It would have been more fitting if a few storm clouds could be seen rolling in. The walls were a dark paneling, the furniture a deep mahogany, and the carpeting a matching brown. Shutting out the light made the closed-door office that much more intimidating. And intimate.

She gulped back her nerves. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Masters."

He held up his hand, shushing her. "We have several issues here, Miss Beaumonde. Let me enumerate them," he said in a clipped tone.

Oh God. She was going to lose her job for being such an idiot. How would she make the mortgage payment?

"First"-he raised one finger-"you failed to tell me Jacobson cancelled the lunch appointment."

Since Mr. Masters had gone out, she'd left a few minutes early for lunch. She didn't even know Mr. Jacobson had called-at the last minute, mind you, but that was an excuse. If she'd checked her messages before she left... But she hadn't.

"Second, I couldn't get hold of you to find out if he'd called with a change of plans."

She'd returned all hot and sticky from her lunchtime walk through the San Francisco streets. It took her forever to cool off in the ladies' room, where she'd ended up removing her pantyhose. So she didn't get Mr. Masters' calls either.

He didn't raise his voice. He was simply stern and forbidding. The way he always was. The way one would expect a strong-willed CEO of forty-three to handle his executive assistant when she'd made a big mistake. With black hair, dark eyes, swarthy skin, and a deep voice that resonated inside her, Mr. Masters could cut a woman-or any man, for that matter-down to size with just a look. He wore command like a tailored suit.

He made her quake in her high heels, yet oddly, he always made her pulse race, too, and that had nothing to do with fearing his wrath. "Mr. Masters, really, I-"

He shushed her again, this time with just a narrowing of his eyes. "When you finally called me back, I had to wait on hold for five minutes while you searched your incoming messages."

She wanted to gag. It had been such a shitty week. He was right about everything. She'd failed miserably. He was a hard taskmaster, but she'd always measured up, always delivered more than required. Until last weekend, when she'd walked in on Van with that woman. Now she couldn't stop replaying those images in her mind, and they seemed to overshadow everything else she was supposed to be doing.

She'd been with Van for two years. At thirty years old, with her own home and a solid job, Natalie had even considered taking the next step with him, moving in together. How could he do that to her? And how could he do that with some horrible woman dressed head to toe in skintight leather?

There wasn't a single bulge on her lithe form.

Natalie shuddered to think of her own body packed into all that leather. But the worst was the noises he'd made, the sighs, the moans, the cries, the groans of pleasure. He'd never sounded like that with Natalie, never gone utterly wild when she touched him. Not even in the beginning.

"Miss Beaumonde, are you listening to me?"

Oh God. "Of course, sir." What had he said?

She certainly couldn't tell Mr. Masters all her personal problems. First of all, she wouldn't receive an ounce of sympathy. Second, he didn't believe personal issues should ever get in the way of work. Honestly, neither did she.

He rounded the end of his desk and paced behind her in a semicircle. She didn't dare turn her head to look at him despite the itch along her spine. You never wanted Mr. Masters at your back when he was pissed at you. Though when he was on your side, there was no greater ally.

"I'm very displeased, Miss Beaumonde, and, quite frankly, shocked." His breath was at her ear. "This isn't like you."

She'd worked for the company for five years and as his executive assistant for a year. She'd always done an exceptional job for him.

"So..." Coming to rest beside her, he lowered his voice to an almost seductive pitch. With his tall form only in her peripheral vision, feeling him next to her rather than seeing him clearly enhanced the effect. His tone was like warm maple syrup drizzled down her spine and licked all the way back up. "You have a decision, my dear," he finished softly.

She suppressed the urge to shiver. It wasn't the thing to get turned on by your boss's voice, especially when you were on the rebound from catching your boyfriend with another woman. "Yes, sir," she whispered. "I'll do whatever I can to make it up to you."

"You most certainly will, Miss Beaumonde." Facing her, he leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now here's your choice." He cocked an eyebrow. "You can tell me what issue has put your job second on your list of priorities." After a pause, he added, "In detail."

Oh no no no. She stared at the desktop rather than meet his gaze. Even now, remembering Van's wild abandon and his total pleasure at the hands of another woman was demoralizing. Natalie had suddenly had it slammed in her face that she wasn't woman enough for him. And she certainly couldn't describe what she'd seen.

So, uh, no, not gonna tell Mr. Masters a thing.

"Or," her boss went on inexorably when she said nothing, "you can bend over my desk, lift your skirt, and take the spanking you so richly deserve."

Natalie blinked. She couldn't have heard that right. Lifting her head, she locked gazes with him.

He smiled. It wasn't sweet or nice or even offhand. It was completely devilish. "Yes, my dear, you heard me correctly."

She was five-six with three-inch heels, yet Mr. Masters towered over her at six-two and all that bulk. She'd always admired his powerfully built form, muscles honed to perfection. But with his dark eyebrows knitted together in a glower, he was actually quite frightening. And terrifyingly sexy.

She mustered the nerve to say, "That's a bit inappropriate, sir."

He rewarded her temerity with a throaty chuckle. "Very." He waited long enough to let that sink in.

Good Lord. Mr. Masters wanted to touch her. Here. Now. In his office. Her. His silly little assistant.

He tipped his head, gave her a cocky half smile. "Feel free to accept my other choice and tell me what's going on that took your mind off your job."

He had never, not once, made a sexual comment. If she did say so herself, she had large, firm breasts, and while her body was nowhere near worthy of stepping into tight leather, she did believe she had decent legs. Mr. Masters had looked at neither her breasts nor her legs. At least not that she knew of, though, in view of his demand, maybe she needed to rethink that.

"Does my job depend on whether I accept your spanking?"

"No," he said softly, waiting a long two seconds before he added, "Your job depends on how well you perform your work and whether or not you can assure me that what happened today won't happen again." He lowered his voice to a bare mouthing of words. "The spanking is just for my pleasure."

A fire she'd never seen before burned in his eyes.

Beneath her silk blouse, her nipples burgeoned. His gaze dropped for half a second and half a second only. But he'd seen. Deep inside, her body started to hum. Despite herself, even after Van's betrayal, her libido began to rise. Between her legs, she grew wet. Her breath felt shallow, her skin hot. What was wrong with her? Perhaps it was because of Van's perfidy and a need to prove she was sexy and desirable.

Whatever the reason, she suddenly saw Mr. Masters in a whole new light. Though he'd never been married, she knew he liked women, hitting the society pages regularly with a different lady every time. But he never messed with his employees. She'd never heard even a whisper of that.

But he sure was messing now.

"It doesn't matter which choice you make"-he seduced her with that deep, dark voice-"but you must choose."

Her own body's reactions to him were her undoing. She wanted this. More importantly, she needed the affirmation.

Natalie leaned forward, placed one palm flat on the desk for balance, then slowly raised her skirt.

Lincoln felt his breath halt halfway to his lungs. He was a lusty man and he'd lusted after Natalie Beaumonde for more than a year, but he'd never acted on his desires. He didn't mix work with pleasure, especially not with a subordinate. Now, however, he was about to break that rule. A full year had seen lust turn to aching need, and Lincoln Masters wasn't into masochistic denial. Unless the woman in question said no.

With her rump in the air, Miss Beaumonde-he liked thinking of her that way-was most definitely not saying no. Her quickened breath, nipples tight beneath her blouse, her parted lips, and the pulse beating fast at her throat testified to how much she didn't want to say no. Maybe he was deluding himself or grabbing at justification, but for the first time in a week, the spark returned to Natalie's gaze. He'd missed her smile.

She trembled, waiting for his next move, and Lincoln took his time, letting the tension stretch between them. She had such a delectable, heart-shaped ass. Beneath the staid knee-length skirt and white blouse, naughty Natalie wore a miniscule, sexy-as-hell red thong. Who could have known what lay hidden under her attractive yet businesslike facade?

Natalie had always been efficient, diligent, and exacting. This was the only time he'd ever caught her in an error. He was well aware she'd been distracted for days. Something had been bothering her. Once, he'd thought he saw a tear at the corner of her eye. Oddly, it unnerved him. He didn't like seeing his Natalie upset. Now that was the damndest strange emotion he'd ever felt. The possessiveness in it-his Natalie. He didn't concern himself with his employees' personal business, but he had a lot of desires regarding Miss Beaumonde. And not just to see her smile again. Try as he might, on the drive back from his missed appointment, he could do nothing but imagine his hand swatting her behind in punishment. It didn't matter how many times he'd told himself what a bad idea that was.

In total command of his urges, he wasn't used to giving into them unless it was well thought out before he executed. He ruled them; they did not rule him. Yet he couldn't erase the image from his mind. When he'd entered his outer office to find her at her desk, eyes downcast, hands clasped almost in supplication, he knew he would have what he wanted.

His mouth watered for a taste of her. "Are you ready to receive your punishment, Miss Beaumonde?" One last chance to change her mind. Lincoln forced no woman to play his games.

"Yes, sir," she murmured, ending with the slightest sigh of anticipation.

He cupped his hand and at first merely caressed the firm flesh of one rounded cheek laid bare by the cut of her thong. Her body quivered beneath his touch.

Then she moaned, a barely there sound, and a tiny drop of her feminine juice moistened the crotch of her panties, her pussy plump against the red material.

"You've been a very bad girl, Miss Beaumonde."

"I know, Mr. Masters. I'm so sorry." Her voice was low, husky. Eyes closed, her long lashes lay against her cheeks.

He raised his cupped hand and swatted her ass hard. She yelped.

"Does it sting, Miss Beaumonde?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Masters."

She'd never said his name with quite that breathy quality. His cock surged in his suit pants. If he wasn't careful, he'd leave a wet spot. The idea delighted him. He hadn't felt this hot with a woman in far too long. She was unpracticed, unguarded, yet very willing.

He swatted once more, feeling the reverberation up through her buttock. A cupped hand could smart but wouldn't damage the skin. He wanted her flesh reddened and slightly tender when she sat in her chair, a pleasant reminder. He didn't dish out violence, he gave pleasure, but he'd always found that a hint of fear and uncertainty and a dollop of pain enhanced the pleasure receptors.

Slapping her bare butt again, he then allowed himself a slow caress of her thong's crotch, testing the dampness, the heady scent of her arousal rising. She pushed back slightly against his hand, rubbing herself like a cat rubs its head against its master's leg, begging for a stroke.

Lincoln began to spank her in earnest. He punctuated each swat with a caress of her pussy, each time lingering a little longer. She stretched out her arms and put her face down between them, forcing her bottom higher. Then she gasped, moaned, writhed, her breath faster, sharper. Her flesh flamed beneath his ministrations, and her sweet juice soaked her panties, moisture glistening on the inside of her thighs.

He quickened the pace when she began to tremble and shiver, her legs shaking. With one last slap, he buried his hand against her pussy, delving between her legs to the bud of her sex and circled, only the thin fabric of her thong separating him from the prize. She came with a long shuddering moan, her thighs clamping tight, riding his fingers. She flooded him with moisture, perfumed the air with a sexual scent.

He resisted stroking his cock. Right now, she was his, not the other way round. He wasn't ready to come for her yet. That would happen on his terms, at the time of his choosing. There were other games he wanted to play with her before that happened. He was a master of control, and the longer he held out, the more climactic his orgasm would be.

He pulled free of her, raised his hand to his nostrils, and drew in a long, deep breath of her. Christ, she smelled sweet. He wanted a taste, but he teased himself with saving that for next time.

"Compose yourself, Miss Beaumonde," he murmured.

Her red-gold hair drooped out of its bun, tendrils falling across her forehead. With her skirt pulled high above her pink rump, she looked thoroughly debauched and luscious.

He smoothed the material down over her bottom, covering her, then helped her to stand straight, holding her arm until he felt she was steady on her feet. Only then did she open her eyes, the green lavishly dark like an Amazon rainforest. She met his gaze for less than a heartbeat, then let it drop to the level of his tie. He hadn't even removed his suit jacket.

"I trust your error won't happen again, Miss Beaumonde." He'd have to find something else to spank her for. Or perhaps more, a trip to the private downstairs room of his house in the woods. Like taking Little Red Riding Hood into the big bad wolf's lair.

She shook her head as if incapable of words. Tipping her chin, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip, fixing the lipstick she'd smudged.

"Now go back to your desk, Miss Beaumonde, and reschedule my lunch with Jacobson." With that, he dismissed her, pointing one finger at the closed door of his office. She exited on unsteady legs.

She was so damn sweet and fuckable.

Lincoln Masters needed more of her.

Chapter Two.

Natalie stepped off the BART train and hurried through the mass of commuters to her economy car out in the parking lot. It would have been lovely to work and live in the city, but despite a good salary as an executive assistant, she couldn't afford even a studio flat in San Francisco. Instead, she'd bought her home in the East Bay when house prices had fallen during the credit crisis. Even then, she barely had any money left for the work that needed to be done to the place.

Van said he would help, but that had lasted as long as painting one wall of the living room.

Van. She didn't want to think about him.

Instead, the entire BART ride, she'd thought about Mr. Masters' spanking. Alone in her car for the ten-minute drive home, her cheeks flamed. The ones on her face. Though the bottom set of cheeks were still red-hot, too. Wonderfully so.

She was awful. The rest of the afternoon had gone by in a daze. Though she certainly hadn't made another mistake. Good Lord, no. Mr. Masters acted as if that interlude in his office had never happened. He'd buzzed her phone, called her into this office, rattled off instructions, handed her filing, signed the letters she'd typed, all without a single altered inflection.

Yet every time she stood before him, her smarting behind reminded her. She'd remained heated and buzzed all afternoon. Her ears had rung for a good half hour after that delicious orgasm.

Stopping at a red light, Natalie put her hands to her face, her skin warm to the touch. How could she have let her boss do that to her? Worse, how could she have loved it?

She wasn't into bondage games. She didn't believe in screwing her way to the top. She didn't indulge in affairs at work. While she should have been making sure she didn't lose her job, she'd been daydreaming about lifting her skirt again for Mr. Masters to have his wicked way.

She didn't even feel bad about Van. Almost with a snap of the fingers, she was over it. Which made her fickle and shallow. She hated to think she was that kind of person.

Her street was older, the sidewalks tree-lined, the houses small starter homes. Tricycles sat in driveways, many of the lawns were choked with weeds, and too many cars lined the curbs. But the two-bedroom, one-bath house was hers. At thirty, she didn't want to keep paying rent. She'd dreamed of Van moving in. He, however, had never offered to give up his apartment.

Now she knew why.

She'd trimmed her front walk with pansies, impatiens, and geraniums. A huge juniper grew dead center in her lawn, obscuring the view of her family-room window from the road.

She slipped her key into the door only to find it already unlocked. Natalie's heart began to beat hard in her chest.

Van sat in his usual easy chair in front of the TV, feet up, but he dropped the footrest the moment he saw her.

"Honey." He rose slowly to his full five feet ten inches.

Natalie couldn't help the comparison to Mr. Masters. Where her boss was tall, broad, and powerful, Van was average, lanky, and lean. His blond hair was straight, brushing the neck of his T-shirt. His jeans were old and faded, molding to his male package. His feet were bare, and she noted his toenails needed clipping.

A couple of years older than she was, she'd always liked his bohemian look. He was so nonestablishment, an artist who'd actually had his work displayed in a prominent Palo Alto gallery where he'd had an exclusive show. Even his name, Van Wright, had seemed so artsy and self-important.

Yet next to Mr. Masters, Van appeared an unkempt...wuss. Especially after the act she'd witnessed him participating in.

God, she was harsh. Or maybe she was just being a vindictive bitch. He'd cheated, so she let her boss make the moves on her as payback. Sort of. Natalie wanted to bury her face in her hands.

Instead, she laid her purse and keys on the kitchen table. The house was an L-shape, kitchen and dining area on the right, the family room on the left, with a sliding glass door out to her patio and postage-stamp backyard. The two bedrooms and bathroom made the long part of the L at the back.