by Lindsey Hart
“Babies don’t get made by showering. That’s nonsense.”
My lips twitch. Normally, I have a really good poker face, but not tonight, apparently. I ignore Philippe and steer myself toward the insanely huge kitchen. “I’m sure I can find something to work with in your kitchen. You don’t have anything that’s going to kill you, so whatever I make should be fine.”
“You could always order in. Use the company card.”
I happen to have the card number memorized after all these years. I make a sound, low in my throat. “I don’t think we’d find a place we could mutually enjoy.”
“I’m sorry I don’t eat bread products.”
“Or fat. Or sugar.”
“Vietnamese? That’s always good. If you can’t find anything in the fridge, feel free.”
“I never thought of that. Granny does really like it…”
Philippe slides his shirt the rest of the way off and walks out of the room—the expensive fabric balled into his hand—whistling. I’ve never heard him whistle before. The hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and my nipples peak. Damn it. They’re hard enough to cut through my bra.
I stand right where I am, not moving. My breathing is also coming out totally wrong. Those abs are haunting me. I’m starving, but I can’t even think about looking in the fridge, raiding the cupboards, or calling anywhere to get something delivered. How would they even get through the gate? I don’t know the code.
It’s been—uh—awhile since…well…okay, it’s been a damn long time. Like, a year and a half since I went on a couple of dates and did—uh—more things. I never thought I was an overly sexual person. I mean, I went on dates and stuff, but I never met anyone I clicked with. A few times, a few bad experiences, and I just thought the problem was me. Maybe I was defunct in that particular department or something.
How is it possible that I’ve worked with Philippe for years and never once thought about what he’d be like in bed before now?
Or in the shower?
Yeah, or in the shower. Wet. Slick. Water beading over those carved abs and rolling down his smooth, soft skin. Moving lower.
Philippe is my boss. He’s not even nice. This is just a fake deal, and I’m not really his girlfriend. He’s freaking buying my company. I even insult him on a daily basis in my own head.
But…those abs. Water. Delicious. Abs.
My biological clock is about to spontaneously combust. Will someone throw water on me if I burn up on the spot? Or smother me with a towel like a grease fire?
I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve never had a good and proper kiss before. Is that pathetic? Yes, it’s decidedly pathetic. I bet Philippe knows how to kiss. I bet he’s a great kisser. As it is, I’ve been kissing his ass for an epic amount of time. Maybe it’s time he returned the favor.
Crap, no. It’s a terrible idea. Just. Terrible.
I know it’s bad and wrong, but suddenly, I’m moving, trying to trace the same steps Philippe just walked. I can’t hear the shower, and I don’t know which way he went as the house is so big. I start imagining myself walking around like a rat in a maze, all while trying to find my way around. He was just kidding about the shower, wasn’t he? Of course, he was. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see anyone but himself.
But seriously. Those. Abs.
I think those abs fried my brain and short-circuited some wiring everywhere else because I’m still searching for the bathroom. For the sound of the shower. My ears perk up down the hallway like a bloodhound, and I zone in on the door. There’s definitely a shower running in there.
The door’s locked. It’s locked, and it should be because I’m an actual real creep right now, and I’m seriously thinking about opening it.
But then the door magically opens right in front of me.
Philippe is standing there, not in the shower at all. But I can hear it running behind him, and he’s still wearing pants, no shirt. Wow, those abs! They’re taunting me, fudging with my brain and good judgment. I feel drunk—drunk on those abs and Philippe.
“I thought you might change your mind, so I warmed it up and decided to wait for a few minutes.”
“You’re so…”
“Yes?” His left brow, as black as the hair tumbling around his shoulders, arches. Waiting. He’s waiting for me to say something.
Our eyes lock, and his eyes are so beautiful. So grey. So blue. I can’t decide which. Why can’t they ever be one or the other? Who has grey eyes anyway? And why does he have to be so beautiful? Beautiful guys are always evil. I know that. I do. This is also fake. He’s my boss, and he’s kind of a jerk, so why does none of it matter right now?
It’s his abs. They’re luring me in like a black hole to a galaxy of bad decisions. Philippe steps forward, and he hovers his hand near my arm. In response to his proximity, my hair prickles and goosebumps erupt under my sweater. He hasn’t even touched me yet, and already my body feels like it’s been soaked in gasoline and set on fire.
“Would it be okay if we practiced a kiss? Like you said?”
“I—I think I said hand-holding.”
“You’re standing at my bathroom door looking so terrified that there might as well be a herd of gluten-eating zombies chasing you. Your eyes are huge, and you’re breathing strangely. I can also see your pulse hammering at your neck. If you want to practice hand-holding, I’m good with that, but if you want something else…”
I thrust out my hand like I’m the gluten-eating zombie. Philippe doesn’t take it like a normal person, though. No, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he takes it, sending me into a near cardiac arrest, and raises my knuckles to his lips. My heart goes wild—skittering and beating all over the place. Now I think I can see my pulse at my neck as it’s jumping so erratically. His lips are warm. Smooth. He turns my hand over, and my whole arm is limp. My fingers too. I have no strength left to resist. I don’t want to resist. Slowly, he dips his head and kisses my wrist, making flames lick up my arm. He rakes his lips over my palm, scalding me. I close my eyes, so sure it couldn’t get any better, but then his lips part, and he sucks my finger into his mouth. His Warm. Wet. Wonderful. Mouth. His tongue swirls over it, and my legs threaten to buckle.
“Not…clean,” I stammer. “My finger. Probably dirty. Didn’t wash my hands.” I can barely formulate any words as I’m now so tongue-tied, drowning in the headiness I’m feeling.
Philippe pulls back but keeps a hold of my hand as he slowly licks his way from the tip of my index finger down to my knuckle. “Do you think it actually matters to me?” he asks huskily.
There’s more than a tingle in my lady dingle now. I feel like I’ve just grabbed onto a brick and fallen into a lake of water—the lake between my legs. I inhale sharply to try and gain control of myself, but instead, I breathe in the scent of my own arousal.
If I can smell it, can Philippe smell it?
I should stop this. I shouldn’t be bending, shouldn’t be reaching out, shouldn’t be cupping Philippe’s smooth, silky face. His cheeks are like satin and cream while his jaw produces a slight burn against the palms of my hands. He has more than a shadow going on, and the rasp of his stubble is like a lightning bolt straight to my clit. I should be turning around and getting the heck out of here, not standing on my tiptoes in heels. Yes, I still have them on. And no, I’m still not nearly as tall as Philippe.
He meets me halfway before I can change my mind. There’s something burning between us—more chemistry than in a science lab. I need to find out what it is, how it feels. What is happening. I want to experiment, even if we accidentally blow each other up.
Philippe’s lips descend to mine. The kiss explodes between us, blowing us up, alright. I might as well have just stuck a fork in a light socket. I feel tingling jolts all over me and a wild hunger I’ve never experienced. We attack each other’s mouths, and Philippe kisses me like he’s punishing me for the journal. I kiss him back like there really is a zombie horde behind me, and his kiss is the only thing that c
an ensure my survival.
My hands fall away from his face as one hand lands in his hair. My fingers tangle there, savoring the impossibly soft strands. He probably uses four-hundred-dollar shampoo. I’ve never actually had to order it for him, thank god. My other hand lands on his shoulder, and I sink my nails into the rock-hard muscle as far as I can, because yeah, he seriously is that hard. I sway against him, shamelessly thrusting my pelvic region into somewhere not even near his. I know this because I can feel his bulge, a HUGE bulge, throbbing near my belly button.
“Philippe,” I moan into his mouth. “God, you taste good. So good.” I tear my mouth from his and lick at his jaw, his chin, his neck.
“Sweaty,” he grunts.
“Don’t care,” I grunt back. God, I’ve turned into a cave person.
I don’t, though. He’s delicious. Salty. Masculine. Earthy. I inhale him, drink him in. I want to drown in him. He smells good. Like a mixture of expensive cologne and male sweat. Just so uniquely him. Delicious. All of it.
“I want you,” he says thickly, right before he tilts my face up and devours my mouth again. His tongue entwines with mine, and his hand lands on my thigh, trailing up and burning me. “Can I have you?” His teeth gently scrape over my bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth. I whimper and claw at him in response.
“But—but this is how babies are made. I’m…I’m not on the pill. I haven’t had actual sex in over a year.” After the words escape my mouth, I slam my eyes shut and curse at myself. Why did I just say that? Could I be any lamer?
Philippe’s deep rumble rolls through the bathroom, which is also huge, by the way. Just like the rest of the house. There’s a freestanding tub—the toilet must be in a separate room because I don’t see it anywhere when I tear my eyes open in surprise—and an even bigger shower. There’s also a double vanity. All of it is so new that it still has the new house smell. Kind of like a new car smell. The shower even looks like a spaceship on the inside. One big enough to take us to the moon. Or to orgasm galaxy…wherever we want to go.
“Relax.” Philippe smooths a hand over my hair. His pupils dilate even more as I watch him. “So soft,” he groans. “I’ve wanted to touch it all night.”
“I can’t relax,” I pant. “I feel like I’m going to die if you don’t…if you don’t fix me. Down. There. And you can’t, because I’m not on the pill.”
“I can’t get you pregnant with my tongue.”
Oh god. Oh god. His tongue. His tongue. Yes, I want his tongue. I want his tongue on me. Inside me. I want him to fuck me with his tongue. Even if I’d had good orgasms before, which I actually haven’t, really, I know Philippe’s tongue would blow them all away.
“Sutton?”
I shiver at the way he says my name. Dark. Promising. Promising me the world.
“Okay,” I whimper. I slam my eyes shut. “Okay. Don’t make babies with your tongue. Right now, please. Hurry up.”
CHAPTER 6
Philippe
My pulse is racing, heart thundering loudly. My cock is also rock hard. It’s throbbing so badly, and my balls are so tight that I feel like I could come just from thinking about touching Sutton again. I’m going to do so much more than that, though. Because she wants me, she needs me. And I need her. Desperately.
I spin her around with a growl and lift her up onto the vanity. She’s so light, so small, so delicate, and I’m so much bigger than her. I don’t want to hurt her. I just want to lose myself in her.
My knees hit the tile floor hard. It’s cold, but I don’t care. Sutton shifts, rucking up her dress as she spreads her legs. She’s still wearing her heels. God. I grip her thighs and guide them gently, further opening them up to me. I lift one of her legs and settle it over my shoulder, the heel she’s wearing digging into my muscles. I freaking love the little sting from it.
With her legs spread apart, I see she’s wearing red lace panties, but her legs still aren’t open enough. Her dress? It’s tight—tight around her thighs. As I continue looking at her, she shifts restlessly and tangles her fingers in my hair, tugging me closer to her. I set my hands on her thighs while she tries to spread her legs further apart because I can’t get to her.
Suddenly, a loud rip echoes through the bathroom.
We both freeze.
“My…my dress,” Sutton whispers, mystified and horrified. “We just ripped my dress.”
“Good. I’ll buy you another one. I push her legs gently apart, and the dress rips more.
“What am I supposed to wear home?” She scoots forward, and there’s another loud rip.
“I’ll lend you a shirt. A blanket. Whatever it takes.”
“I have to cab back!”
“I have another car. I’ll drive you.”
“Of course. Why didn’t I think of t—oh…oh my god.”
I bring my face near her panty clad core. I should take my time with her, but I can’t. This is supposed to be foreplay, I think, but I’m too far gone. My dick is running the control center right now, and it’s telling me to get a taste of her. I don’t brush her panties aside. Instead, I suckle the lace straight into my mouth. The taste of her blooms all over my tongue and my cock jerks, my balls tightening up even further. I’m aching all over.
“Taste…amazing,” I groan.
“Philippe…” Sutton’s nails dig into my scalp.
I brush her panties aside and run my finger over her soaked core. I want to plunge it inside her, but instead, I lean in and trace her seam with my tongue. She goes wild, thrusting her hips into my face and grinding against my mouth. I take my time, dipping my tongue into every part of her. Tasting. Wanting. Aching. I finally press my tongue to her clit, and she throbs against it. She’s so wet.
I continue tasting her with my tongue while I coat a finger in her wetness and tease at her entrance. She makes a sound that is a cross between insane pleasure and being murdered. I think it’s a good thing, so I slide in further, burying my finger inside her. She’s tight. My god, she’s so tight. I can’t imagine her channel wrapped around my dick because I’m about two seconds away from losing it as it is.
I lap up her arousal while I work her with my finger. I tease over her clit, and her whole body jerks. I do it again. And again. I can feel Sutton’s legs tensing around me. Her whole body tenses. The heel of her shoe digs in a little harder into my back as I thrust into her in even strokes, drawing it out for her. I could pinch her clit, and I know she’d be gone if I did that, or press my tongue there hard, but I want to keep her writhing and panting against me.
“Please,” she begs, nearly ripping my hair out. “Please, Philippe, I’m going to die. Just…just kill me already. Please. Christ. Now.”
My cock is so swollen, my balls ready to burst. If I keep at this any longer, I’m not going to be able to hold back. I’ve never come without any stimulation before. Never. I’m not exactly sure it’s overly sexy either, so I hold back. Barely. But I give Sutton what she wants. I curl my finger inside her, thrusting it deep while I suckle her clit. I keep sucking on it until I feel her rise and shatter.
Her back arches as her hips ram into my face, and she bucks against my mouth, riding me, riding out her pleasure. She clenches tightly around my finger, wave after hot wave.
I manage to wait until she comes down a little from her high before I pull away gently and sweep her off the sink. “Vietnamese.” I thrust her towards the door as gently as possible. “Please. Order. Now,” I barely manage to grunt out. I shut the door on her mystified face, lock it, and nearly tear off my pants and boxers. I step into the shower quickly, wrapping my fist around my dick.
That’s all it takes. My hips jack into my hands, I see stars, and I come hard, so hard that my teeth ache. I also nearly bite my tongue in half as I try to be quiet, and I come until my balls are drained and empty. My knees nearly give out, and I have to throw out an arm and brace myself against the shower wall to keep from falling over.
A few minutes later, my vision clears,
and I can actually think. Not clearly, but at least there is some blood flowing back to my brain. I’ve never lost control like this, and I’ve definitely never come like this before either. It can’t happen again. Sutton is my fake girlfriend for my sister’s wedding, and she’s also my secretary. Who I just…just tasted. As a matter of fact, I can still taste her. Earthy. Feminine.
Freaking Hell.
This is seriously not okay. I crossed a thousand lines. I had no intention of doing this with her when I invited her back to my place for dinner. I just felt horrible and wanted to get out of my sweaty clothes. Have a shower, talk with her.
I still have to talk with her. She’s out there, probably wondering what the hell just happened—maybe regretting it. What would be worse? If she did, or if she didn’t? Maybe she’ll tell me I suck at giving orgasms and that she detests me as much as before. That would be best. I should go out there and make sure she knows it can’t happen again and that I’m not a nice guy, in no uncertain terms, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m exhausted. Tired. And I can’t summon up the energy to be a dick at the moment.
Not even my dick can be a dick right now.
I wash my hair and shut the shower off. There’s a huge white towel on the rack that I dry off with and wrap around my waist. When I crack the bathroom door open, Sutton is thankfully not standing out there. I’m able to escape to my room down the hall and get dressed in peace.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I don’t bother combing my hair back. Instead, I slick it back with my hand and venture off to find Sutton. She’s in the kitchen. When she hears me enter, she whirls around like she’s been caught doing something terrible, but she was just standing there, staring at nothing at all. Blankly. Yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel too.
She does a double-take, her eyes roaming over me. Confusion and heat flare in those pretty, dark depths when they meet mine. “You’ve never worn jeans before.”
“I have. Trust me.”
