by Remy Rose
His lips leave my neck. He begins kissing me again in the agonizingly slow, deliberate way he has, giving me time to think about how good his kisses feel in the space between them. His mouth, I’ve discovered, is as functional as it is beautiful. I have never been kissed so perfectly. I don’t want to let him know just what kind of major effect he’s having on me, but given that I’m not resisting and can’t seem to prevent the little sounds I’m making, I’m pretty sure he has an idea.
“Lie down,” he says hoarsely. “I want to feel you underneath me.”
Before I can respond, he’s guiding me down onto the couch. “Carlo—”
He puts a finger to my lips to silence me, easing himself on top of me and shifting so our pelvises are aligned. I involuntarily suck in my breath when I feel his erection pressing against me.
He chuckles at my reaction. “This is the effect you have on me.” His voice is rich and warm with desire. “And what am I doing to you, Cassandra?”
His right hand slides down to squeeze and caress my bare thigh as I gasp. The combination of his hard cock and rigid chest against me while he softly, slowly kisses my neck is almost unbearable.
Carlo puts his mouth back on mine, kissing me more forcefully this time and sucking gently on my bottom lip. I feel a tugging, aching sensation down low, spreading between my legs and all the way down to my toes. My arms are stiff at my sides, and I ball my hands into fists to keep them from touching him. I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the ping-ponging of my thoughts between thinking he should stop, and really, really wanting him to holyfuckingshit put his hand up my dress.
Suddenly, he draws back and speaks to me in an authoritative tone.“Lean up a bit so I can unzip your dress.”
“But I—”
“Do you ever just do as you're told?”
I’m pissed enough to come somewhat to my senses. This is like the third time he's acted like he has the right to boss me around. “Excuse me? Are you saying I'm supposed to take orders from you?”
His eyebrows lift. His smile is just a shade away from a smirk. “I'm saying I'm going to unzip your dress. If that sounds like an order, so be it.”
“I just—” My eyes drift to his mouth. Major mistake. I feel my indignation begin to evaporate. “I just don't want this to go too far.”
He studies me for a few seconds and then bends his head to kiss my collarbone, snaking a finger along the top of my dress and dipping it dangerously low into my cleavage. “Is this too far, Cassandra?” he murmurs, his mouth next to my ear. He shifts his hips again and my lower half is flaming, aching. God damn him, seriously, and his mouth and eyes and arms and all the rest of him.
Carlo rolls onto his left side, pulling me along with him. I am unable to move as his hand goes to the back of my dress to smoothly unzip it. I can barely breathe. He slides the dress off my shoulders and watches as I wriggle my arms free, feeling majorly self-conscious, even though I do have on one of my best bras—a sky-blue one to match my dress.
Carlo seems to approve. He unbuttons his own shirt, pulling it loose from his pants, and I try very, very hard not to gape at his smooth, hairless chest and well-defined abs. He looks chiseled and ripped and god-like, and I find that I do not mind in the least when he deftly unclasps and removes my bra.
Without saying a word, he pulls me close and breathes into my hair, my head tucked under his chin. I’m taken aback by how almost tender it feels, to be held like this by a man I have yet to really know.
Suddenly, Carlo is pushing away from me. What what? Are we done?
He sits up and reaches for my water glass, tipping it toward him and drinking slowly. I cross my arms over my breasts and shiver, both from the cool air and feeling vulnerable, watching his throat as he swallows and deciding there isn't a single thing about him that doesn’t exude hot.
The few remaining ice cubes slide down the glass and bump into his lips. He opens his mouth to take them in, sets the glass back down and removes his shirt. Now I can see the full effect of sculpted shoulders and muscular arms, the broad chest tapering down to a trim waistline.
He climbs on top of me, grinding his pelvis into mine a little more assertively this time as my arousal level soars. He’s sucking on the ice cubes in his mouth, gently moving my arms away from my breasts and then holding my hands above my head. My heart is banging against my chest, so hard it’s almost audible. What is he going to do?
In seconds, I have my answer.
Without a word, Carlo slides himself down so his mouth is a breath away from my breast.
Jesus...Christ.
I gasp as I feel him take my nipple between his lips, the chill of the ice cubes contrasting with the warmth of his mouth. He sucks gently at first, then a bit harder, the melting ice collecting around my nipple. My vagina is pulsing with the rhythm of his sucking—it is absolutely electrifying, and I bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
He releases my now rock-hard nipple and flicks his tongue over the taut peak.
“And now for the other,” Carlo said, looking up and flashing me a grin. “I believe in equal time.” He moves to my other breast and fastens his lips around the nipple, sucking and tonguing it, until I moan faintly.
This seems to excite him. He sucks harder, his hand revisiting my other breast to pinch and roll the nipple between his fingers. It is at the perfect level of pleasure bordering on pain, and just when I think I can’t take it any more, he takes his mouth off my nipple and moves abruptly away from me, the cool air wafting over my bare skin.
I scramble to a sitting position, breathing heavily and crossing my arms over my breasts, wondering for the second time if we are done.
And hoping, for the second time, that we aren’t.
Carlo sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I'm sorry.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I need to take you home, Cassandra.”
“Why do you—did I—” Easy, girlfriend! Play it cool.
I swallow and raise my chin slightly. “All right,” I reply, as if taking me home is a perfectly logical next step.
His tone turns brisk, matter-of-fact. “I’m not sure you're ready for anything more, and even though I can control myself, it's torturous. So we're at a regrettable impasse, and I need to take you home.”
Well. Apparently, we’re done. I don't know whether to be relieved or crushed. I’ve quickly learned that the feelings he evokes in me are always conflicting ones. Carlo himself is a study in contrasts, actually: gentle and firm, insistent and relenting, aloof and earnest. Contrasts, like what he did to my nipple with his mouth, pleasuring me using warm and icy.
I decide I’m more crushed than relieved.
I have to admit he’s right, though—as much as I might wish otherwise, I’m not ready and honestly don’t know if I ever will be—with him or anyone. Vulnerability is scary as hell, to say the least, and I’m leery of putting myself in that position again.
And yet I haven’t ever, ever been so turned on in my life.
Contrasts again.
Carlo slides on his shirt. “Your body is telling me one thing, but I need your heart and mind to want me, too. And I'm willing to wait—I don't want to jeopardize anything here. You're too important to me.”
He’s looking at me so sincerely, almost plaintively, that I find myself saying simply, “Thank you.”
Slowly, he buttons his shirt, staring at me with a piercing gaze and a hint of a smile as I put on my bra and work my arms back into my dress. He moves to stand behind me, zipping my dress and bending down to kiss me lightly on the shoulder.
Slipping on my sandals, the truth comes raining down on me. I crossed from fantasy into physical territory with Carlo. The reality was a million times better. And as much as it rocks me to my core to admit it…
I want more.
chapter eighteen ~ Carlo
Surveying my staff in conference room two, I’m struck by the realization that simple things—like this, providing a surp
rise Monday lunch of sub sandwiches and fruit platters for my employees—are really big things. Simple human kindness matters. It’s what people remember. I learned this from my stepfather, who told me never to underestimate the importance of relationships in business. It's as much about selling yourself as selling the product. People buy from people. And it had definitely been more than just the selling with Scott Miller. He had prided himself on being a businessman, but he’d genuinely enjoyed making other people happy: his wife, family, friends, employees. I learned from the best.
Being the boss could be rather amusing, because at social-type events like this one, you never quite fit in with anyone. Even when you'd try to put people at ease with small talk, still...you were the boss. Estelle is different; she's always been comfortable with me, and I think of her more as a business partner than a secretary (she would scoff at anything else), but the other employees are deferential and timid. I’m well aware I don’t exactly put people at ease. And I’m okay with this. Boundaries are sensible and necessary. Reassuring.
This boundary philosophy carries over into my personal life—although it’s a struggle with Cassandra. I’ve been unable to get her off my mind this weekend, despite going into the office, a hard-core gym workout and a hilly, seven-mile run on Sunday. It took every fucking ounce of my willpower to stop touching her on our date two nights ago. But I know it was the right decision.
Later that night as I got undressed, I relived being with her—even sniffed my shirt to inhale the faint scent of her, then quickly balled it up and tossed it into the hamper, chiding myself for being so goddamned ridiculous. In bed, I got a painful hard-on as I remembered how it had felt to kiss her, touch her...remembering how much I’d wanted to push up her dress, pull down her panties and put my mouth between her legs, bring her to the brink before taking her...I’d jacked off that night, and decided afterwards I needed to get a fucking grip.
I return my attention to watching my employees from this position on the fringe, glad they’re enjoying themselves. At least most of them are—Spencer, my quality manager, is looking at me and smiling nervously. The guy never seems able to relax when I’m around. I grin back and am about to walk over to try and put Spence at ease when I’m interrupted by Brock Dall.
“Nice lunch, Carlo. Impressive fruit platter, too.” He holds up a plate of strawberries and pineapple.
“Glad you approve. Thought I'd make Monday a bit more bearable for everyone.”
“This works. Hey, I also wanted to thank you for recommending your housekeeper. She started a couple days ago, and Jesus, what a difference compared to that other one I had.”
“Rosa is a gem. She's been with me for quite a while now. I wasn't sure she'd be able to take on another client.”
“I used your name, and she didn't hesitate to add me. It's always who you know.” He laughs. “How was your weekend?”
“Short. As usual. Yours?”
“Disappointing.” Brock pops a piece of pineapple in his mouth and chews noisily. “My date ended early Saturday night. Family emergency.”
“Hmm...”
“It was legit. I was right there when she got the call. Her father was brought to the ER for chest pains. Fortunately for him, it was a false alarm. Unfortunately for me, there was no action. But I'm not too concerned. And you?”
“There has been progress.”
“Define progress.”
“Things are moving forward at an appropriate rate. And that's all I'll say. If you think I'm going to show my hand, think again.”
Brock's piercing green eyes study me, his eyebrows raised. “No need to get defensive, friend. I was just asking for a detail or two—you know, purely for the entertainment factor. You've never been this close-mouthed before.”
“Let's table this for now, all right? Not exactly the appropriate time or place.”
“All right. We do need to share initial photos, though. Mine seems vain enough to accommodate that.”
“I'll see what I can do.” Cassandra isn’t at all vain. I can picture her wrinkling her nose at my request to take her picture.
“Just give her a line about wanting to be able to look at her anytime you want. Women fall for that kind of bullshit every time.” Brock grins. “I'm an asshole, I know. And I'm going to get back to my office. I'm working on that bid for Boeing. Thanks again for the lunch.”
Brock walks off, pausing to flirt with Darcy in billing who blushes and giggles in response. The guy has undeniable magnetism, but there’s something lurking beneath his charming exterior—an arrogance laced with coldness. Intelligent women who hang around with Brock for any length of time fall into two categories: those who want to “save” him, and those who want to chew him up and spit him back out. What’s remarkable, though, is that women in the latter group stay with him until they’re inevitably dumped. Brock seems to thrive on the turmoil he inflicts upon women, navigating his way through their sputtering protests on his way to find his next victim.
Cassandra would never be one to fall prey to Brock—no fucking way. She'd undoubtedly find him repulsive. I smile inwardly, thinking of her giving Brock a run for his money. And Jesus, here I go again, at my workplace with people all around, thinking of Cassandra.
I’m completely confident she wants to see me again, and I know I could have gone further with her. But leaving her wanting is part of the plan. I wanted to gauge her reaction when I commanded her to take down her hair, and even though she resisted initially, she did comply. It obviously startled her, being ordered like that. But that was a good thing, because being startled made her feel unsteady, and therefore more vulnerable.
“You're looking very pensive. Seems to be the norm for you lately.”
I’m jolted from my thoughts by Estelle, who’s standing in front of me frowning.
“Just thinking of ways to make this company better.”
“Your stepfather would be proud. If, in fact, that was what you were thinking about.”
“Ms. Perry, I'm offended. Are you calling me a liar?”
“I'm calling you preoccupied. Which, as we both know, is very unlike you. The question is, which kind of distraction is it—pleasant, or unpleasant?”
“I'm sorry...what did you just say? I wasn't paying attention.”
She narrows her eyes, but her lips are twitching. “I'm betting the pleasant kind. And if I'm right, good for you. Just don't turn into the womanizer Brock is.”
A pang of guilt. If Estelle ever found out, she’d lose all respect for me.
“I think you know that Brock and I are two very different individuals.”
“I do know. I just don't want to see you turn into something you're not.”
“You're quite esoteric for a Monday, Estelle.”
“I am esoteric every day of the week, Carlo.” She gives me a wry smile. “Thank you for the nice lunch. I'm headed upstairs to get back to work...my boss is a slavedriver.”
“He's not so bad. And he really appreciates you.”
She draws herself up straighter and responds in a brisk tone. “That's nice to know. I'll see you in a bit.”
I grin, watching her leave. Estelle has never been one to let her guard down. Which is partly why she understands me so well.
I go to the food table for a turkey sandwich and melon slices to take to my office. The employees begin to leave, taking plates of their own and thanking me. I need to get some work done this afternoon. All this musing about a girl I’ll only be with for a limited time is stupid and counterproductive. I need to untangle fact from fiction, reality from fantasy, until everything is laid out in front of me in a neat, orderly plan, like it should be.
Like I need it to be.
chapter nineteen ~ Cassandra
I decide that where I am right now is exactly where I need to be: at the stable where it’s earthy and grounding, immersed in barn chores. And even if I drift into thinking about Carlo and our date Saturday night, nothing will bring me back to my senses more than shovelin
g shit.
I called Teal yesterday to tell her about the date. As expected, Teal was excited and full of questions. It was fun, actually, talking about it. But I wish I could turn to someone who’d give me a more mature, reasonable take on this whole thing with Carlo—someone like my mom. It’s funny and kind of sad...I can be doing all these big girl things like dating and working two jobs and living on my own, but there are still so, so many times when I wish I could just curl up on the couch in my childhood house, lean my head on my mom's shoulder and soak up the comfort and safety of being mothered. Mom and I had gotten even closer because of my father's “transgressions,” as she called them. I don't want this for you, Cassie, she once told me. I can take it, but I don't want it for my daughter.
But she hadn’t been able to take it—not really. She’d baked and sewn and cleaned and gardened her way through her marriage, but the hurt, humiliation and anger from my father’s affairs was thick and heavy inside her. I’m totally convinced that this was the cause of my mother's rare cancer that ravaged her so quickly, ultimately releasing her from the pain she’d suffered for way too long.
After Mom died and my frozen heart thawed, the reality of the situation flattened me like a steamroller. It wasn't just the practical things, like the nightmare of dealing with a house in foreclosure, paying overdue bills and weeding out the remnants of Mom’s life crammed into flimsy, water-stained boxes in the basement; it was the uncertainty of my future as a now-motherless daughter. I didn't know how to do that. Stacey Larsen may have been a weak wife, but she had been a wonderful mom and had always been there for me, from lunchbox notes to weekly mother-daughter dinners out. Losing her was soul-crushing. And, like Teal once pointed out, this was part of the reason why I was so reluctant to love again. You're fucked up in a couple of ways, Cass. Teal is nothing if not blunt.
