A Valentine for His Secretary (His Secretary: Undone) by Melanie Marchande Page B

There's no possible way of defining intelligence that puts me above you."
    "You haven't answered my question," he points out.
    "You didn't actually ask it."
    "I don't have to." By the sound of his voice, he leans forward. "Tell me."
    "Nothing," I lie. "I don't remember. As usual, you distracted me with your bullshit nonsense."
    He laughs. "All right. Fine. We'll play it your way. But remember, you don't get what you want unless you ask for it."
    I perk up. I don't know why, but I've been assuming sex is off the table until I fulfill whatever kind of game this is. But maybe... "Well, what's on the menu?"
    "No, no, no. You answer your question first, then I might answer yours."
    Sigh.
    "I was thinking about the first night we spent together," I admit, my cheeks coloring slightly. I have no reason to be embarrassed, except that, once again, it means he won. "And I can only assume you're hassling me about it because I was obviously preoccupied."
    "Only a little," he says. "You have this particular way of squirming when you think about something that turns you on."
    Shit.
    "Okay, so you caught me." I sit up a little straighter. "Do I get...rewarded for my honesty?"
    "Try again."
    "...punished for my dis honesty?"
    "Your perseverance is admirable." Once again, he's very close to me. I can smell the new cologne he's trying out, something dark and heady with a hint of spice. I don't know if it drives me crazy or if it's just him , and it really doesn't matter. "You want to fuck?"
    The bluntness of the question drives a spike of desire through me. He never says it like that. He asks me if I want him to fuck me , or occasionally if I want to fuck him - there really isn't a functional difference, although sometimes it reveals his moods more than I think he realizes - but never just... fuck .
    I take a deep breath. "Yes."
    Adrian chuckles, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. I shiver a little.
    "You always want to fuck," he says. "Even on a plane, on our way to a lovely, romantic getaway. A whole weekend in a hotel with nothing but you, me, and a bag of tricks - you know I'm going to spend every waking moment finding new ways to make you scream my name, and yet..." He sighs, fingers trailing down to my back. I lean forward a little, but he doesn't go for the zipper of my dress. Disappointing. "...and yet you want to fuck now ."
      I'm covered in goosebumps. I don't know why, but something about the way he's talking to me - it's familiar, almost uncomfortably familiar, reminding me of what things used to be like between us. Maybe it's just the fact that I can't see him. But he sounds more like the old Adrian, the one who hadn't yet confessed that he loved me, the one who was still trying to pretend he didn't care.
    I feel a distance from him. I know I could reach out and touch him, if I wanted - he's my boyfriend, not my boss. But I don't.
    "I don't always want it," I tell him, cooling my tone, taking my cues from him. I don't know what we're playing at, exactly, but it brings back a peculiar thrill that I haven't felt in many months. "You're projecting again, Mr. Risinger."
    Oooh. I can almost feel the little tingling shudder that goes through him when I call him that. This is exactly what he was hoping for, a return to our old, dysfunctional ways. Just for the time being.  
    As a couple, we have great sex. Absolutely perfect and I wouldn't change a thing. But when we hated each other...
    It was explosive. Probably because we didn't care as much about being selfish, even though he still loved me then, even though some part of me loved him, even though the stakes were high because neither one of us was willing to walk away. There was hostility at the forefront, the kind of hostility you're simply not allowed to have as lovers.  
    And I wouldn't want it. I love the man who fetches me Midol in the middle of the night, the one who brings me tea when I'm sick. I love him deeply in a way that I never could've loved him when he was my