Pulling apart, their lips warm and wet, he silently reached for the emergency button and pulled it out, ending the alarm.

They needed as much time as they could steal.

Their breath sounded like tortured gasps in the elevator. Bold. Deciding that she was going to be the Lydia that she had never been before, she took. Took his lips, his tongue – she took control.

Until he rose up, standing taller, his arms around her as if he stretched every muscle in his body, all of them toward her, all of them toward this kiss, everything and every part of him concentrated instantly on her. Tortured gasps for air and him made her breath ragged, his mouth on her neck, hands hungry for skin as he reached under her skirt and slid up, raking her thighs, claiming her body for his own.

“Lydia,” he murmured in her ear as he pressed his hips into hers, giving her a full-on sense of his arousal, pushing against her and making her want him in her. Rough kisses turned deeper, his hands sliding her panties down, her mouth and body afire.

“What are you – ” she asked, alarmed that something so intimate would be so public, yet dripping wet with need and wanting every second of this.

“Shhhhh,” he commanded, shoving her panties in his pocket and then, oh, his fingers were in her, on her, as he turned her around, hot breath in her ear, his erection pressing against the cleft of her ass, his hands on her clit, fingers in her, making her practically lick the elevator wall.

“I wish it were my mouth, Lydia,” he whispered, her breath shifting, hips bucking against his hand, rushing to find the climax she wanted him to give her. “And if we weren't about to get caught, it would be.”

“Caught?” She panicked, grabbing his hands, which he held firmly in place, immutable, like steel.

“Not yet, my sweet,” he insisted. “Not until I've given you this pleasure, and you've given me your abandon.” His fingers stroked her, the faint hint of stubble rising up her neck and cheek, lips and tongue tasting her as he drove two fingers inside her aching pussy, clit on fire from his tongue. “Let go, Lydia,” he whispered, grinding into her from behind, his words an urging she didn't need to hear twice.

Mouth open, neck straining, she mewled a scream of unleashing, her body thrusting against his fingers, her thighs shaking as she lost control. Without missing a beat, Matt turned her around, thumb steady as it circled her hot, red nub, and he took her mouth with his, her lips tense with climax, mind on fire and body overcome with surges of heat, then chill, of riding his hand to wring every drop of ecstasy.

“Next time, I'll see your face,” he said in the dark, voice deep and low, the intensity so much she nearly came again from the sound. “Next time,” he hissed, lips taking hers, pinning her lower lip between his teeth, sucking, then using his tongue to explore her teeth, her palate, her mouth being loved by his.

Skirt around her hips, he used both hands to pin her ass to him, the weight of her release resting in his palms as she swallowed, breathing labored and sensual, his own breath.

“You can't see me now,” she answered, voice shockingly strong and bold compared to the jellied feel of her body, “but we can have our 'next time' right here.” Reaching for the front of his pants, her skirt dropped down, thighs sticky with her own juices and quivering from what Matt had just done. Lydia undid the top button of his pants, slipping the zipper down, finding him hard and aching (and commando), his control slipping as she reached down to stroke him, ready to straddle him and be fucked wild in a dark, stranded elevator.

And then the lights went on.

In her. He needed to be in her, to have his cock be the reason she bit her lip, to make those little gasps and hitches come from her mouth into his and to share in her climax, drive home through her hot, lush body, use his hands to pull those luscious curves into him. Handfuls of flesh weren't enough, soft skin and heat making him crazy in the dark, stalled elevator.

Shoving her panties in his pocket, he held her in place, forcing her to accept the pleasure of his fingers, her twitches and moans confirmation that he'd given what he had boldly intended. More, more, more his body screamed, and with swift hands he slid his palms around her waist, the faint scent of vanilla triggering something primal in him as her hand reached into his unbuttoned pants and began to stroke him.

As she unbuttoned him, released him, he reached down for her skirt to pull it back up, but then –

Lights. Hum. Buzz. Sound. Lydia's face was beneath him, though she stood, leaning against his torso, her hand suddenly stopping, head shaking slightly, eyes now wide. Seeing her touching him made his solar plexus clench, his cock jump, and she pulled back slightly, back straightening, hands carefully redoing his button and gently – achingly, tenderly – tucking him back in and zipping him carefully.

The expertise in her motions made him pause. Had she done this bef –

“Hello?” a mechanical voice said, booming into the tiny, blindingly-light elevator. Lydia pulled back and smoothed her hair, a dazed expression attesting to her condition. “The elevator malfunctioned and we're just getting systems back in order. Give us a minute and you'll be out of there.”

Fuck! Blinking furiously, Mike felt electricity shooting through him, arms needing to hold her, erection needing to drive into her, his body barely holding back what he'd been seconds from having with her. She swallowed, not making eye contact, and kept looking at the ceiling.

Puzzled, he shot her a curious look, and she looked pointedly at the ceiling while splaying her hands in a questioning gesture. Ah. Now he got it.

Cameras. She was worried about cameras. Bournham Industries didn't have security video in the elevators.

But Jonah Moore damn well might.

With a jolt, the elevator began its ascent, Lydia keeping her head down and not saying a single word, refusing to look at him when he moved closer. A quick nudge elicited nothing. Shut down, she wasn't going to give an inch.

As the elevator slowed upon arriving at their floor, Lydia stepped forward the second the doors cracked open. Without a sound she walked off, headed to the restroom. Fine. He let a much-needed grin cover his face, his fingers branded with her scent. Patting his pocket, he realized he had her panties.

A trophy. Oh, how she had responded to him, body grinding under his caresses, her need open and wanton, her willingness so evident and ripe. Those few minutes were more sensual, more sultry and arousing than all of the sex he'd had for the past year – combined.

The idea that he could have that – and so much more – with her, day in and day out, made him hard again.

Back at his desk, he pulled the thin strip of silk from his pocket. Lilac silk with a cotton center that was absolutely soaked, the aroma of her wafting up to make him smile. He slid them in a desk drawer.

Next time, he would return them to her.

Next time.

“So you gave your panties to a geek. Who are you, Molly Ringwald? Jesus Christ, Lydia, you're twenty-five years old. This isn't Sixteen Candles.” Krysta sprinkled some sweetener in her latte. Lydia had called a “Code Java” and they'd met at Starbucks downstairs.

“If I wanted a lecture, I'd call home.” Scalding coffee burned her tongue, the same flesh that had been in Matt's mouth minutes ago. Coffee drove away his taste, but it couldn't diffuse her current state of teeming, fever-pitch arousal. Even after coming – twice! – in the elevator, she wanted more.

More, more, more.

Krysta started humming, ignoring Lydia. Then the tune was clear: Aerosmith's Love in an Elevator. Lydia shot her a withering look.

“Took you long enough,” Krysta laughed. “Going down?”

“He was close,” Lydia sighed.

“Eww, eww, eww. I have to interact with him, Lydia! Don't tell me this.” Fingers in her ears, Krysta mouthed lalalalala.

Ears perked up around them. It was only 8:15 a.m. And she'd called Krysta to meet here. Loads of coworkers wove their way in and out of the brightly-lit, overly-sanitized store, ordering and walking out with white cups with green logos, drinking their morning happiness.

Her sex life didn't need to perk them up, too.

What sex life? You got fingered in an elevator by your boss, Lydia, a voice whispered in her ear.

Yeah, she replied. And it was good. Go away. She hated that voice – the Joey Stillman voice, the one that taunted and undermined and destroyed. Getting rid of it wasn't easy. She just had to be more centered than whatever creepy part of her worked to destabilize.

Sometimes that was harder. Right now? Nope. Exhilaration from her unexpected encounter fueled a very nice confidence boost. Matt found her attractive enough to respond. Respond. And give back as much as she gave.

More, actually. Lips twitching with a sly smile, she ran a slow hand through her hair, swinging her brown waves over her shoulder. A pair of green eyes locked with hers and her pulse went thready, her breath halted, the room spinning with expectation and unresolved lust.

Dave walked up behind Matt and clapped his shoulder. Krysta followed Lydia's gaze, snorting.

“Saved by the asshole,” she whispered.

“Saved?”

“Lydia, you look like you're going to fuck him on the floor right here. With a shot of mocha syrup and whipped cream.” Reaching for Lydia's face, she used her hands to force eye contact. “You are about as nakedly vulnerable as anyone can be. Just...protect yourself. Shut down a little,” she pleaded. Krysta's brown eyes showed concern and alarm.

Nodding furiously, Lydia forced herself to gulp more of her hot coffee, turning away from Matt and Dave, who were now engaged in some sort of intense conversation, Matt's eyes shifting to her twice in the few seconds she looked at him.

A sharp yank and she was on her feet. “Let's go for a walk, my dear,” Krysta crooned, an affect of hopelessness in her voice at Lydia's besottedness. She glanced at Lydia's ass. “You gave your panties to him. You're hopeless.”

“My life is more 9 to 5 than Sixteen Candles.”

“You're careening more toward The Secretary, Lyd.”

Then, in unison, they both hissed, “Anything He Wants.” A common groan.

Shit! Krysta was right. Time to walk it off.

Commando.

Chapter Six

The most difficult part about this dual identity wasn’t being Matt Jones. It wasn’t being forced to wear clothing that he wouldn’t dress a scarecrow in. It wasn’t that he struggled to find a way to connect with Lydia.

It was that he still had to be Michael Bournham behind the scenes. There was still a company to run, investors to appease, a board of directors he had to crush in the race to prove them wrong.

While he was Matt Jones by day, he was burning the candle at both ends being Michael Bournham at night.

Tonight was one of those nights when he needed thirty-nine hours in a twenty-four hour period. He was in the middle of receiving a haircut and dye rinse, his hair needing to return to its original color, his contact lenses removed, so that he could attend a charity ball. He sat on the board of directors for this particular charity, one that contributed large volumes of money to autism for research in the field and he called Joanie, his assistant, to ask her to make sure that Dom had the car ready for him to pick up.

“Joanie, who am I going with to the ball tonight?”