Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Oh yes . . . right there,” she moans, moving her head to the side.

  My dick jolts and aches from the plea of pleasure falling past her lips.

  “Your hands are so strong. This is perfect. If I can return the favor, let me know.”

  Yeah, I’m good. NO WAY is she touching me, not if I want to spend another painful night in bed with a raging hard-on. Unless she wants to massage my dick, then that’s a different story.

  I spend the next several minutes working her shoulders, listening to her moan, and trying not to run my hands down the front of her body over her breasts. Is she aroused like me? If I moved my hands to her breasts, would her nipples be hard, and are the sounds she’s making now, the same sounds she’d make if I was buried deep inside her, thrusting slowly in and out?

  “That’s so good. You can stop. Thank you so much.”

  I back up quickly as if she’s on fire and lie on my side, getting as far away from her as possible. “You’re welcome,” I cough out, my dick painful.

  My distance gathers me some breathing room, but only for a few seconds because when she slips under the covers, she scoots near me, and places her hand on my bare chest. “Are you sure I can’t rub anything out for you?”

  I choke on my saliva.

  Yes, you can rub out my dick, the part of me that’s been throbbing for the last ten minutes, begging for release . . . again.

  Somehow I find my voice and say, “I’m good.”

  Her thumb drags over my pec. “You sure? You were really tense at work today.”

  Because I wanted to fuck you. I want to fuck you so badly I can feel it deep in my bones. It’s as if my body is on fire, an inferno, and the only way to control the flames is by sinking my dick into Charlee’s wet, tight pussy.

  “Just stressed about everything; I haven’t told Bram and Julia yet.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?” she asks, her hand moving up a few inches and then down a few, her thumb barely connecting with my nipple, sending soft waves of ecstasy straight to my growing cock.

  “No.” I want to turn toward her, reassure her that everything is okay, let her know that I mean it when I say no. But I lie flat on my back, unable to give in to temptation because if I do turn, there’s no saying what I’ll do.

  “Okay,” she says softly, pulling her hand away. Quietly, almost somberly, she says, “Night, Rath.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to figure out what to do, because I know that sound in her voice, the dejection. I’ve disappointed her once again. I should elaborate. I should tell her how not ashamed I am of her, but how ashamed I am of myself for constantly thinking of her as more . . . as mine. And she’s not. Not really. Probably never. She’s on my mind twenty-four/seven. I’d give anything, any damn thing to taste her one more time. One more kiss. But how can I? No, all I feel is shame. So, I remain quiet, staring at the ceiling as my body itches with deep-rooted lust.

  Chapter Twenty

  CHARLEE

  I’m so turned on, so lit up inside that I might actually combust. My nipples are hard, my pussy absolutely aches with need, and my stomach is bouncing, playing with my emotions as I try to navigate the one and only Rath Westin.

  After night one of my sex dream with him as the main character—don’t know where David Hasselhoff came from—I haven’t been able to control myself. There’s a line I didn’t want to cross, but after seeing him with his shirt off and spending the night with him, I couldn’t stop myself if I wanted to.

  So, I started dressing extra slutty and going to bed naked in the hopes that he would finally crack and make a move.

  He hasn’t. And it’s not like I don’t know he wants me. Trust me, I do. I’ve seen that man’s bulge more this week than I’ve seen any man’s bulge. I’ve seen it in his trousers, in his boxer briefs, in his towels. It’s there, all the time, looking ready to be taken care of and I haven’t had one opportunity. And holy shit, the man is so goddamn sexy, I’m a quivering mess. At work, I’ve managed to be an efficient, unaffected assistant, but that’s been a lie. Even when I’ve checked in with Grandma, worked through Rath’s daily lists, or gone through the preparation with the art team for the company planner, thoughts of him haven’t been doused. I get why he’s working late. I get why he’s pushed me each night to visit Grandma—and I’m thankful.

  But, he’s lethal. Physically lethal. I’m willing to cross the line, even though it might be my heart that’s shattered down the track.

  Frankly, I think I deserve to touch him, kiss him, fuck him, because I’m going to be his wife. I should get more out of this than just a happy grandma. What about a happy Charlee? At least that’s the reasoning I’ve given myself for my one-eighty on the decision to stay away.

  I thought tonight was going to be the night. I made sure to get naked early, lotion, and then offered the whole massage thing, thinking maybe he would lay me down on the bed and want to massage other things.

  That fantasy quickly vanished when he practically leapt to the other side of the bed after I said I was good. And then when I was deliberately missing his nipple by a few centimeters, I thought he’d growl and pin me against the mattress and start making out with me.

  No such luck.

  I’m so close to pleasuring myself right here, right now, that I give it some serious thought. What would he do? Lie there and watch? Ask me to stop? Lend a hand?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  But can I really do it?

  I nibble on my bottom lip as I consider it.

  The relief would be amazing.

  God, but masturbate in front of Rath while we share the same bed? I can’t.

  My thoughts are broken when he shifts on the bed and for the first time this week, I can feel him turn his body so he’s facing me rather than staring at the ceiling or facing the opposite direction.

  My breath stills in my chest. Is he . . . is he going to touch me? Is he finally going to make a move? I count to twenty, the seconds ticking away to the beat of my heart, and when he doesn’t move or make a sound, my hope falters.

  What’s he waiting for? What’s he scared of?

  Getting tired of this game, I decide to give him a small push. With my backside facing him, I scoot backward so I’m closer to him in this large bed.

  “Cold,” I mumble, and then wait on bated breath to see if he spoons me, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me into his chest.

  But I come up short again.

  Absolutely nothing on his end.

  No words. No touching. I don’t even hear his breath. Is he dead over there?

  God, he’s infuriating.

  Just touch me. For the love of God, just touch me.

  He shifts.

  I still.

  My cheeks heat up, my toes tingle, and the juncture between my legs throbs so unbelievably that I might start crying from how much I need his touch.

  I’m going to count to twenty again, and if he doesn’t touch me in the next twenty seconds, I’m going to touch myself. No shame, no holding back anymore. I’m going to ease this deep ache.

  One, two, three . . .

  Come on, Rath, please touch me.

  Five, six, seven . . .

  I might hyperventilate from need, from the raging pulse in my body.

  Ten, eleven, twelve . . .

  Tears form in my eyes.

  Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .

  I lower my hand just as the mattress shifts again.

  I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my throat, my anticipation so heady that I can feel it deep in my bones.

  And then . . . the lightest, featherlike touch runs along my side.

  If I wasn’t so acutely aware of his every move, I may not have felt it, but it was there. Wasn’t it? Was I imagining that?

  I start to doubt myself as I feel it again. This time it’s two fingers along the slope of my side.

  Now three fingers.

>   Four . . .

  His palm drags along my skin and my body screams in joy. He runs his hand up my side and down to my hip, then back up again.

  Wanting to encourage him, I groan and shift backward again, landing my bare ass right against his hard erection.

  “Fuck,” he mutters on an exasperated breath. “I’m . . . hell, I’m sorry, Charlee. I shouldn’t be touching you,” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear. “But I couldn’t hold back any longer. I need to know what your skin feels like.”

  “Then feel it,” I say, turning on my back so his hand lands on my stomach.

  My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark to see the burning in his eyes. His large hand spans across my stomach, his touch causing me to hollow out in anticipation.

  “Charlee,” he breathes.

  Not saying anything, I take his hand in mine and ever so slowly lower it to my waistline and then back up.

  “Feel me, Rath. Explore me.”

  “Fuck, I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”

  “But you want to.”

  “So fucking bad. I want you,” he growls, his mouth pressed against my ear as his hand slips to my side and he grips it. “I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as badly as I want to fuck you. I’ve never thought about anyone as much as I think about you. And I’ve never wanted to claim someone’s mouth more than I want to claim yours.”

  “Then do it,” I say in desperation, as I try to move his hand again, but it’s motionless like a viselike grip on my hip.

  “Can’t,” he says, making every nervous flutter inside me die instantaneously. “Swore I wouldn’t.”

  Unsure of what to do, but amped up nonetheless, I hold back the tears of frustration and resort to the last tactic in my toolbox.

  If he’s not going to give me relief, then I’ll give myself relief.

  I push away from him as he says, “Charlee,” in a whisper, but I don’t pay attention. I spread my legs and reach between them, not surprised at my arousal, and how turned on I am. The minute my fingers connect with my pussy, I start rubbing my clit.

  It doesn’t matter that he’s right next to me, hearing what I’m doing, feeling the movements of the covers. What matters is that I’m seeking the relief I deserve. Need.

  I move my other hand to my breast, giving my nipple a pinch, which causes me to moan and my hips to undulate against my hand.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Ah, yes,” I moan, finally starting to feel right.

  “Charlee, answer me.”

  “What does it . . . seem like?” I answer, my voice becoming strained.

  He moves to my side of the bed and grips my wrist, stopping me from continuing.

  “Rath, let go. Just because you’re too much of a chickenshit to fuck me doesn’t mean I need to lie here without finding my own release.”

  Getting closer, his forehead against my temple, he whispers, “Do not fucking touch yourself while you’re in the same bed as me.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s disrespectful.”

  That makes me laugh. Straight-up laugh.

  “As if you haven’t been jacking off when I’m in the shower or tub. I’m not an idiot, Rath. If you can play with yourself, so can I.”

  I go to move my hand but he stops me again. “Not with me in this goddamn bed. Do you hear me? Not when I’m here.” The roar of his voice is startling, and the way he strips my hand away from my body is shocking. But then, when he moves his hand back over my stomach, hope springs again and my legs fall even wider as the center of my body begs for more.

  Breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his fingertips slowly drag up my stomach and then back down. Up . . . and torturously down. With every pass, my stomach hollows and my hips thrust, but he never goes past my waistline and doesn’t touch my breasts. I squirm under his touch, impatient for more.

  “Stop moving, or I’ll remove my hand.”

  “Rath, I’m so turned on, and you’re making it worse.”

  “Exactly. I want you to feel how tortured I’ve felt this past week with you parading around naked in my home and practically naked in the office.” His hand stops right below my breasts where he makes small circles, his fingers barely skimming the underside. “I want you to know the strain you’ve put me through, sleeping naked next to me.” His thumb reaches up and brushes just under my nipple. “And don’t fucking tell me you haven’t been doing it on purpose.”

  “You haven’t made it easy either,” I say, lifting my chest, but he just removes pressure when I try to seek release.

  “I’ve respected our agreement. You haven’t,” he bites out, his voice so strained, so angry that my stomach flips with a bout of nerves. “Fuck, Charlee. I want you.” He drags his hand back down to my stomach but lower this time, right above my pubic bone. Shamelessly I squirm beneath him. “But this can’t happen between us. Because what happens after?”

  “We keep fucking,” I say out of desperation.

  “This isn’t a one-time thing for you?” he asks, moving his hand back up where his fingers dance around my nipple, circling, like a feather caressing my sensitive skin.

  “From the way you’re touching me, I know this isn’t a one-time thing. I’m going to want you any chance I can have you.”

  “And when we divorce, what happens then?” he asks, his fingers inching toward my core.

  “Then I continue to work for you and set you up on dating websites.” It will kill me, but I’ll do it.

  “You’re going to continue to work for me after we divorce?” he asks, his fingers now an inch away from giving me what I want.

  “I’m not giving up my job because we divorce.” I tilt my pelvis up and he pulls away. “Come . . . on,” I cry out, tossing my arm over my eyes. “Rath, I’m going to come just from you touching me.”

  “Then come.” His fingers play with my mound, dancing across it, moving to the side, but never gliding down the center, driving me insane, to the point that I can’t take it anymore. I push off the bed in hopes to lay him on his back, but his strength is too much for me and my attempt fails horribly as he pins me down by my arms and hovers above me.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Breathing heavily, I stare up at him. I can faintly see the etch in his brow, the desire in his eyes.

  “You don’t control what goes on in my bed. I do. Which means, you will be fucking patient.”

  He lowers his hips enough so I can feel his erection pressing against his boxer briefs.

  “Feel that, Charlee?” He dips his hips lower and slowly makes a wave-like motion with his pelvis.

  God, yes.

  My body lights up with every pass of his cock over my center. Arms out to the side, pinned down by him, I’m at his mercy, and I have no problem giving myself over to this domineering and electric man. Despite the anger flowing through him, this is the most alive I’ve ever seen him. I’ve seen bits and pieces occasionally, but the emotions passing through him are so palpable I can taste them.

  “You’re going to make me come, Rath. Is that what you want?” I ask, my body building to the moment where it will fall over the edge. “Do you want me to come without you inside me?”

  “Fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn you.” He pushes off me and scoots to the side of his bed. He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand in his hair, pulling roughly on the short strands. He reaches over to his nightstand and presses the switch to the blinds, illuminating the room with dim city light.

  That’s when I see the tension in his back, how stiff he is, how much he’s unraveling. A part of me feels bad that I’ve pushed him this far, but most of me wants him to unravel so he can finally let loose and be the passionate man I know he is.

  Scooting to his side of the bed, I run my hands over his back. His body stiffens from my touch and then slowly starts to relax as I press small kisses along the back of his neck and down his spine and shoulders.

  “Tell me you don
’t want me, Rath, and I’ll stop. I’ll put clothes on right now, end this torture. Say it, tell me to stop.”

  He stays silent so I run my hands up the front of him, taking in his strong pecs and rigid stomach.

  “Last chance, Rath.” I move my hands to his waistline, just above where his cock is begging to be freed. “Tell me to stop.”

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  Heavy breathing.

  So, with a whole bunch of courage, I reach into his boxer briefs and grip his thick length, marveling at how beautifully hard he is, loving the pre-cum at the tip. I did that to him. I drag my thumb over the head, spreading his cum over the tip and then around the rim, taking my time, being deliberate with my touch.

  He leans into me, his back to my chest.

  “Shit, Charlee.” His voice is defeated as he takes my hand and then turns, facing me. Cupping my cheek softly, his demeanor changes. “I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid to let this happen, because I swore I’d never let my hands touch you. But I don’t think I can keep that promise to myself, not when I have you like this, in my bed, wanting me just as much as I want you.”

  “Then let yourself take what you want.”

  “I don’t want this to blow up in our faces.”

  I lean my forehead against his. “Then we won’t let it.” Trying to talk over my loud, beating heart, I say, “I can’t think of anything else. All I know is if I don’t have you tonight, I might combust into a million pieces.” When he doesn’t say anything, I glide my hand up to his stubble and revel in the thick feel of it against my palm. “Please, Rath.”

  He exhales in frustration and turns away, his hands going to his hair.

  And that’s when I see it, how truly torn up he is about this. And I’m pushing him to step out of who he is and indulge in my fantasies. That’s not fair. Rath Westin is an exceptional man. He’s clinging to and respecting a promise he made to himself. I pause. My breathing is still labored, but I stop.

  If we’re going to make this work, maybe it’s best if we don’t cross that final line. Just like he said.

  Devastated and amped up simultaneously, I scoot off the bed and head toward the closet where I put my suitcase. Clothes, I need clothes, and I need to sleep on the couch tonight, no matter how stiff it is. I don’t trust myself to be good when we’re in the same bed. Not tonight.