A Very Personal Assistant by Portia Da Costa Read Free Book Online

bottom he’d
spanked.
    Somewhere in the furor, she seemed to feel his voice against
her throbbing pussy.
    “I love you,” she sobbed.
    Had she echoed what he’d said? Or simply what she’d wished
for?
    * * *
    Everything was the same. Everything was different.
    The next day, Miranda didn’t know how to feel or act or look at
Patrick. She’d ruined everything by blurting out her feelings, she knew that.
Not that he showed his discomfiture or acted in any way out of his normal,
serene efficient mode. But she could tell he was as shaken up as she was.
    I can’t go on like this. I need him. I
love him. I want to talk about it but he doesn’t seem to want to.
    Work was tough. Two morning meetings were grueling. She managed
to get through, and Patrick was still the perfect personal assistant. But when
lunchtime came, he asked for the afternoon off. Miranda’s heart leapt, hoping
he’d suggest a trip to the cottage, but instead, he left alone, and she found
herself staring out of the window, watching the Citroën pull away from the car
park.
    She couldn’t blame him. For any number of reasons.
    She’d broken the unspoken rules of their relationship.
    Office liaisons were severely frowned upon.
    She was the one who’d complicated something that was stunning
and perfect in its simplicity.
    Sex, in a special place, as no-strings therapy. Probably as
much for him as it was for her.
    The afternoon dragged abominably. She couldn’t go on like this.
She couldn’t face the weekend brooding and fretting, so she went online, looking
for a short break, at a spa, a last-minute deal. Nothing took her fancy, though,
so she decided to check email one last time then go home, via an off-license on
the way.
    Her heart dropped like a yo-yo when she saw a message from
Patrick. And when she opened and read the attachment, she felt sick, adrift,
shipwrecked.
    He’d sent her a formal letter of resignation, a very plain,
simple request. A serrated dagger through her heart.
    Racing through the building to the car park, she didn’t know
and didn’t care if she’d shut down her computer properly, locked her office, got
all her things. She just had to get to Patrick’s place. A phone call or a text
just wouldn’t do. She couldn’t find the words, despite her usual executive
eloquence, and she had to see him at home as she’d never seen him there before.
Their lives had never intersected apart from the office and the cottage, but
they were going to now, whether he wanted it or not.
    She’d have an explanation, and one last fuck, even if it killed
her, or him, in the process.
    He lived in a nice building, not modern, but full of character,
and built from mellow old stone. It was quirky, like him and his vintage Citroën
and his sharply cut but ever so slightly oldfashioned three-piece suits. Miranda
stabbed the speakerphone button beside the big black door, under the porch,
without waiting and allowing herself to falter. When he answered, after a long
wait, she was about on the point of fainting.
    “It’s me” was all she could say.
    “You’d better come up,” he answered without even having to ask
who it was, despite the tinny quality of the speaker, that no doubt made her
voice sound just as odd as his did.
    On his landing, she hammered on the door, not caring a jot if
neighbors on his landing heard her bashing away. She had to get in. She had to
see him. She had to touch him. The door swung open after just a second,
revealing him to her.
    As she’d never seen him before.
    In their trysts, she was reminded again now, he’d never
actually taken all his clothes off. It had always been hurried rummaging amongst
his linen, his beautiful cock standing proud from his fly, then after a few
seconds, plunging into her sex or her mouth.
    But now, here he was, obviously fresh from the shower, wearing
a short blue silky robe in a paisley pattern. It left his feet and his lower
legs completely bare, along with a slice of honey-tanned chest,