Jillian’s Job Read online

  “Don’t I even get a kiss after waiting all this time for you to finally show up?” His voice was a sexy growl that was just loud enough for those around them to hear clearly, although he pretended to be speaking for her ears alone. Jill felt like they were in a fishbowl, the way all eyes were glued to them. She stood up on her tiptoes and aimed for his cheek. But before her lips made contact, he turned his head and she ended up planting one smack-dab on his smiling mouth. And oh, what a mouth the man had…

  And he didn’t settle just for a friendly kiss. He slid his arms around her body and dragged her up against his chest, smoothly covering her jerk of shock by catching the back of her head in the palm of one hand and slanting his mouth to take hers completely. His strong, champagne-flavored tongue slipped easily past her lips as she opened them to ask what the hell he was doing. Her heart rate ratcheted up as he traced the inside of her mouth sensuously. If she hadn’t known her boss so damn well, that kiss might have fooled even her, but she figured he had paid through the nose to be kissed, and she decided that she might as well let ’er rip.

  Warring with his tongue, she explored the warm depths of his mouth as she slid her hands up behind his head and arched her body into his tuxedo, pressing her hips against his suddenly burgeoning cock, ignoring the rush of excitement his highly obvious arousal gave her, as she did exactly what she had wanted to do for the past six-plus years.

  She kissed him-savagely, hungrily, possessively. Giving as good as she got, even though for him it was just an act to discourage the positively fuming blonde who had turned and stomped off toward the stairs back to the second level.

  His mouth was decadently hot and delicious. The expensive champagne was dry and heady on his tongue, and she could not possibly have imagined how it would feel to have him kissing her like this-not even in her wildest wet dreams. His hot, spicy masculine scent filled her nostrils. Her heart felt like a super ball that might easily zap its way straight out the front of her silk gown and go bouncing wildly across the carpet if he kept kissing her.

  Tongues tangling voraciously, breathing uneven and heated, their bodies were plastered hungrily against each other as his arms pulled her so tight into his embrace she could almost feel his spine. And then his hand cupped her ass in a familiar, possessive squeeze, and she inhaled and tried to back away. He murmured huskily against her lips, “Relax. You’ll survive.”

  She would smack him upside the head later.

  When she finally felt her dangling feet touch the carpet again, and his mouth lifted from hers, she realized that men were slapping Furie on the back, and voices were raised on every side as her “fiancé” accepted congratulations from his associates even while he kept her firmly pressed against his still-rampant hard-on. Probably to conceal it until it eased.

  She smiled at the people who spoke to her, not hearing a damn word of what they were saying. Her belly was a wad of hot mush. Her legs wouldn’t have held her if he had decided to let go of her, and she had no desire to sit in a heap on the carpet at everyone’s feet. So she kept her hands tightly clenched on his shoulders.

  “So, Furie…this is the surprise you said you had for everybody? It’s about time, man! I can’t say I blame you for keeping her under wraps. I wouldn’t let her out of my sight, if I were you.” Voices buzzing, glasses clinking as toasts were raised, laughter-not much strained through to her shell-shocked mind with that hard, completely mind-blowing body clamped possessively to hers.

  She was going to kill him…and then maybe attack him and strip him and-

  Jocular comments fueled by large quantities of expensive champagne were bandied back and forth, and when his amazing erection had eased enough to not make a spectacle of himself, he allowed her to move slightly away, but kept her firmly wrapped in one arm, pinned to his side. A flute of champagne was thrust into her hand, and she drank for want of anything better to do as he used her for the inevitable prop and made the most of the stir her presence had caused.

  And the stand-in QB throws a touchdown pass…

  Numbly she smiled and shook hands as she was introduced as “My fiancée, Jill,” without her actual last name ever being given. Plausible deniability. She downed the flute of delicious champagne, and accepted another. She had begun to feel a lot like a blonde kewpie doll permanently attached to his hip.

  After what seemed like hours of listening to inane talk, and male jokes being bandied back and forth, everything began to blend into everything else. Except that during those hours, she had very possibly swallowed about a gallon of champagne, and champagne was not her drink of choice.

  Damn! Faces were swimming. Voices were fading in and out. Tinny laughter was making her dizzy. She felt something hard under her cheek, and realized that she was leaning into Furie’s chest, and they were dancing. Or at least, he was dancing, and half-carrying her around the floor with her feet half an inch off the floor. For the first time since she’d arrived, no one was babbling at them, and she drew a shaky breath and said, “I need…t’talk…to you.”

  “We have plenty of time to talk later.” His breath was warm against her ear, and she shivered.

  “No! Need to talk-now.” She shook her head. The motion made her dizzy as hell, and she hiccupped. “Ooops. I’m drunk as hell-” She giggled drunkenly.

  “That you are. Am I the one who bought that ring for you?” His voice was a rumbling purr against her temple.

  “Serves you right, you selfish prick,” she murmured. “Missing my…birthday…’cuz of…you.”

  She expected him to be angry, so his soft laughter startled her. She twisted her head up from his chest where it lay, and frowned at him. He was definitely blurry. “Came here…to tell you…to fuck off.”

  Dark blue eyes gazed back at her. Why’d the bastard have three eyes? Nope, four eyes-the son of a bitch had more of everything…as usual.

  “You mad at me for some reason, Turner?” he breathed against her temple, sending chills through her.

  “’Course…I’m mad-” She frowned, trying hard to figure out which eyes belonged where. The one on his nose was definitely in the wrong place. “Chauvinistic bastard. My name’s Jill…you never use my name-”

  “Want to tell me how you really feel?” He gave her a crookedly sexy smile.

  “I just did…didn’t I?”

  “You don’t drink, do you, Jill?” He was grinning. The jerk.

  “’Course I drink…’cuz I’m fucking drunk-”

  “Calling you Turner makes me a bastard?” His mouth moved slowly against her skin as he whispered.

  “‘Course not. You’re a…bastard…because you don’t even…know…I exist…you bastard-”

  She thought he laughed, but she couldn’t be exactly sure, because that was the moment she passed out.

  Chapter Three

  Her head must have fallen off. No. It was still there, because it hurt like hell. Her tongue tasted like old green felt that had been stripped off an old pool table. Her hair hurt. She reached up to check to see if it was on fire. Her hand found nothing but tangled curls and a pillow that was pulled over her head. A groan escaped her lips. Ow! Even that made her head hurt. What was it? Champagne? Dom Pérignon? Or was it Cristal? Ooohhh, God. If she ever saw another bottle of champagne, she’d puke.

  She groaned into the mattress, and decided not to bother opening her eyes. She wondered if even that tiny movement would make her sicker than she already felt. Probably. Best to just remain still. She drew deep, slow breaths. She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose to stop an itch, and nearly sliced her nose off.

  What the hell? She blinked blearily at her hand under the pillow, illuminated by the faint light that came from around the edges. The cold glitter of a huge diamond nearly blinded her.

  Huh? Oh yeah, the rock. Her eyes dropped closed again, and then flew open. Was that…an arm clamped around her? She drew a deep breath, and verified that the heavy weight of a human arm was clamped possessively around her body. Her. Naked. Body?r />
  It was a bad dream. It had to be. An alcohol-induced hallucination. Yeah. But then the hallucination’s arm tightened slowly, pulling her back against another naked body. One that had hard, solid muscles. And one particular muscle was prodding into the small of her back like a frigging fence pole. Her eyes closed tight again.

  What. The. Hell?

  What the hell was she doing in bed with a naked man? And just what naked man was she in bed with? Sudden visions of Jerrod Lane jarred through her thoughts-the way he had latched onto her and had offered to be big daddy made her swallow hard. Her stomach lurched dangerously.

  Oh God. Had she gotten blotto and let that jerk take her to bed? Visions of little Jerrods racing around at her feet were swept away by the blessed recollection of the implant she had decided to get last summer after the rape scare that had gone through her apartment complex. Thank God for paranoia.

  Oh, her head throbbed. But no way was she going to just lie there in bed with Jerrod Lane. Famous, handsome, promiscuous, totally hot Jerrod Lane. She pulled the pillow off her head and winced at the brilliant morning light that spilled in through the windows of the unfamiliar room. She forced her bleary gaze to check out the room that was visible, and she saw her sapphire and gold job tossed over the back of an antique chair. On top of a black tux. Shit. Now what?

  He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken. Maybe he was still asleep. Lots of men got morning hard-ons. Right? She shifted carefully and tried to slip quietly out from under that arm, only to have it wind even tighter around her body, dragging her back against hot, solid muscle. The naked man behind her drew a deep breath, and stretched slowly. Aw, hell. He was wide awake.

  Trying hard to move her ass away from that marauding cock, she tugged at the arm, and said in a cool, calm squeak, “Look, just let me get up and out of here, okay? I won’t tell anybody if you don’t.”

  Lips brushed over the back of her bare shoulder, sending chills along every nerve she possessed, and she gave a startled yelp. “Stop that! This was all a great big mistake. Just let go and I won’t start screaming-okay?”

  A lean hand slid under her from behind to cup her breast, while the one on top slid slowly down over the curve of her hip to rest between her thighs. The naked man behind her whispered huskily against her ear, “You weren’t nearly so pissed off last night, Turner.”

  Nope. Not Jerrod Lane. The naked man was the bastard himself. With a whimper of pain from jerking her throbbing head around like Linda Blair to stare into Michael Furie’s whiskery face, Jill gave a yelp of terror and struggled like a salmon hooked by a grizzly, but he merely allowed her to turn over in the bed to face him, and she was in an even worse spot than she had been with her back to him. His hard-on now prodded wetly against her mons.

  “What the hell have you done, damn you?” she yelped hysterically. “You took advantage while I was drunk out of my frigging mind? Oh, I always knew you were a bastard, but I never dreamed…” she grated furiously, her head pounding and her stomach lurching.

  “Not even a sweet, good-morning kiss for your husband?” he asked quietly.

  “Let me up right-” Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened to saucers. “My WHAT?”

  Dark blue eyes glittered with something she didn’t recognize. “You heard right the first time. Except I can’t call you Turner anymore. I think Furie would be more apropos.”

  “This is so NOT funny. Ha ha! Great joke. Now let me the fuck up and I’ll be on my way.”

  Pounding head be damned. Fuzzy tongue be damned. Waking up naked with this man was not her idea of the best way to end an employer-employee relationship, but so be it. A long-cherished wet dream, to be sure, but this was not exactly the way a woman should turn in her two-week notice.

  “Funny. You weren’t this prickly last night when we got married. In fact, you were rather adorably cuddly and giggly. Hangovers seem to make you damn cantankerous.” His arms tightened, and she was flat against his chest, his hard-as-nails cock resting solidly between her thighs. “I like you naked, Furie. If I’d have known how fucking good you felt before, I think I’d have gotten you naked a lot sooner.”

  “No. Way. Are. We. Married, Michael Furie! Just buying myself a diamond with your credit card doesn’t mean we’re hitched, dammit.” Her wriggling was only working that rock-hard invader deeper into her amazingly wet slit.

  “No, but your signature and mine on our marriage certificate makes it pretty official, I’d say.”

  Jill stiffened. “But…I can’t be married to you. I hate your guts.”

  “So you told me last night.” His long fingers traced over her back, sending hot and cold shivers along her spine.

  “I would never have gotten married to you. You…you’re a-”

  “A selfish, chauvinistic bastard. Right. And you can’t stand the sight of me, because I treat you like a slave…” His lips dragged slowly over her forehead, making her dizzy again, but for an entirely different reason.

  “I was going to tell you to…”

  “Take my high-paid job and stuff it up my ass. Yeah, I heard.” The flick of his tongue across her jaw made her bite her lip to keep from whimpering.

  Her hands tingled where they rested against his hard, muscular chest, and she debated if she should move them. No. If she moved them, her breasts would be flat against his chest, and she didn’t think she could handle the sensory overload. Her nipples ached to feel his smooth, hard body. Ached to feel his hot, hungry mouth. Faint memories of last night wedged themselves into her consciousness. The feel of his steel-hard, silken erection between her thighs brought back memories of feeling it buried deep inside her body as he moved so slowly and deliciously to pleasure her. No. Impossible!

  “You wouldn’t marry someone like me,” she blurted. “You’re one of the most misogynistic, hard-nosed, impossible-to-pin-down, dyed-in-the-wool bachelors on the face of this earth.” Okay, that sounded good. Too bad he wasn’t letting go of her.

  His lips grazed her throat, and moved down to taste her collarbone, then her puckered pink nipple, his tongue swirling hungrily around the swollen peak as he slowly drove his hips against hers, rubbing his cock over her aching, wet folds. “Guilty as charged.” His hot breath against her nipple made her moan. “I have to admit, Mrs. Furie, that you are the most breathtaking lover I’ve had in a long time.”

  “You complete and utter bastard,” she hissed as he rolled her more firmly under his body and wedged his hips between her thighs, sliding deep inside her with a smooth, hard thrust that brought her body up to meet his with a keening whimper of need.

  “Oh. My. God! That feels so darned good.” Her mind melted under the sensory onslaught of Mike Furie’s thick, utterly decadent cock buried hard and deep inside her, plunging in and drawing out with a measured, insistent rhythm that made her lose track of what she’d been saying. She couldn’t even remember her own name.

  “You might detest me as a boss, Jillian Furie,” he rasped as he drove into her again and again, “but as lovers, we mesh perfectly.” His voice was a guttural growl in his throat as she wrapped her legs about his hips to take him deeper, her nails scoring his back as she threw her head back and climaxed with a scream of pleasure, her pussy clamping around his cock so hot and tight, she could feel nothing but his length filling her.

  Clinging to him as he continued to drive his lush cock in and out of her, she wondered if she’d died and gone to heaven, or if she’d died and gone to hell. It felt like heaven, but the devil couldn’t go there, right? So if Mike Furie was making love to her, she couldn’t possibly be in heaven.

  Riding the most decadent wave of orgasmic pleasure, Jill arched upward to take every delicious inch of that hard body into herself, and another mind-bending climax shuddered through her like shards of hot glass.

  He gave her a few more of those powerful thrusts before he drove deep and came so hard, his eyes rolled back into his head. He lay on her sweet soft body, his head filled with her lush scent. The scent of woman, mix
ed with the heady, delicious perfume she preferred-the scent that had driven him to wet dreams from hell for the past seven years. The only thing that had kept him from making a try long ago was the fact that quick, hot affairs invariably destroyed good working relationships, and she had not once in seven years ever made the slightest move that he could possibly construe as an invitation. And Mike Furie didn’t go where he wasn’t invited.

  But last night, after she’d gotten blotto on his extremely expensive champagne, she’d admitted that although she didn’t like him one damn bit, his indifference to her as a woman pissed her off.

  Now, that could reasonably be construed as an invitation. He had simply taken her up on it. And securely locked his priceless treasure of a personal assistant into a long-term contract. For the measly price of one designer original gown, a fifteen hundred dollar pair of shoes, a quarter-million in jewelry and a seventy-five dollar marriage license. Not a bad night’s work.

  And on top of that, she was completely amazing in bed. Adorable. Delectable. And as he buried himself blissfully in her succulent, hot little body once again, he realized one more thing-he had to make her fall head over heels in lust with him. Because as pissed off as she was right now, he might end up in divorce court before the honeymoon was over.

  Chapter Four

  Jill glared down at her brand-new wedding ring tucked beside her huge diamond. Well-that was one hell of a way to refuse her resignation. If anything, Mike Furie was resourceful.

  How the hell he had managed to parlay her quitting her cushy job as his assistant into a totally hot, completely mind-bending marriage of convenience totally escaped her. One minute she was telling him off. The next, she was humping him madly in a hotel room in Tahoe. She had absolutely no memory of leaving Aspen in his jet. There was a fuzzy recollection of visiting the wedding chapel at the Tahoe Hilton. And falling into a California King bed with satin sheets in the honeymoon suite.