Free Spanking Ms. Whitman (Play at Work) by Kate Richards Page A

her boss standing twenty feet away. A shiver went through her as he stepped aside and fixed her with a steely glare. She tottered past him on shaky legs. He followed her in, closed the doors, and waved toward the armless wooden chair in front of his gleaming, mahogany desk, uncluttered by even a pen or scrap of paper.
    He keeps this company afloat, works so hard…but never seems to have anything left undone. Almost superhuman. She brushed the stray thought aside and settled on the hard seat, just wide enough to accommodate her curvier-than-she-liked rear end. Mr. Marks marched to his high-backed maroon leather chair and sat, tugging the bottom of his suit coat to smooth out a crease.
    An uncomfortable silence lengthened. Not even a bit of chatter from the employees going about their business in the hallway penetrated the paneled inner sanctum of the man responsible for their livelihood. Her breathing rasped in her ears, her heartbeat thumping frantically. The tiny noise when she shifted and her skirt slid against the wooden seat made her jump.
    She glanced at her hands in her lap, folded together and pressed tight against her thighs to steady them, then swallowed and raised her eyes to meet his cool gray stare. She’d long since memorized his features, but if—when—he fired her she’d never have the opportunity to be this close to him again, so she drank in the sight of the distinguished, handsome man who played the lead in her most erotic dreams. His brows sharp black slashes, lashes the same dark color, almost too long in such a masculine face. His other features were sculpted in classic lines, right down to his mouth, where rare smiles appeared, lifting her heart.
    Office gossip said he used a tailor in London frequented by several members of the British royal family and the impeccable fit of his suit did nothing to belie the fact. His jacket outlined his broad shoulders and trim waist with never a wrinkle and when he removed it and rolled up his sleeves—as he often did in late afternoon meetings—his forearms were smooth muscle sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair.
    At the meetings, those rolled up sleeves made her look past the suits, wondering what other delights lay underneath the perfect attire. While Power Point presentations filled the screen at the front of the conference room, she focused on the way his collar fastened at his neck, the button tight at his throat, the white cotton covering his wide chest. She hungered to loosen the Windsor knot and open the shirt, slowly revealing the toned chest beneath. To press her lips to each inch of skin and feel its warmth.
    When he stood to make a point, her attention usually dropped to his trim waist and focused on the slim leather belt with its discreet silver buckle.
    The belt… wide, smooth leather doubled in his grip. Brought down over her bare backside in firm strokes. Counted off as in the novels she loved. Strong men, and the women they cared for.
    Too many times she’d squirmed in her seat,. She tried to focus. Budget, next year, profit margins….
    His hand lay on the conference table, long, tapered fingers and broad palm. She mentally cleared the room—no, yes, just the two of them—and saw him drawing her across his lap. She cursed her tight skirt, but he pulled the zipper down and reached inside to rub circles on her ass cheeks. In the fantasy, she wore a thong and thigh high stockings revealing a few inches of perfect, creamy white thigh. In the fantasy, she was perfect for him.
    “Miss Whitman?”
    She swallowed past the lump in her throat, returning her full attention to his calm, steady regard. Overwhelmed, she smoothed her hair and gathered her courage.
    “Mr. Marks, I—”
    He silenced her with a sharp look. “I am not interested in explanations or apologies, Ms. Whitman.”
    “But I…”
    He sighed and his nostrils flared on the exhale. “Please, stop.” Rising, he came around the desk to tower over her, tall, straight, so