His Personal Assistant

Chapter 1

BPOV.

My lust-addled brain swiftly reached a conclusion; his jeans most definitely needed to come off.

Now.

The top button was undone, his snail trail running from his bellybutton and disappearing down, like an arrow pointing to the Holy Grail. The prize in question was currently

straining against its confines, and the idea that it was I who did this to him made me writhe underneath him.

"Please..." I begged, because this was what he had reduced me to.

My hands were captive above my head by one of his; every inch of his body was strategically plastered to my naked form, pinning me to his bed and creating a delicious friction

when he shifted. Turning me into a begging, blubbering mess underneath him with the skill of an artist.

"Please what?" He spat down at me.

The cords in his neck were strained, his bronze hair was damp, his lips were swollen, his nostrils were flared and his eyes were black as pitch. His face would have been

frightening if he hadn't spent the last forty minutes kissing, sucking, biting and licking every inch of my naked body. As it was, I knew he was simply trying incredibly hard not to

unzip a little bit more and plunge himself into me.

Which was a mite inconvenient considering that was exactly what I wanted.

"Please...please..." my arguments, which seemed so coherent in my head, came out in garbled whimpers. "I'm ready now..."

He raised himself slightly, making sure my eyes were on his hand as he lowered it to his jeans. He stopped with his palm flat against his bulge.

"You're ready now?" He questioned darkly, and I nodded in response, eyes still fixed on his hand. When he started roughly rubbing himself through his jeans I heard myself

moan, without any conscious knowledge of making the sound.

"I'm not sure I believe you. I've spent all night convincing you – rather eloquently, I feel, how much I want you. You remember my arguments? The ones where I used me teeth,

and my tongue, and my fingers?" He was hissing at me, barely managing to get the words out as his hand continued to rub up and down his length.

I nodded more emphatically this time, looking up to meet his intense stare with a desperate one of my own. He ignored my frustration and finished, "and all you can say in

response is "I'm ready now"? Try a little harder."

"I want you inside of me," I rasped shamelessly – because if this was what I needed to say to get to the Holy Grail – then say it I would. And just in case that didn't work, I pulled

out the big guns; the words I know would get him every time. "I want you to make me yours."

His eyes, if possible, became darker. His breathing, heavy before, picked up now until he was panting against my cheek. He leaned in until his forehead was touching mine and

I heard his zipper being lowered.

"Baby," he snarled "you are mine." His tongue ran over my lips in an animalistic gesture of possession.

"But seeing as you don't seem to realize it yet, I think I can spend a couple more hours drilling the message in..."

And then my alarm woke me up.

My sheets were twisted around me, my sticky hair falling into my eyes and my heart hammering away in my chest.

"Well, crap." I had a serious, serious problem.

I was dreaming about Edward Cullen – an issue most likely faced by the entire female (and possibly some of the male) population of New York.

Don't get me wrong; dreaming about Edward shouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. Who wouldn't want to spend their night thinking about that bronzed-haired God touching

them? To think about him looking at you so possessively and intensely it could burn a hole through your heart?

But when I had to come face-to-face everyday with the literal man of my dreams, it became something of an issue.

Especially when I was Mr. Cullen's Personal Assistant, and he was my oblivious boss.