he eases me down to the floor, stroking up my dress as he goes.

I know outrage must show in my face, and I know he appreciates that.

‘You want me.’

Mortification, anger and impatience are firing bullets across my desire.

I reach down and cup his hard-on, my eyes issuing him with a challenge. ‘And you want me.’

He nods slowly, his eyes locked to mine. There is no mockery there now; instead I see something darker. Resentment.

‘I want you.’

He turns away from me, pulling his pants up, buckling his belt, his shoulders set square.

He turns to face me, his expression suddenly businesslike. ‘We’ll talk after the meeting.’

I blink. The meeting. Shit. It’s the reason I’m here but how quickly I’ve forgotten its existence.

My eyes fly to the clocks on the wall, each showing a different time zone. There are minutes to go before the others are expected, which means they could literally arrive now. I run my hands down my dress, then neaten my hair. No time to pin it back into a bun so I just smooth it with the palms of my hands until it sits neatly around my face.

I turn to face him, intending to ask for my underpants back. But the look he gives me is so fulminating that I lose my voice.

‘You look like you’ve just been fucked,’ he says darkly, and I sweep my eyes shut, shame spiralling through me.

What the hell has come over me?

I stalk towards him, my hand extended, waiting for the scrap of lace he must have somewhere, but he grabs my hand and jerks me against him once more.

‘I like the way you taste.’

And he pushes me against the glass, and his hand pushes between my legs, and he pads a thumb over my clit. I’m already at breaking point. His body traps mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. He watches me from a distance as he torments me with his thumb, moving faster until my breath is ragged and my eyes are huge.

‘I want to taste you tonight. I want to spread your legs and dip my tongue inside you. Then I want to flip you over and take you from behind. You are so fucking hot when you’re turned on.’

I whimper—a sound of pure confusion—because the pleasure of his words combined with the torment of his touch is almost more than I can bear.

I swear—a low, throbbing whisper—as my pleasure bursts like a waterfall. I come. I come hard. And as I do he slips a finger deep inside me, swirling it against my walls as my muscles contract. He stays there as I fall apart and then he glides his finger out and lifts it to his mouth, sucking on it while his eyes watch me.

The door is pushed inwards. It happens so quickly. I am still breathless, and I’m sure my orgasm is written all over my face. It’s not like it was my first time, but this was Jack. He’s Jack Grant—seriously sexy.

He should come with a health warning.

I hear my colleagues move into the room and I turn away on the pretext of getting myself a coffee from the back of the room.

He still has my underwear, and the tops of my legs are wet with the evidence of my own satisfaction. My breath is uneven.

God, this is going to be the longest hour of my life.

* * *

‘Gem.’

Is that what everyone in the universe except me calls her? Her back has been towards me for at least three minutes and I’ve gone through the greetings and I’m waiting for her to turn around. I want to see her full red lips, her messy hair, her passion-soaked expression, and I want to know that I did that to her.

She angles her head sideways to greet Barry Moore, one of the transition team consultants on the Tokyo deal. ‘Hey...’

Her smile is cool, her expression calm. The only sign that she was ravaged by me only minutes ago is that her nipples are straining against the fabric of her dress—something that might be explained by the ice-cold air conditioning.

‘You did a great job on the summaries—thanks.’

‘You got my email, then?’ Her voice is calm and clipped, as always, those haughty, aristocratic syllables like plums in her mouth.

‘On the flight over.’ He nods, his eyes briefly dipping to her breasts so that I am flooded by an urgent need to bodily shove him aside.

‘Jack? Shall we begin?’

I draw my attention away reluctantly, turning to the manager of the takeover team. ‘Yes. Take a seat.’

I nod towards the table and find myself drawn to one seat in particular. I press my hands to the tabletop, right where Gemma’s legs were spread, and my eyes seek hers.

She meets them with fierce resentment.

She’s pissed at me.

I just made her come in what I gather to have been a spectacular fashion and she’s angry with me. Mind you, I guess I didn’t really choose my time or place well. Leaving her breathless and wet right as some of the company’s most senior staff filed into the room might explain her anger with me.

I sit down, my eyes not shying away from hers.

She chooses a seat at the other end of the table, on the opposite side. I cross an ankle over my knee and something catches my eye. Something dark and small. With a smile, I reach down and lift her underpants off the floor, palming them thoughtfully.

Her eyes are watching me and I see embarrassment creep along her cheeks, creating a hole in the armour of her professional composure. Her beautiful neck moves visibly as she swallows. And while I have her attention I lift my finger to my mouth and run it over my lower lip thoughtfully, tasting her openly.

Even from this distance I hear her sharp intake of breath and I smile.

I’m going to make her do that a lot.

Chapter Four

‘I BELIEVE YOU have something of mine.’

Like my dignity. My self-control.

The meeting took almost two hours, and I managed to concentrate for the most part. But every now and again my insides would clench, reminding me that Jack had driven himself inside me—that he’d made me come against the glass windows of his boardroom and he hadn’t experienced the same pleasure. I should have felt satisfied by that, but instead I was annoyed. Like he had proved how easily he could tear me apart and I hadn’t done the same to him.

‘Yeah...’

His smile makes my heart pound. Desire is slick in my blood, heavy and needy.

‘So?’ I put my hand out, then retract it, remembering belatedly that he has a habit of yanking me towards him when I give him the chance.

‘So...’ He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the underpants. ‘I like the idea of you not wearing them.’

I roll my eyes. ‘What a cliché. Do you expect me to dress a certain way for you from now on?’

His smile is a flicker at the corner of his lips. ‘No...’

He wraps an arm around me easily, pulling me to him. Of course he doesn’t need my hand as an invitation. He has arms and hands of his own, and if he wants to touch me Jack Grant isn’t going to wait for a bloody invitation.

‘But if you did I’d enjoy doing what we just did over and over.’

I’m wet again. I can feel it building and I know that only fucking him—properly—is going to release this beast of need inside me. But I’m still fuming with Jack. How dare he do that to me right before an important meeting?

‘No way,’ I snap. ‘Never again.’

He raises a brow, his smile genuinely amused. ‘Really?’

And he reaches around for my hand, dragging it to his cock. I stare at him, challenging him, showing him I’m not afraid, as he curls my fingers around his length, rock hard inside his suit pants. My heart begins to bang into my ribs so hard that I absent-mindedly wonder if anyone has ever broken a bone that way.

‘You don’t want me to sprawl you out on the table and fuck you so hard you forget your own name?’

I want that so badly—but I have enough self-respect to know that he’s playing with me. That the way he can knock me sideways is insulting.

And so I shrug. ‘I think you’ve got a pretty fucking exaggerated idea of your abilities in bed.’

His laugh sends sparks of warnings through me. ‘Really?’

‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.’

I jerk away from him but my hand forms a fist; it wants to go back. To grab his cock and hold it tight.

‘You want a demonstration of how wrong you are?’

‘Arrogant son of a bitch...’ I mutter, my eyes scanning the room until they land on my vintage Balenciaga bag.

I scoop it up, sending him a fulminating look. ‘Keep them.’

I want him to chase me. To follow me and slam the door shut. To press me against it and moan into my mouth. To beg me to get on the floor and let him take me. Because at the smallest sign of conciliatory, normal behaviour I would do anything Jack asked of me.

But he doesn’t.

I leave and I don’t even know if he watches me go—I am too proud to turn around and check. My knees are shaking as I make my way through the corridor. It’s only early afternoon, and I have a mountain of work to do, but suddenly I’m not in the mood.

I don’t want to be near Jack.

Oh, really? my brain prompts sarcastically, rolling its eyes with such force that my head starts to throb. Really?

Really.

I jab my finger onto the lift’s ‘down’ button and wait. As I step in I see Jack emerge from the boardroom, looking every bit the confident billionaire bachelor.

Ugh.

I press the button for the car park impatiently, and slam my palm against the ‘door shut’ button, holding my breath and praying I can avoid a shared lift ride with Jack to the basement. I’m not sure if I’d shout at him or jump him but neither is advisable.

I tell myself I’m glad when he doesn’t arrive, jam his hand in the closing doors, out of breath from racing to catch me like men do in movies. The lift cruises downwards, taking my plummeting stomach with it.

Hughes is waiting in the limousine. I smile at him tersely as he steps out and opens the door for me, grateful to slide into the luxurious leather interior. I stare at the screen of my phone and that ridiculous sense that I might cry is back.

What the hell is happening to me?

I tap out a quick email to Sophia, asking her to clear the rest of my afternoon—from memory I had a phone conference scheduled and I’m really not in the mood. Nothing won’t wait until tomorrow.

I double-check the itinerary I’ve been sent for the Australia trip—it’s jam-packed, but that makes sense. Jack’s too busy—and so am I, come to think of it—to go halfway around the world on holiday.

He’s setting up an office in Sydney, which will start with a staff of almost four hundred to oversee two of the companies he’s recently acquired there, as well as a winery in New Zealand that he’s bidding on, should he be successful. It’s a huge venture, and it’s the first time I’ve been involved in anything like it.

Challenges like this are another reason I love working for Jack. Really, I was hardly qualified for this kind of job when I started working for him—my background in law and then banking give me excellent corporate insights, and yet this just works. He’s always challenged me. Trusted me. Thrown down gauntlets and stood back to watch me pick them up.

He’s doing it now, isn’t he? Pushing me in ways I could never have imagined. But instead of meeting his challenge I’m acting like a terrified child.

A frown tugs at my lips. Why have I just run away from him? He wants to fuck me and I want that, too.

The car door opens abruptly and I tilt my head upwards, expecting to see Hughes’s face. It’s Jack instead, and he’s visibly pissed off.

Ignoring the way my pulse immediately starts to fire in my veins, I send him a look of barbed curiosity. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans forward and taps on the glass that separates Hughes from us, then settles back into the seat beside me. The car glides out of its parking space, moving through the underground car park with finesse.

‘Jack?’ I snap, angling in my seat to face him fully.

‘Not now.’

My eyebrows shoot upwards. Even for the dictatorial side of Jack, this is a tad too much. ‘“Not now”?’

‘No.’ He turns to face me, and there’s such a searing...something in his expression that I blink several times, trying to understand him. This—us.

But I get nada.

‘Okay, but I think we need to talk,’ I respond after a moment.

He glares at me and my temper bubbles. ‘I don’t want to talk. I want to fuck.’

My jaw drops. ‘You don’t just get to say that!’

A muscle jerks in his cheek. He turns away from me, sits back in the seat, his body rigid, his face tight.

‘Not another word.’

I’m not afraid of Jack. Not even a bit. Many times I’ve gone up against him, arguing my case until he either sees it my way or at least understands my perspective. I won’t do that now. I’m too fond of Hughes, and the idea of subjecting him to the tirade I’m about to unleash doesn’t appeal to me, so I bite my tongue—literally—curling my fingernails into my palms as I stare out at the City.

It takes me a moment to realise we’re not going towards Hampstead.

‘I want to go home,’ I say coldly.

His look is one of silent impatience, but before he can say anything the car pulls into yet another underground car park and comes to a stop right near the lift.

I can’t describe how lost and confused I feel. I’m a swirling tempest of rage and insecurity, uncertainty and doubt. It’s as though I’m in the middle of a swamp, reeds tangled around my ankles, water rising.

I want to fight with him. I’m angry. But I don’t know what about! Putting into words what I feel seems impossible.

And then he speaks.

‘Come with me.’

Three simple words, but they are enough because there is a plea in their depths.