by Lindsey Hart
Philippe tangles his hands in my hair and captures my mouth, drinking down the sounds of my pleasure. My entire body bursts into goosebumps, which is pretty crazy considering the temperature of the water we’re in. I arch forward and let my hard as rock nipples scrape across his hard as rock chest.
Holy. Shit. On. A. Fucking. Stick.
I’m almost relieved we can’t actually do this because his cock feels so big throbbing between my legs every time I gyrate my hips and let him slide past me harmlessly—a wet kind of dry humping I guess—that I think he might actually do some real damage if I let him inside, which is not going to happen. Ever. Because we can’t. Because I can’t, and because Granny warned me.
Except her warnings all seem very far off.
All drowned out in the ache and need that is tightening, churning, and spiraling deep inside me. Drowned out in each throb and thrust of his hard cock between my legs. Drowned out in every throb of my clit as the thick head of his cock brushes past it.
“Bed,” I pant into Philippe’s mouth. His tongue sweeps over my lower lip, and he grazes his teeth over it as he pulls away.
“Alright.”
He picks me up and stands so fast that I wrap all my four limbs around him and cling to him on instinct. He moves easily through the waist-deep water and steps out of the Jacuzzi like I wasn’t spider monkeyed around him. Our wet skin is slippery. Slick. Which makes me think of other things that are slippery and slick. Spots between my legs. Actually, it’s all I can think about. And I was right. Philippe does just fine without the water as he lifts me like I weigh nothing. He doesn’t stop for towels or any such trivial nonsense. Instead, he carries me straight to the massive king-sized bed and sets me down on the side that belongs to me, the side that isn’t all twisted sheets and scattered pillows.
My back hits the cold sheets, and I don’t have time to even gasp or register a proper, actual thought before Philippe gets on the floor in front of me. He throws my wet, jellied legs over his shoulder, baring me to him. I’m already so boneless that I can barely even open my legs, but I want to. My god, I want to. Especially when his head looms over me, and his long, dark hair brushes over the tender skin of my belly. Those strands are wet, but they’re still so soft. They feel like the caress of a feather. As he lowers his head, his breath comes out hot against my already cooling skin, but his mouth is even hotter, like a blaze of thunder and lightning and also every good and wonderful freaking thing in the entire world.
His tongue is magic; let me tell you. Pure. Fucking. Epic. Magic.
Oh, and then he adds a finger. He softly probes my entrance while his tongue swirls circles over my clit. I’m already gone. I’m already out of control. I can feel the sweet, amazing pressure gathering and tingling and pooling inside me. Traveling up from my toes, making them tingly and cold as the blood rushes up my legs.
“Philippe,” I pant. I tug at his hair like I’m a wild animal to try and get him closer. I shove my hips into his face, and my whole back arches off the bed. I twist and writhe beneath him, savoring the pleasure of his incredible finger inside me. Even if it’s not what I want, it’s like white-hot heat searing me from the inside out.
Suddenly, he lifts his head and stops. My eyes fly open to see what the delay is. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” I nearly scream. “Of course, I like it! Can’t you tell?”
He gives me a devious grin. God, his chin is wet. Glistening. And his lips are wet too. Is the wetness from the Jacuzzi, or from me leaking all over his face? Christ. “Just checking. Would you like more?”
“Argh! Yes! You told me you’d make me beg. I’m begging already. This is me telling you that you need to freaking let me come. Please. Right now. More. All the way.”
“Like this?” He slowly inserts his finger into my channel, inch by slow freaking inch. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Yes! Yes! Just like that.”
“Like this?” His hot lips caress my hot lips, around his finger, and his tongue sweeps a slow, brutal, teasing circle over my clit. No pressure. Just his tongue. Hot. Wet. Glorious.
“Y—yes! Just like that!”
All of a sudden, he stops again, and I have to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from letting out a scream of frustration. I open my eyes to find him staring at me like the devil himself, eyes shimmering so blue that they’re like the depths of the sea. Pupils dilated, eating up those irises. Lips parted and wet. Wet from me. Quirked into a smile because he’s obviously enjoying this.
“Maybe you’d like to ride my face.”
“I’d like to ride something alright and it’s not your face.” I let my head drop back to the mattress with a groan. Why did I just say that? I shouldn’t have put that out there. The thing we can’t do. The thing we absolutely cannot do.
“I could pull out.”
“Are you crazy?!” I sit up in a hurry again. “No! That is the worst plan ever!”
“Sorry.” He shrugs. “It’s the only solution. I’m generally controlled enough that there wouldn’t be any chance of messing it up.”
“Just the tip? Is that what you’re saying?” I whimper, thinking about his thick tip sliding into me, filling me and stretching me painfully. The empty, throbbing sensation roars back with a vengeance, and I let out a small groan.
“Nope. The whole thing. But I will pull out with lots of time to spare.”
“That seems like a horrible plan.”
“Actually, lots of people use it. It’s called family planning.”
I think back quickly. I ovulated a few days ago. The best chances of getting pregnant aren’t that great, even at the best time. So…if I’ve already ovulated, I should be safe. Probably. And it’s not like he’d actually finish inside. There would be no chance of that. It’s not a good plan. I know that. I know it. But the longer I think about it, the longer my protests and good sense get drowned out by the heat rising through me. By the thought of his massive cock inside me. By the orgasm to end all orgasms. Also, birth control is supposed to stay in your system for months even after you stop taking it, right? I’m pretty sure it’s true.
As I’m in thinking, he continues, “Never mind. That’s stupid. I’ll just…you can ride my face. Don’t worry. I can do some pretty impressive things with my tongue.”
“I have no doubt. But…I…are you sure that you could pull out in time? Like, a few minutes before? And finish yourself off while I watch?”
His eyes darken, and his nostrils flare. “Yes. But not if you keep talking dirty like that. I won’t even make it inside you, to begin with, and you’ll have to settle for what I can do with my other organs.”
“Just, please. Please, stop talking and…and get inside me already.”
Philippe straightens. It’s only a few heartbeats more before he’s pressing me to the bed, stretching all his delicious muscles over me. His body is the stuff of seriously wonderful dreams. Like people would probably actually weep and pay money to look at it. And now it’s touching me. His chest is pressed to my chest, and his hands are braced on either side of my face. His hips and legs are like granite pillars, and somehow, he fits. He fits between mine.
Philippe claims my mouth, kissing me so hard and deep that I can feel my head pressing back into the mattress. I can feel him. There. Right there. He’s so close—all hardness and heat and passion. I curl my leg over one massive hip and get my foot into position on his ass cheek—seriously, can an ass cheek actually be made of granite—and press in. At least, I try to press my heel in, but his butt cheek is seriously rock hard, and my heel does absolutely no sinking in.
“Are you sure?” he pants against my mouth.
“Yes,” I gasp. I just about bite his tongue since it’s swept into my mouth again.
His hips flex, and all of a sudden, he’s there. Soft, but also hard. Scalding. Thick. And right there. I wriggle under him, trying to tell him to hurry the hell up before I combust, and the entire bed catches on fire, and we lose our chance beca
use the sprinklers start going off overhead, and the fire department has to be called. I arch my hips, arch my back, arch my shoulders and neck, and arch my freaking tongue into his.
His hips flex again in response, and I can feel him trembling as soon as I reach up and set my hands at his shoulders to try and tug him into me that way. I can tell he’s trying to hold back. Trying not to hurt me. I feel the trembling, and I feel how big he is. He might act like he doesn’t care, doesn’t feel anything at all, but I can see him physically straining as he tries to make sure I’m okay.
I wriggle my hips a little, taking just a little bit of him. He’s huge. It does stretch me, and it does hurt. It also does burn, but I need more. I need him. All of him.
“Please, god, Philippe, for god sakes, just freaking…”
I tilt my hips as he flexes his. He silences my words with another searing kiss, but he gives me what I want. Just a little bit more, but even that feels like everything. He’s big, and I’m already full. All I can do is whimper into his mouth as he kisses me senseless. I writhe beneath him. I can already feel all the blood rushing away from all my extremities. My hands are cold, my feet are freezing, and my legs are completely numb. It all feels so good.
When Philippe moves his hips again, I arch up into him. Not only do I take him deeper, but I take all of him this time. It surprises me, and I let out a little whimper-scream into his mouth. I couldn’t have imagined what it would feel like to have him buried all the way inside me. Couldn’t have imagined how amazing it would be to have him hit spots I didn’t even know were a thing. But now, I know. Now, I definitely freaking know because he’s starting to move, and he’s creating pure fucking magic in there. I think he just started a party with unicorns and narwhales and llamas and succulents and all other trendy, artsy things everyone is so obsessed with. Because I’m obsessed with him. I’m obsessed with how he fits, the sparks he’s sending out with every single movement and thrust of his hips. Obsessed with the secret spots and all the inner wall buttons he’s pushing.
All I can do is lie there like a piece of overcooked spaghetti and let him teach me that I, in fact, up until this moment, knew nothing about my own vagina. He takes me higher. Higher and further with every single thrust. I’m barely conscious because I already feel like I’m flying. And he’s not even thrusting that hard. In fact, he’s barely moving.
And then, out of nowhere, I’m not just flying. I’ve been hit by a lightning strike, and I’m plummeting towards the ground. I hit hard and burst apart. The climax sneaks up on me from the tips of my toes, the ends of my fingers, and the crown of my head. All that blood flows from everywhere else, straight to my center, and bam! Orgasm city.
My vision goes completely black. I feel like I’m floating. Sinking. Flying. Falling. But in reality, I’m probably panting and gasping, curling around Philippe like a sticky starfish all while I vibrate as if I’ve just been struck with a cattle prod, which is amazing for someone who feels nearly catatonic. My vagina, however, is doing a happy dance. Detaching from me, burning her bra, and parading around the room screaming something along the lines of holy fuck yeah, this is living at last!
Philippe keeps thrusting even as I come all around him. He keeps thrusting, and I keep coming. All that pleasure keeps hitting me, bursting over me, and draining me until I’m completely spent. And then, just when I think I’m coming back down to normal, he pulls out, rears up on his knees and slowly, intentionally, and devastatingly pumps his cock with his hand. Over and over.
He keeps pumping until he’s coming too, in hot jets all over my quaking stomach, my trembling thighs, everywhere. And yes, it is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and yes, I do get a second mini-climax that is not nearly as insane as the first one, but I do get all shuddery and gaspy and breathless again.
“Oh my god,” I gasp when it’s over. I’m still trembling just a little, but my muscles have at least relaxed enough to obey me. “Oh. My. God.”
Philippe winks at me. “Good?”
“Yes,” I wheeze. “Of course. Or did you think that was me saying I hated it?”
“I was just checking.”
Before I know what he’s doing, he’s moving off the bed and picking me up so gently that I nearly weep. He cradles me against his chest, and we’re moving, moving through the room. I realize he’s taking me into the bathroom. He flicks on the light, and I think we both stare at the glassed-in shower at the same time.
“Are you for real?” I gasp.
“I promised you that you could ride my face. Do you think I’m not going to make good on my promise?”
“Holy. Freaking. Shit. I don’t think I can even stand up.”
“That’s alright. I’ll hold you up.”
He stalks towards the shower, and I know, for a fact, he’s going to have to hold me upright. I have absolutely no bones left in my body. All I can do is cling to him and bury my face into his chest, which smells all manly and woodsy. I feel like this is a dream. A really insanely good dream. Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up and know it’s not real. Tomorrow, no matter what my squishy chest and my heart might have to say about it, or even what my va-jay might have to say, I know my head is going to say something different. This is going to be another night we have to forget.
Another night that didn’t happen.
Because this is fake. I’m the fake girlfriend, and tomorrow, Philippe is going back to being my boss, and I’m getting a raise. This night doesn’t fit into that equation. It was never supposed to happen.
Sometimes, remembering is more painful than forgetting, even though I know it isn’t really possible. Forgetting, I mean. I could possibly, maybe, one day, forget the best orgasm of my life. I could possibly forget how Philippe’s hands and tongue and—uh—other things are beyond magical. I could possibly forget all of it, but I will never forget the fluttering or the ache in my chest, because I know I’m falling for a man who is completely off-limits.
CHAPTER 15
Sutton
Well, shit. Granny was right. This really is how babies are made.
By dancing. By drinking a few glasses of wine. By not using common sense. By touching. By kissing. By getting naked together in a Jacuzzi. By getting carried away. By sticking certain objects into other objects. And apparently, by NOT FREAKING PULLING OUT ON TIME.
I stare at the two blue lines on the cheap home pregnancy test I bought right after I got off work. When I got home, I went straight into my bathroom and forced out the few drops of urine I could. I had bought three just in case I wrecked the first two, or in case they gave false negatives. I’m three days late. I’m never late. Ever. I don’t think it’s ever been more than a day off in my entire life. And now. Three. Days.
I had bought the tests with a dawning horror. I could do the math…three days late, and two and a half weeks after the night that I slept with Philippe at his sister’s wedding.
Yup. Those lines are definitely blue, and there are definitely two of them. I’m most definitely screwed.
Philippe might get to pretend like that night never happened. Another night that never was. It just dropped off the face of the earth for him. That and the night where he shoved me up on his bathroom counter, and I let him lick me to orgasm paradise. For him, he gets away with pulling out too late. Or something. Although it really looked like he was careful.
I’ve gone through it a thousand times. He pulled out. It was at least ten or twenty seconds of him touching himself until he came on me. It was hot, and it just about sent me over the edge, watching him stroke his own cock. Watching him come and watching every single detail of the whole process. One thing I am certain of is that he did pull out in time. Obviously, it’s called the pull and pray method for a reason. It’s also why everyone says you shouldn’t do things like this. Because it doesn’t freaking work. Obviously, there was something going on the whole time he was inside. Accidental spillage. Precum. It’s what everyone warned about back when I was in high school.
Us
e condoms. Don’t get STD’s. Don’t be stupid. And don’t get pregnant if you don’t want a baby.
Granny is going to kill me.
I know tests can give a false negative, but I’m one hundred percent sure they did not give me a false positive.
So now I have two options.
Tell Philippe or don’t tell Philippe.
Really, it only leaves me with one option. Don’t tell Philippe.
I’ve heard him say, on multiple occasions, that he doesn’t like kids. He doesn’t want kids. He thinks people who have kids and have to take sick days to look after them are annoying. He gets bothered when people have family emergencies involving their kids or when they can’t get to work at eight and have to leave before four because their daycare sucks. He also has a ton of things going on in his life right now. The panic attacks. The nightmares. And he’s still grieving his father, or rather, learning how to do that because I don’t think he ever did it properly. He’s going to therapy now to deal with it, but a kid? It is the last thing he needs.
Philippe, so I know we don’t really even like each other, and beyond work and the occasional humping sessions, we hardly know each other at all, but are you ready to try and figure out how to raise a baby together? Because…surprise! I’m pregnant.
I wouldn’t say that, of course, but I’m pretty sure whatever I did say would go down about just as well as that. I think digesting the news would be like digesting a bunch of angry lobsters live and whole. Or barbed wire. Or anything sharp.
It would be bad. Really. Bad.
I have no idea how I’m going to tell Granny, but I already know I’m not going to tell Philippe. I’m going to have to quit my job. How am I going to find another one? I think you have to disclose if you’re pregnant or not, and I can’t get any kind of severance or unemployment pay if I quit. I know Philippe won’t want me to quit. He’ll try and talk me out of it, and I’m afraid he’ll know something is off. That I’ll let it slip. I’m going to have to just up and leave and not come back.
