Shayla Black: Their Virgin Secretary

Tate fought hard not to roll his eyes. Kellan was a hard-ass. He took the whole Dom thing way too seriously, if anyone asked him. Which they didn’t. And that was a mistake because he’d been smart enough to figure out that he liked to dominate a female sexually, but he needed a woman who took charge of him when he missed social cues or forgot to put on matching shoes—stuff like that. “Ease up. She’s pregnant. They’re being indulgent.”

Law Anders was out on the dance floor with his wife, swaying to the music and wearing a big smile as he rubbed himself against Kinley. Dance had been a mystery to Tate for years, until Eric had explained that it was really just an excuse for a guy to rub his penis all over a girl and not get slapped in the face. After that, Tate had totally seen the logic and understood why men bothered with dance. He really enjoyed it now.

As he glanced around, Tate looked for Belle, hoping for an opportunity to rub his penis all over her. Inside her would even be better. Whatever she’d allow.

One year, two months, and four days. Four hundred thirty days all totaled, but he hated to calculate their time together that way. It depressed him. Ten thousand three hundred twenty hours wasn’t much better, considering that was how long he’d gone without sex. Because that was how long it had been since he’d first laid eyes on Annabelle Wright. She’d walked into his office with her resume in hand, and he’d just stared, dumbstruck. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but he’d found lust in that single glance. Oh, yeah. He’d taken one look at the goddess applying for a job and known exactly why he’d gone to the gym five times a week since he’d turned seventeen.

But love? He’d taken a whole week of consideration before deciding that he had fallen in love with Belle. After all, he was a careful man. He liked to think things through.

“Indulgence leads to chaos. Dominic is going to rue the day he let that sub run wild.” Kellan frowned at Kinley.

Tate just swiveled his gaze toward the dance floor. “Who is that?”

Kellan’s gaze shot straight to the dance floor and he scowled.

Belle danced with some overgrown ape whose smile seemed way too friendly. She looked gorgeous in her emerald cocktail dress. Its V neck and body-fitting lines showed off her every curve. She wasn’t a tall woman, but those crazy-sexy black shoes she wore made her legs look deliciously long. Tate had no idea how women maintained their balance on those high, thin heels. He was pretty sure, however, they would look great wrapped around his neck.

The only thing he didn’t like about the way Belle looked was the animated expression she turned up at the lug hanging on her. Then she laughed—a sound that always did strange things to his insides.

Eric slapped a big hand across his back. “Chill, buddy. That’s Cole Lennox. He’s a PI here in Dallas. We’ve used his company before. He’s happily married. I don’t think he’s trying to mack on our girl.”

Tate still didn’t like it. “Why isn’t he dancing with his own wife?”

He was rational enough to know that jealousy was a completely illogical response in this situation. Technically, Belle wasn’t his. She’d never even gone on a real date with him. They’d had lunch exactly fifty-two times over the last year, but they’d mostly talked about work. He’d taken her to happy hour fifteen times, where she always ordered vodka tonics, Cîroc or Grey Goose with a half a twist of lime. They’d still talked about work. And the weather. None of that counted, though, because she’d treated him like a colleague, not a boyfriend. He hadn’t kissed her or made his intentions clear, so he had no right to be jealous that Belle danced with another man. For once, he didn’t care if he made less-than-perfect sense.

Kellan pointed to the other end of the floor. “He can’t. His brother is dancing with her. They’re twins and I’ve heard they share.”

“Really?” Tate sat up and sent a challenging glance to Kell and Eric. “I’m seeing a pattern here. The Lennox twins married the same girl. Those three oil tycoons over there have one wife, and we all saw the trio of royal princes walk in with their bride. Hell, the whole board of Anthony Anders decided to marry the same woman. But it can’t work for us? Explain that.”

That was the argument Tate had heard from Eric and especially Kellan for the past year, ever since the night they’d sat around the office and each admitted they were crazy about their new secretary. Administrative Assistant. Office Manager. Belle had changed her title more than once. She took exception to the term secretary, but Tate thought it was kind of hot.

Kellan sighed, turning toward him. “Just because it works for other people doesn’t mean it would work for the two of you.”

“The two of us? Really? You’re still going to play it that way?” Eric challenged. “Tell me you don’t want her, too.”

Kellan’s eyes hooded. Tate had made an almost scientific study of his friends in an attempt to really understand them. Kellan had four major expressions that he used like masks. This particular one Tate had named “stubborn asshole.” Kellan used it a lot.

“Of course I want her. I’ve never denied that. She’s a beautiful woman, not to mention lovely, kind, and very smart. If I was interested in getting married again, I would be all over her. But I’m not, and I doubt she’s the type of woman to have no-strings-attached sex.”

“I want strings.” Tate needed to make that brutally clear because his partners seemed to constantly forget. They should take notes during their conversations the way he often did. But again, no one asked his opinion. “I want to be tangled up in all her strings. She’s the one. I get that what we want is unusual, though it really doesn’t seem that way today. I swear the two dogs are the only non-ménage relationship here. Belle might be surprised that we all want her, but she’s not going to be shocked. She’s fine with Kinley’s marriage.”

Eric sighed. “Maybe, but we need to be careful. She hasn’t dated anyone since she started working with us.”

Tate knew that very well since he’d been keeping an eye on her. Hopefully she never knew the extent of his observation because what he’d done was somewhat illegal. And possibly a little stalkerish.

“There’s some reason for that,” Eric went on.

Didn’t they get it? “Because she’s waiting for us to make a move.”

“Or she’s just working hard and isn’t ready to settle down,” Kellan pointed out. “She’s young, man.”

“It’s not like we’re old.”

At least Tate didn’t feel old. He was thirty-two. Given that the average life expectancy of an American male was seventy-six, that didn’t sound old. Then he did the math and realized that he was forty-two percent of the way through his accepted life expectancy. Forty-two percent—closing in on half. When he looked at it that way, he did feel old. He refused to waste another second.

“That’s it.” Tate stood and straightened his tie. “I’m going in.”

God, he hoped he looked halfway decent because he often got rumpled and didn’t notice. He would probably still be wearing pocket protectors if he hadn’t become good friends with Eric in high school.

He’d tutored the jock through Algebra II, and Eric had taught him that jeans weren’t supposed to hit above the ankles. They’d been a weird duo, the jock and the nerd. But their relationship meant more to him than any other. His parents were cold intellectuals who had told him he’d failed by not going into academic pursuits—because yeah, Harvard law had been a breeze. His brothers cared more about their experiments than family. So Tate and Eric had stuck together like blood, and Kellan had joined them after college to form the tight-knit trio.