Nicola Marsh - Overtime in the Boss's Bed

‘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.’

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.