Charlie ran his big, warm palm down the center of Wanda’s back. Her skin prickled with a rush of goose bumps in the wake of the light caress.

“G’morning, baby,” he said, his low voice rough from sleep.

She loved his voice. Loved everything about him. “Mornin’, Charlie.”

He glided his palm over her bare bottom and teased her curls as he dipped his fingers between her thighs.

She moaned and wiggled her legs further apart to give him better access.

“Feeling a little horny this morning?” he inquired around a soft chuckle.

“Mmm,” was her only response. In his presence, she was always horny. Morning, noon, night, middle of the night...

His finger flicked between her sensitive pussy lips, and she sighed. Yes. He knew just where to touch. Where to tease. Then he leaned over and nipped her shoulder. She sucked in a quick breath as heat flashed through her. “Oh, Charlie...”

“Yes, baby?” Two long fingers sank deep into her core while his thumb flicked her clit just so.

She arched her back, raising her hips off the bed a bit so he could press deeper. And he did. She groaned and buried her face in her pillow to stifle the noise.

“Let me hear you, love. Let me hear you come with my fingers in your cunt.”

She whimpered, unable to keep the sound inside, as he pumped those long, beautiful fingers into her body, touching every delicious, secret spot that made her body tingle and heat and...

“Ohh...”

“Yes, baby.” He nipped her shoulder blade again with those gorgeous teeth. “Let me hear you come. Fuck my hand.”

She moved her hips in concert with his deep thrusts. His thumb circled her clit, slick with her satiny juices. Her stomach muscles clenched. Heat flooded her face. Her fingers and toes tingled.

Biting the pillow case, she cried out as the orgasm rolled through her body.

“That’s it, baby. Love how your cunt squeezes. Ahh, yes.”

She collapsed into the bed, spent, turned her face into his warm, muscular chest, and panted. “Mmm... Charlie...”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Wanda Humphries jerked awake at the harsh sounds of the alarm clock. Her hand was buried between her thighs, slick with her cream, and the lingering tingle of an orgasm sizzled through her veins.

Oh, hell.

She slapped the Off button with her free hand to shut up the annoying beeping then huddled back under her thick layer of blankets. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed for the dream to continue just a little while. She flicked her still swollen clit and sighed.

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie... He was so beautiful. He knew just how to touch her. How to love her.

A twinge of sadness drifted over her, and she pulled her hand from her hot, damp, throbbing core. Charlie was a nice fantasy, but if she didn’t get out of bed and get to work, she’d lose her job. If that happened, she’d never see Charlie again, not even from a distance. Besides, there was still hope that someday he’d noticed her. There was always hope.

She rolled over and peeked her head out from under the blankets. The icy air chilled her cheeks and nose. The heater was dead again, damn it. How many times did she have to call the slumlord about it? It was mid-December. Thank God she lived in Seattle and not some place like Alaska, or she’d wake up a dead Popsicle some morning.

She grabbed her flannel pajamas from the foot of the bed and shoved them under the covers, gasping as the cold fabric touched her skin. If she were smart, she’d sleep in the pajamas, but she liked sleeping naked. Her one indulgence in life was her Egyptian cotton sheets, and she loved the feel of the silky material against her skin.

Once in her pajamas, she threw back the covers and made a mad dash for the bathroom. Luckily it wasn’t far, since she lived in a tiny studio apartment. She dropped her pants, sat down on the toilet, and lifted her frozen feet off the worn linoleum as she reached into the shower and turned on the taps.

She’d been in this place three years, and it was the same almost every morning. Even when the heat worked, it never got above sixty degrees in the winter. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though. She was lucky to be living anywhere downtown Seattle for as little as she paid here. She couldn’t afford anything more expensive, and she couldn’t afford to live too far away from work. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

When the steam from the shower began to heat the miniscule bathroom, she shoved off her pajamas and hopped into the cracker box-sized stall. She had less than three minutes—since she’d wasted nearly two heating up the room—to shampoo and soap before the hot water ran out.

The next ten minutes she spent blow-drying her hair, then she had to face the rest of the cold apartment to get dressed. Finally, she sat in the lone, rickety chair at her ancient kitchen table, ate her cinnamon-spiced oatmeal, and stared at the little square of paper next to her bowl.

She had twenty-one wishes on her tree so far, so she had six to go until Christmas Eve. After taking a bite of her rapidly cooling breakfast, she closed her eyes and thought. Who needed her wish today?

She smiled, opened her eyes, and wrote: Ms. Hastings. May she find her Grade A meat in the coming year. She needs a good man. Ms. Hastings was the sweetest woman Wanda knew. She owned the Hastings Butcher Shop on Third, and gave Wanda the expired meat—if it was still edible—for next to nothing. The old lady—she had to be near seventy years old—liked to complain about the lack of good men in the neighborhood. Ms. Hastings had never been married, and Wanda thought it would be wonderful if Mr. Right would sweep the sweetie off her feet.

Wanda scraped the last of her congealed oatmeal from the bottom of her bowl, dumped the dish in the sink, and took her wish to her wishing tree. She carefully rolled the little paper into a scroll, tied a piece of thread around it, and hung it from a branch. She smiled at her sad little tree, knowing it would be pretty with the colorful Post-It notes when Christmas Eve came around.

At last, she checked the clock on her microwave, grabbed the brown sack containing her lunch from the ancient Frigidaire, and headed to work, hoping to get a glimpse of Charlie before her busy day in the secretarial pool began.

Wanda slipped into her cubicle at exactly eight-fifty-nine. She dropped her bag and shrugged out of her jacket as she hit the power button on her computer. She’d waited for the last twenty minutes outside in the wind, hoping to see Charlie as he arrived at work, but he hadn’t shown.

She dropped down in her chair, pulled out her keyboard, and logged into the system.

A shrill whistle made her pop back up and look over the top of her cubicle. That whistle belonged to Theresa, the head secretary.

Ten other women stood around her, all peering toward the older, black-haired woman who had the only real office in their department.

“He did it again,” Theresa announced.

Wanda’s heart leaped up to her throat. A smile tugged at her lips, and she gripped the edge of the cubicle wall. It was her turn.

“Wanda. You’re up.” Theresa shook her head. “Good luck up there. Try not to get yourself canned.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Inside she jumped for joy as she logged out of her computer terminal, grabbed her jacket and bag, and rushed to the elevator. Charlie’s average for keeping an administrative assistant was less than three weeks. Whenever he fired one, one of the girls from the secretarial pool filled in until HR could hire another. They’d lost two from their group in the past year, but Wanda wasn’t worried. She was an excellent worker, and she’d been waiting for a year and a half for her name to come up in the rotation again. She hoped it took Charlie a few days to find a new admin assistant. The assistant’s desk, where she’d be seated for the next day—hopefully more—looked right into his office.

She sighed as she stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. Nope. Charlie didn’t frighten her. Maybe this time he’d see what a good worker she was and ask her to be his next assistant. To see him every day and to work next to him... She sighed again as the doors opened on the executive level of the Westmark building.

She hurried down the long hall toward Charlie’s office, ignoring the strange looks from other administrative assistants along the way.

And there was Charles Westmark III, CEO of Westmark Industries, just stepping out of his office into the area that held her temporary desk.

“You’re the secretary?”

“Yes, sir,” she said with a smile and rounded the desk to set her belongings down. It was okay that Charlie didn’t remember her. It had been a year and a half since the last time she was sent up here.

He frowned as he gave her a cool once over. “You take shorthand?”

“Yes, sir,” she said again.

“Type up those notes.” He pointed at a stack of papers on her desk covered with his messy scrawl. “I’ve got a meeting at one at Cookson. Meet me in the limo at twelve-forty. Bring your steno pad.”

The limo. She grinned. “Yes, sir.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and went back into his office. As usual, he left the door open. She sat down at the desk, set her jacket and bag on the floor next to her, and straightened the stack of notes he’d instructed her to type.

She glanced up and through his doorway to see him with phone in one hand and a pen in the other.

She sighed. Maybe if today went well, this could be her permanent view, not the gray pegboard wall of a cubicle. If she was near him every single day, and she was able to show him in all the little ways she’d planned over the years, eventually he’d notice she was the one for him.

With a smile on her lips, she flipped on the monitor and set to work.

An hour later, he came out of his office, a fierce scowl on his face, and walked into the office of Gordon Pierce, VP of advertising. His voice boomed, and Wanda cringed. “I just talked to Blake Zane,” he barked and slammed the door behind him, only somewhat muffling his voice. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Poor Charlie. He had such huge responsibilities. She’d never seen him smile, and he tended to shout a lot. He needed a vacation. A break. Some softness in his life.

Wanda yanked the top Post-It off the yellow pad on the desk and wrote her wish for tomorrow morning. Charles Westmark III. Let him find something that will make him happy. He needs a reason to smile. She rolled up the scroll and searched through the top drawer of the desk, but couldn’t find anything to tie it with. She leaned down, grabbed her scarf off the floor, and snipped off a tassel. Once the scroll was tied, she dropped it into her handbag and set back to work. She couldn’t get caught dawdling—not if she wanted this job to be permanent.

At twelve-thirty-five, with steno pad and spare pens, jacket, gloves, scarf and handbag, Wanda headed to the front of the building where Charlie’s limo always picked him up, giving herself five minutes to spare.

Wet blobs of snow splattered against her cheeks, thrown by a swirling wind. She shivered and huddled into her jacket, ducking the lower half of her face behind her scarf. The wind was always so bad down here in the canyon between the buildings. She needed to get a better jacket. This one had lost so many feathers it could barely be referred to as down any longer.

The shiny limo pulled up to the curb, and the driver stepped out. Charlie came out of the building, cell phone to his ear, and headed to the car as the driver opened the back door. Wanda hurried to keep up with Charlie’s long strides. He ducked into the car, and she followed him in. He didn’t spare her a glance as he carried on his conversation, so she settled into the smooth leather seat opposite him.

The warmth of the car after the biting wind was heaven. Charlie’s low voice—even while talking business—made her bones melt. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, easily sliding into another of her many fantasies about him.

He always talked business. Daylight hours were for Charles Westmark. But nighttime was hers. As soon as it got dark, he was off the clock and became Charlie. The sweet, sexy man who had stolen her heart three years ago.

She licked her lips as the fantasy took shape, his voice in the background making it seem even more real than usual.

They were headed for a romantic little spot where he treated her to a champagne lunch a couple of times a month.

His hair was as black as the night, with just a few wisps of gray at the temples. It was a little long to be considered professional, but he was the boss, and she thought it was sexy as hell. She loved running her fingers through it.

His eyes were as green as summer grass. When he gazed at her, she knew he could see all the way to her soul. He’d never doubt how much she loved him.

And then there were his lips. The only word to describe them was beautiful. The bottom a little fuller than the top, so perfect for kissing, licking, nibbling on.

With a mischievous grin, she set her bag on the seat, dropped to her knees, and moved across the floor and between his legs. He still spoke into his sleek little cell phone, but his eyes narrowed on her, and a grin tipped up the corner of those yummy lips.

Wanda reached for his belt.

“Not now,” he mouthed, but she could tell he didn’t mean it. His eyes sparkled, and a small grin tipped up the right side of his mouth.

She opened the belt, undid his zipper, and reached inside to run her fingertips over his cock. It jumped beneath her touch, growing hard in a flash.

She hummed her appreciation as she carefully lowered his briefs and pulled his gorgeous penis through the opening of his zipper. She leaned forward and inhaled his musky scent, rubbing his silky, hot flesh against her cheek.

“Hey. Hey.” He snapped his fingers.

Wanda snapped her eyes open to see Charlie scowling at her from the opposite seat. Her face heated, and she prayed she hadn’t made a sound that would let him know where her mind had been. Between his thighs.

“We’re here.” He obviously wasn’t happy with her. He thought she’d been sleeping.

She nodded and licked her lips, trying not to imagine the scene that had just played through her overactive imagination. “Yes, sir.” She grabbed her bag and steno pad and followed him out of the car, smiling at the stoic driver as he held the door for her.

The Cookson building was across the street. With the horrendous noontime traffic, they waited several minutes before they could cross the busy road.

“What’s your name?” Charlie asked as he stepped off the curb.

“Wanda Humphries.” She grinned. Last time, she worked for him for two days but never graduated past ‘hey you.’”

They were halfway across the two lanes of the one-way street when a gust of wind grabbed the steno pad from her fingers and flung it up into the air.

Wanda whirled around, grabbing for it. Her foot slipped on a patch of sloppy wet snow. She tried to catch her balance, reaching out to grab anything, but came up with only air. Her feet flew out from beneath her.

“What in the—” was the last thing she heard Charlie exclaim before the back of her head hit the pavement.