Her Intern / Double Dare You

I smile innocently. “One thousand percent.”

“One thousand percent is impossible,” she scoffs. “Plus, you’ve only been here two weeks!”

“I move fast and I’m great.” This is like the fortune cookie game, where everyone breaks open his or her cookies and reads the fortune out loud before adding in bed to the end of it.

She just shakes her head. “You have to learn to work in a team.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s important. Because life is not an individual event.” And then she pulls out the big guns. “Because I said so.”

“You are the boss from hell.”

“How?” She actually throws her hands up in the air. “There is not one thing wrong with your internship except for you.”

“Because you don’t let anyone help you.”

And then it happens. Lola launches herself off the desk, her knees slamming into mine. “I’m in charge here. I’m the boss.”

“Really?” I drop onto her stupid, asinine yoga ball seat, tugging her down until she straddles my knees, her legs hugging mine. “We should definitely discuss that.”

“Yes.” The word explodes out of her mouth, a harsh, sharp burst of sound that I feel on my own.

My hands dig into her hair as my mouth slams into hers. Or meets hers halfway because she’s reaching for me, too, as if she could devour me with her lips and her teeth. Her tongue pushes into my mouth, taking the space it needs, and I bite back a groan and lean into her. She tastes so good. We kiss harder, deeper, a noisy, wet, perfectly messy kiss that makes me forget all the ways we hate each other and wonder only how she could surprise me next.

At first we kiss with our eyes open, both of us refusing to break eye contact. This is a game I’ve played before and I press myself against her, moving in a hard rhythm against her thighs and ass. I watch her lashes flutter down, as if she doesn’t want to watch what happens next and is raising the white flag.

“Please,” she whispers, eyes still closed.

“No,” I growl. “You have to use your words, Lola.”

I could touch her clit. I could rub until I find the perfect rhythm for her body, the pressure, the beat, the tease that makes her scream for me. Or I could come over her now, strip her down and ride her until we’re both shaking from our orgasms. I could bare her, kiss her, teach her to ride my fingers and my tongue, but I don’t. I don’t feel like playing nicely, so I slide my tie free and use it to tie her hands behind her back.

Her eyes fly open. “Do I need a safe word?” She’s laughing at me, her expression a little unsure, a whole lot amused.

“It’s the magic word no. Tell me stop and I stop.” I rock against her, teasing her.

Our second kiss is longer, slower, less mean. It’s as if the first kiss was two people bumping into each other, both angry but trying to hide it. This second one, however, we’ve discovered that maybe we’re not strangers after all, even if we don’t quite know each other. Yet.

“Is that it?” she demands when we finally break apart.

“So impatient, Ms. Jones.”

She growls, lunging for my mouth. Yoga balls make poor office furniture. Lola bounces off my lap, I roll to catch her and we both end up headed for the floor while the yoga ball streaks in the opposite direction. I twist so she lands on top of me. Lola holds her breath, as if she’s afraid someone else might have heard us. As if she can’t believe she’s reacting this way.

“Tell me,” I say quietly. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. How you want me to touch you. What makes you come the hardest. If you’re going to order me around in the office, you have to use your words here, too.”

The blush staining her cheeks is the hottest, brightest pink, but her eyes stare into mine.

“Slow,” she orders. “Today I want it slow.”

“Like this?” I cup the side of her face, running my fingers down her cheek. I skim the line of her throat, learning what she feels like.

She’s so warm and soft, the best weight pressing me down. Is she wearing panties? I plan on finding out. Why does this girl make me so crazy?

“Do you want to be naked?”

She thinks about it. “Not in the office.”

Part of me is disappointed. No, not that part. I’ve seen the outside parts and Lola’s gorgeous, but I’m a greedy bastard with a great imagination. I’ve been imagining what her tits look like underneath those cotton tank tops, how her ass curves like the perfect pear, if she waxes or shaves or just does whatever she likes.

I have to kiss her, so I reach up and shove my hand into her hair. She comes willingly, her face finding mine, her mouth open and seeking. We kiss, tasting, exploring, testing each other. I can’t stop thinking about other places I could put my mouth and what she’d taste like there. Her breasts press into my chest, her legs hug my hips and she grinds against me in a slow, hot roll.

“This is sweet.” She leans into me, catching my bottom lip sharply between her teeth, and nips. The sweet sting blossoms through me. Like she just rang the doorbell on my dick or something. I’ve never been into biting, but this I love.

“But I’m not in the mood anymore,” she continues. She must see my disappointment because she laughs. Somehow, smiling up at her beautiful, happy, take-charge face, I have the strangest thought. I like her. Don’t tell anyone. I’m not headed to Harry Winston to buy the biggest, most ethically sourced diamond available. It’s just that she’s more person than boss or business rival now. She’s Lola and that means she’s funny, sometimes vague, always game and quirky.

“I can make you be in the mood.” I slide against her where we’re pressed together.

She’s flushed, nibbling on her lower lip with her teeth. Her eyes sparkle with humor. “But did I ask you to do that?”

Point to Lola. “Tell me what you want.”

She manages to get her hands on the top button of my jeans. “Binary or infinite? How many options?”

“Do you want a list? Now?” I can’t stop looking at where we touch, can’t stop wondering how much better it would be if we were naked.

“Send me the list later. Boobs or mouth?”

“What?”

“Do you want to fuck my boobs or my mouth?”

Holy shit.

“Is it Christmas? Can Santa come twice?”

She grins at me. “Unless you’re really, really anatomically gifted, you have to choose, intern boy. You can’t be in both places at once.”

“Then boobs—although we may need to revisit that decision.”

She gets busy, sliding her tank top down with a sexy little wriggle. By the time I’ve got my brain working again, the shirt’s near her waist. I should either lean back and enjoy my show or I should be showing my appreciation. With my tongue.

She frowns down at her boobs. “I like them and they feel great, but Cleavage-R-Us I’m not.”

Small, medium, large or supersize, I’ve never seen a boob I didn’t appreciate, but I’ve spent too much time these last two weeks imagining what these particular boobs would look like. Now the only thing between me and dreams coming true is the cotton bralette skimming the top of her nipples. White has never seemed so sexy. She wriggles off me and I groan.

“Up.”

I can do up. I stand up and wait. It’s weird, letting someone else call the shots. It’s also the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. Maybe it’s because Lola’s really telling me what she likes, sharing her fantasies with me and letting me in. Or maybe it’s just dirty and, just this once, I’m willing to try something new.

“Lose the jeans,” she orders.

Her wish is my command. I shove the jeans and boxer briefs down. I watch her looking at me and get harder. “Can I touch you?”

“Only what you can reach,” she orders—and then she drops to her knees in front of me. God bless yoga because Lola turns out to be very, very limber. Her hair brushes the inside of my thighs as she reaches for me and I bite back a groan.

The disadvantage to tying her hands is that she can’t work me with her palms. My balls also regret that decision. The rest of me, however, thinks it’s fantastic. I work my fingers through her hair and discover it’s a ponytail tucked inside itself like that alchemy symbol of a snake eating itself. The long brown length comes apart in my hands and I wrap the thick length around my palm and pull her closer.

She looks up at me, mouth parted, my dick resting on her bottom lip, all impish eyes. This is Lola, my annoying, spacey, grouchy boss. Her tongue slips out to wet her lip, grazing me. Fuck. Me.

Her lips part wider and I slip inside an inch. She hums something and I push inside her mouth. Screw waiting. Everything about her turns me on. If I’m not careful, I won’t last long. She pulls harder, taking me deeper. Shit. Her mouth is sweet, wet heat. My balls tighten, ready to shoot my load.

“Tell me to come,” I growl.

I’m not sure how she’s supposed to answer when her mouth’s full, but Lola’s creative. She nods her head and groans something. Good enough—or maybe that’s the wicked edge of her teeth skimming my sensitive head. Girl boss is still trying to take control. Unfortunately, I don’t care because she’s sucking me off with a skill and speed I didn’t expect. I tunnel my fingers into her hair and fuck her mouth hard. Harder than is strictly nice, but she lets me. Nothing has ever felt so good and that makes this whole banging-my-boss thing an even worse idea.

I should pull out.

I should ask if she’s okay with this.

Instead I lose myself in the soft wetness and blow up in her mouth.

She rocks back on her heels as I pop free. Then she wipes her mouth on her shoulder as I put myself back together.

“My turn,” she says.

I shove her pants down her long, toned legs. She’s not wearing panties. She’s completely naked from the waist down, and it’s not enough. She leans back against the desk, off balance because her hands are still tied, and I lift her up until she’s seated on it before stepping between her legs. I can smell her, so wet and slick.

“Sucking me off turned you on.”

“I’m selfish.” She crosses her legs behind my back, her heels resting on my ass. “If it didn’t turn me on, I wouldn’t do it. Did you think I was faking it?”

I reach between us, sliding my fingers down, until they rest against her where she’s so wet. I lean into her, pressing her back against the desk until she’s flat beneath me and our mouths are so close that I feel her breathe.

“You’re wet.”

“Do something about it,” she challenges.

“Do you want my mouth between your legs? Or do you have other fantasies?” I pull my fingers free and paint her lips. “Tell me how to do it.”

Her breath hitches, her eyes drifting closed. She’s thinking about it. Lola loves fantasies. This is her favorite thing, imagining the possibilities. When her eyes open, I know she’s picked a favorite, her expression changing from slightly awkward awareness to 100 percent sensual.

Hazel eyes are hard to pin down. Are they goldenish or brownish green or do they change when you least expect it? This close, Lola’s eyes are almost amber today, and I fight the urge to keep tipping forward, to fall into her eyes. Falling would waste the time we have.

She levers herself up on her elbows. “Run your hands down my body. I love your hands. They’re big and a little rough.”

I do as she narrates, dragging my hands down her body and over her hips. My fingers press against her skin, traveling over her curves and digging in. She’s soft, her skin pebbling beneath my touch.

“Are you cold?” I slide my hands beneath her ass.

“Your mouth follows your hands so I’m not cold.” Her eyes darken. She’s watching me, waiting for me to do as I’m told.

I kiss my way down her body, learning what she tastes like. When I reach the soft curve of her belly, I turn my head, resting my cheek against her. “And then what do I do?”

She thinks for a moment. Or maybe she rehearses what’s coming next in her head because the sweet, salty scent of her arousal grows stronger. It’s as if she feels everything twice as intensely, once in her imagination and then once more with me.

“I might be shy, so you brush one cheek over me, and then the other. You haven’t shaved recently and I love the way your stubble feels.”

“Like this?”

“Yes.” She exhales, eyes still closed. “Do it again.”

“Perhaps I blow on you, teasing you,” I suggest. “Since you like it slow.”

“I like it slow today,” she says. “Maybe.”

Her breathing grows faster when I send my next breath skimming over her. And then the next. And the next after that. Her heels rub against my shoulders in a gentle, dreamy rhythm and I wish I could see inside her head. Her eyes are closed again.

“But you’re impatient, so you push my legs over your shoulder so you can see me. You love looking at me.”

“I do,” I answer. “I could look at you all day. You’re fucking gorgeous here.”

“That feels good,” she says. “But it feels even better when you taste me.”

She’s so right. She tastes unbelievable, sweet and juicy. I hold her open with my thumbs and I kiss her, breathing her in, licking up her wet. All the usual words tumble through my mind—peaches, sugar, cream—but those are fantasy words and the reality of Lola is even better. I wish I could tell her how good she feels, but instead I show her.

“Do I push a finger inside you?”

Another pause.

“No,” she says dreamily. “You lick me deeper, over and over.”

I do it. I drag my tongue through her slick folds, learning which spots make her moan and which make her squeal. She opens wider, her heels digging harder into my shoulders, because it feels good. Sweat dampens her body and I kiss her harder, rougher, surer. She’s told me her secrets and I know how to please her.

“You—” Her voice catches as her thighs tense.

I dig my fingers into her ass, controlling her movement and how she rolls against my mouth. “You want this.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

“But you want to be the one in charge.” I suck lightly at her clit and she makes a noise I haven’t heard before, a rougher, greedier sound. She’s so close.

I give her clit another kiss. “You think your way is best.”

And she breaks character, forgets the rules of our game. “Make me come now.”

“So bossy.” I give her pussy the smallest of smacks and she moans. “Always certain your way is the best. But what if you’re missing out on something better?”

Another tiny tap. Another moan.

“Too bad for you, princess. I’m not in the mood to play your games today. Naughty bosses don’t get orgasms.”

I could sink into her.

I should finish her.

Instead I step back.

She glares at me, dazed. It’s a bitch trying to lever yourself up with your arms tied. This is why I don’t let my lovers tie me up. Or take control. You end up out of control.

“See you Monday.”

I saunter out the door. I have to hand it to her, though. She doesn’t beg or plead. She pulls it together enough to yell after me.

“You’re the world’s worst intern.”

I’m not fired, though.

Not yet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dev

I DRIVE TOO fast down the coast to Santa Cruz. I need to get out of The City and put substantial distance between me and what just happened. Or more accurately, what didn’t happen. Scenic Highway 1 is gorgeous, the classic California experience with enormous redwoods that seem older than God. Late afternoon sun flashes through the branches. The road twists, knifing back on itself with zero tolerance for stupid mistakes, and the curve up ahead claims lives every year.

I did my boss.

No. You cock-blocked her to prove your point. I pick up speed, hurtling through the next bend. I have a problem with arguments. And with power plays. And with feeling out of control. So instead of doing Lola right, I blew up in her mouth and then left her high and dry. It’s funny in a practical-joke-gone-wrong way, but it’s also painfully stupid. I could have done her tonight, but instead I’ve likely not-screwed my way out of discovering who stole from me.

Fair enough.

I’m an employee with zero follow-through. I’d fire me.

I shoot out of the last, tree-lined curve and into the straightaway fronting the ocean. The Pacific stretches away on my right, dotted with oil refineries. Closer to shore, where some truly spectacular waves break, surfers ride their boards. A smallish strip of beach houses and surf shacks cling to the sand between the highway and the water. The break is close—a short paddle, and boom. I’m tempted to stop, but I don’t have my gear and I hate rentals.

Plus, as Santa Cruz has twenty-nine miles of beaches, I haven’t surfed this particular spot, which makes a good ride less likely. I’m not familiar with how the waves break, or with what lies underneath the ocean’s surface. Predictable is good. Like my well-organized life, my surfing habits are a finely honed balance of discipline and routine. I’ve practiced the same surf breaks for years, polishing my skills, growing better until I’m the absolute best. I won the last two surf competitions I entered, wiping the floor with my competition.

I keep moving and make it to Santa Cruz without getting pulled over or wrecking my car. There’s no one-size-fits-all label for Santa Cruz. Parts stink like cheap beer (college town), while other parts reek of hemp oil (the outdoorsy types), money (check the real-estate listings and you’ll know what I mean) and suntan oil. There are beaches, cliffs, awesome surf and sixty-five thousand residents shoehorned into less than sixteen square miles of living space alongside surf bums and cruise ship visitors. All types of people pass through, but living here year-round is a different game. Real estate is pricey, building up is necessary and there’s always at least one house under construction in my neighborhood.

The neighborhood itself is a warren of one-way, twisting streets jammed with cars. Getting a parking permit may require screwing the city council, and I’ve heard two permits necessitates an outright orgy. My house is the queen bee of the block, perched at the very end of a cul-de-sac (score!) and so close to the ocean that spray hits my bedroom windows on a windy day. Three thousand square feet of Spanish mission style, it fronts an amazing stretch of ocean.

I slam into the house, pissed at everything and the world. Despite the miles between Lola and me, she’s still right here in my head, taunting me. I ignore the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It might be guilt or discomfort. Whatever. It’s unfamiliar and I don’t do feelings. Fuck. I almost never make mistakes.

Lola’s scent still clings to my fingers, a little fainter each time I bring them to my nose. Usually I hit the shower fast after hookups, but she smells amazing. I expected to be over her now that we’ve played our game, yet I have a bad feeling there’s no forgetting this afternoon. She twists me up inside somehow.

Giving up on the shower, I head outside. A steep, private staircase leads to the beach, a quarter-mile stretch of sand bookended by some serious rocks. The tide’s been out for hours and the few waves are flat; it’s the worst possible time for surfing, but still a good time for clearing my head.

I flop on my board, staring at the sky. It’s peaceful, my board rocking gently with each baby wave. After a while, the noise level picks up. Music pounds from Max’s house, a house distinctly resembling a pink cupcake with turrets. Max, Jack and I are neighbors. There wasn’t much on the market when we bought, so three houses in a row required the flexibility of a yogini. Max drew the short straw and had to settle for Casa de Pinkie.

My board bumps sand—and kneecaps. I open my eyes.

Max frowns down at me. “Did someone piss in your cornflakes?”

In no mood to discuss my epic screwup, I flash him the bird. “Did you raid my kitchen again?”

“Not in the last two weeks. And there was definitely no golden shower action, although I may have stolen a beer.”

A beer sounds great, but Max is empty-handed, the tease. He also isn’t dressed for surfing. Instead of a wet suit, he wears knee-length black swim trunks, a white T-shirt with a pink bow tie bedazzled at the throat, and a two-thousand-dollar tuxedo jacket that’s slowly absorbing salt spray. Crap. Tonight is the launch party for Max’s newest dating app.

The party is the love child of his publicist and PR person. Max himself is adamantly antisocial, but he’s been promised loads of D-list celebrities and paparazzi, so it’s party time. Speaking from experience, many guests will regret the open bar when they check their social media in the morning. I promised weeks ago to make an appearance, although I drew the line at participating in a bachelor auction featuring the best of Billionaire Bachelors.

“Party time,” Max announces.

I stand up, haul my board out of the water, peel off my wet suit and follow Max to his staircase. Max will loan me a shirt to go with my board shorts, and the party’s likely to be clothing-optional anyhow.

Because I’m pathetic, I check my phone. After the third time I went swimming with it, I realized that I either had to take up skinny-dipping or take preventative measures. I opted for a waterproof phone condom. There are no messages from Lola.

Max’s pool contains more women than water and appears to be swimsuit-optional. A bar with blow-up palm trees, pink flamingos and a tiki man with a gigantic dick round out the decor. Music pounds because Max hates silence. He codes to earsplitting music—it’s a miracle he retains any hearing.

“Classy.” Coming up behind us, Jack slings an arm around our shoulders.

My phone dings and I look down. Two-for-one pizza offer. Delete.

The arm around my shoulder digs into my armpit. “You didn’t surf today.”

I make a show of checking my phone. “I went in to work. I may also have made a tactical mistake.”

Neither Max nor Jack seem surprised, although it’s Max who correctly interprets tactical mistake and asks the obvious question. “Did you bang her?”

“Technically? No.”

Jack shakes his head. “I told you being her intern wouldn’t have a happy ending.”

“Yeah, well, Lola definitely didn’t get her happy ending,” I overshare.

“Gonna need a few more words about that.”

Max snags three longneck beers from a passing waiter while I try to find the words to explain. His pool is now filled with foam and the photographers are going nuts. This might have something to do with the behavior of Max’s VIP guests. It’s raining bikini tops on our private beach.

I finally settle on a strictly factual account. “I got her consent. We fooled around. I tied her up—which was also consensual—I came and then I left her.”

“Tied up.” Jack pops the top on his bottle.

“Yes.”

“High and dry.”

I shrug. “I’m certain she took care of business later, but yes.”

“You have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Jack keeps his voice low, an effort that I appreciate. I don’t need to find today’s episode of stupidity plastered across a gossip website.

“Depends on whether Lola has a sense of humor or not.”

Shit.

I’m in so much trouble.

Jack, of course, presses his point. He’s the responsible one, which is one of many reasons why he’s also the only one of us who has actually managed monogamy, marriage and genuine friendship with not one but two girls. “You think there’s anything funny about tying a girl up and leaving her like that? What if someone else comes in while she’s tied up? What if that someone takes advantage or takes pictures or just sees that mental image in his or her head every single time they see Lola after this?”

“I used a tie,” I point out. “Not cables or plastic handcuffs.”