“Mrs. Ross?” William’s broad shoulders blocked sight of the corrals beyond the doorway as he stepped into the office. “Are you daydreaming?”
“Of course not,” Viola answered automatically. “I’ve almost finished accounting for the gunpowder barrels.”
“Are you sure about that?” He shut the door behind him. He’d shed his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up. He was dusty and sweaty and very masculine, far more interesting than any proper businessman. A single finger pushed his hat back on his head. His eyes were very intent on her. “You look like an impertinent clerk to me.”
Something clenched deep inside her core at the look in his eyes. She remembered his words about playing games, in a manner similar to a pageant. This must be what he wanted now. Viola tried to think of what an uppity employee might do.
“Mr. Donovan,” she began, as superciliously as possible, “your account books are intolerable.”
His eyes heated while his mouth twitched, then firmed. Encouraged, Viola went on.
“You, sir, must take immediate steps to correct this situation, before I am forced to count barrels myself.” She tilted her nose in the air.
“I must do something?” he drawled. “I am your employer and you are the one who must do as I say.”
“Impossible, Mr. Donovan,” Viola sniffed and cast a hopeful glance at his trousers. The ridge behind his fly was most pronounced. “You are the one who must act and should do so immediately.”
William vaulted the desk. He grabbed Viola’s hands and held them over her head. She was intensely aware of his strength and yet she felt free to enjoy herself. She was suddenly glad she’d practiced those exercises earlier.
“You are most definitely an impertinent clerk,” he drawled, more casually than the tight grip of his hand around her wrists indicated. “What should I do with you? I warn you, more insolence would warrant a heavier punishment.”
Viola’s ears pricked up. “Why, you, you brute,” she tried a phrase as she twisted away half-heartedly. He leaned against her a bit closer, bracing his free hand on the other side of her head. His wonderful scent enveloped her and her breasts promptly firmed in response.
“Such resistance to my will,” he clucked and circled his hips against her. Somehow the ridge inside his trousers seemed larger than before. “Mrs. Ross, have you any idea of how foul language could add to your punishment?”
Her eyes widened. In six years around miners and teamsters, she’d heard a great many words unworthy of a church hall. Perhaps he wanted to hear some of those.
She fought him, kicking his shins and cursing him in the foulest terms she knew, even inventing a few phrases. Her struggles didn’t harm him, of course, especially when muffled by her skirts. Finally, he pressed her hard against the wall and bracketed her with his big body.
She could feel every inch of him, from the hard muscle in his chest and thighs, to the fierce erection pressed against her belly.
Words failed her. Her pussy was wet and aching, desperate for him.
He pushed his hips against her. “You are an uppity female, Mrs. Ross. Your behavior demands retribution.”
“No,” she gasped, forcing her eyes to stay open. She needed a kiss so badly. Dew slipped down her thigh.
“Little liar. Your nipples are begging for my touch.” His free hand stroked up her side and teased her breast.
Viola moaned at the echoing pulse in her loins. “Yes, Mr. Donovan.”
“Say my name, as I taught you.”
He took the final syllable from her with a kiss, his mouth plundering hers like Stuart’s cavalry. She met him fiercely, angry at him for delaying the passion he evoked so effortlessly. He kneaded her breast until she arched against him, groaning.
William pulled his head back and yanked her skirts up, watching her with a feral stare that burned her veins. She shuddered. Slowly, deliberately, he thrust his leg between hers. The rough wool of his trousers rubbed her aching folds through her fine linen drawers, evoking more dew.
“Are you sorry for your behavior, little clerk?”
“No.” And indeed she was not. She’d speak a few pretty phrases again if he wished, just to reap this reward.
He rocked her hips against him, sensitizing her everywhere but not satisfying her. Heat lanced from her breasts to her womb. Her body craved rapture from this man, immediately.
Viola moaned, her eyelids drooping shut.
“Apologize,” he repeated. “Speak the words or you’ll get nothing further from me.”
“Mr. Donovan, please.” Viola knew that if he’d just shift his leg a bit, he’d rub her clit and she’d gain that tantalizing orgasm.
“I regret. . .” She never uttered the final word, nothing. She’d do this again as soon as she had the chance.
Excerpt from The Irish Devil by Diane Whiteside
Copyright © 2004 by Diane Whiteside
All rights reserved