by Claire Kent
“Nope,” she breathed, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Owen had lifted her other leg as well so her ankles were propped up against his shoulders. “Not even an inch. Everyone else gives you what you want, but I’ll never do that. My job is—”
She cut off the words abruptly—not because Owen was fingering her deliciously but because she realized what she was saying. She had been about to say something stupid about what her role was in his life, as if she held a special place there.
"Your job is what?” he asked, splaying his thighs out a bit more as pulled her hips up into position.
She let out a soft whine as he held her legs apart, lined himself up, and then slid slowly inside her, her body starting to bend in half as he leaned forward. “Job,” she gasped, trying to think clearly when all she was aware of was his hard substance filling her completely, then sinking in even deeper. “To…to…”
“To what?” he demanded, in quiet insistence, pushing farther forward until her knees were nearing her shoulders.
To take care of him. To comfort and support him. To challenge his cool entitlement to the world. To share his life.
All of this she wanted to do. All of this felt like her job.
And only hers.
But he’d never agreed to give her such a role in his life, so she could hardly just announce it out loud. So she pulled together a few scrambled thoughts and choked, “To make sure you don’t always get your way.”
He stared at her intently for a few moments, as if he were trying to figure out what she was thinking. Then gave an ironic half-smile. “Love, you certainly do a good job with that.”
She was feeling a mushy thrill from the endearment—which somehow sounded more real than it used to—when he leaned forward all the way, pressing her legs up against her chest.
The whine she gave this time wasn’t entirely from pleasure. She felt a little raw from all the times they’d had sex already in the last two hours, and he was now very, very deep. The pleasure was mingled with discomfort. “Owen.”
“Too deep?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted. “Usually it’s good like this, but after all the…“
He pulled his weight off her and raised himself again until he was sitting once more on his ankles, thighs parted to make room for her hips. He was still fully sheathed inside her—her ass lifted slightly off the bed—but the penetration was decidedly more comfortable. “Better?”
She nodded, and he raised her hips a little more, changing the angle of his entry.
“Good?” he asked hoarsely, holding himself rigidly in check.
“Good,” she assured him, squirming against him in an attempt to get some friction. Her muscles were already straining from trying to hold her lower body up, but this would definitely be worth a few sore muscles. “Let’s see if you can manage number six.”
Recognizing a dare when he heard one, Owen began to thrust, letting out low little grunts with every slow lever of his hips.
Amy could feel his thrusts hitting her g-spot, and she felt the familiar shuddering pleasure spiraling out from the contact. Biting down on her lip, she gave a muffled moan and wriggled from the increasing intensity of the sensations.
She could feel Owen watching her, and her whole body burned with a hot flush. Partly from a mild self-consciousness and partly from very strong satisfaction in the fact that the focus of that particular gaze was only her.
He was thrusting steadily and leisurely, pulling out as far as he could without losing the position, and then driving back in. On every upstroke, rich jolts of sensation would shoot out from her center, causing her to hum in her throat involuntarily.
Staring at his damp, ardent face, his hot, focused eyes, and his strong, graceful body, Amy was awed by the incongruity of actually having him in her life. Having him in her body. Doing these amazing things to her.
Even just for twenty-eight more days.
“Amy,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming more rapid. One hand gripped one of her ankles and the other was low on her opposite thigh. “Baby, can you come?”
She was about to choke out an immediate affirmative—the pressure, already interrupted more than once, had started to build quickly below her belly—but she clenched her jaw just in time. This was still a wager and she might not be able to cheat, but she wasn’t going to make it too easy for him.
Instead of answering, she made a silly, helpless noise of pleasure and reached above to grab the headboard. Since her head was tossing back and forth—making her hair fly around messily—and all the tension in her body was coiling up, she wasn’t sure her refusal to answer was particularly effective.
He had to know that she was about to come—her whole body was screaming with it, even if she wasn’t actually screaming.
She whimpered a little more as the pleasure started to crest, and she saw Owen gazing down at his slick cock sliding in and out of her body, a kind of primal heat taking over his face. He made a throaty sound of approval, picked up his speed, and started to grunt more urgently.
Swallowing over a cry of frustration, Amy couldn’t keep her arms from moving. Releasing the headboard, her hands flew back and forth from fisting the bedcovers to squeezing her breasts. She moaned harshly, her whole body tightening in preparation. She was jerking her hips as much as she could, but she didn’t have much leverage to get a real motion going.
His eyes still raking over her, Owen slid his hand down her leg until he reached her groin. Then his fingers pressed firmly into her clit.
She came as soon as he did so. She choked on the burst of pleasure, her body shaking—for real, this time—beneath the waves of sensation. She was vaguely aware of Owen making a choked sound as her muscles clamped down around him ruthlessly.
Tears were streaming from her eyes in her attempt to stifle everything she was feeling—the overwhelming pleasure and the deep emotion. She couldn’t force back any of it. Couldn’t keep her body and mind and heart from reacting to who this man was.
And soon he’d be out of her life for good.
Physical and emotional exhaustion had finally caught up to her, and Amy felt like she might shatter into pieces beneath him.
With a miserable groan, he pulled out of her, a little too soon for the move to be comfortable for either of them.
She turned over and buried her face in the pillow, needing to hide from him—hide her tears, hide how completely he’d turned her inside out.
“Amy,” he asked gently, his physical need apparently forgotten as real concern edged his voice. “Love, are you all right?”
“Yeah,” she choked out, turning her head once she’d controlled herself. Her shoulders were shaking a little, but she wasn’t really crying. “I guess this is what six orgasms do to a person.” She gave him a smile that was almost sincere.
He drew his brows together as if he wasn’t quite convinced. “Is that all it is? Say the word and we’ll stop. If it’s too much or if you’re not liking it—”
She shook her head. She did kind of want to stop, but not because she wasn’t enjoying this. She was just so afraid that one more orgasm would be her complete undoing. Afraid all her defenses would then be leveled, that she wouldn’t be able to hold anything back.
But stopping now would be cowardly, and she’d never been the kind of person who would run away when things got hard. So she grinned at him. “I knew you were afraid you couldn’t do it. Trying to quit while you’re ahead? Afraid you’re not going to win?”
He stroked her cheek, where a just-fallen tear was lingering. “Love,” he murmured, his voice so tender that she almost started crying again, “I think we’re both winning.”
She’d thought she had recovered her determination and was ready for anything, but apparently that wasn’t even close to being true.
Because the endearment sounded real. Like he really meant it. And it was all it took for Amy to lose it completely.
“Damn it, Owen.” The words came out of her mouth b
efore she could stop them. “Why the hell do you have to keep calling me that?”
Seven
Amy couldn’t believe she’d asked such a question, couldn’t believe the words had actually slipped out between her lips.
And now she lay beside Owen waiting for his answer, trembling and tense and almost strangling on the terror that rose inexorably in her throat.
For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something trapped in his expression as he reacted to her impulsive question, but she didn’t even have time to consider or verify whether that was what she saw because the expression disappeared as soon as she registered it.
It was replaced by a look of blank surprise. “It’s a normal endearment, isn’t it?” he asked, eyeing her with casual curiosity. “Would you prefer honey or sweetie or pumpkin pie?”
And—as simple as that—the danger was deflected. Amy wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or crushed by how easily, how indifferently, Owen had avoided saying anything meaningful.
She couldn’t help but be a little disappointed, even as she was relieved that she hadn’t ruined everything. She gave a chuckle that was just a little forced. “Pumpkin pie?” she repeated, making her voice sound amused although a heavy weight had settled in her gut. “I think I’d laugh hysterically if you ever called me that.”
He quirked his lips and wiped away the last trace of tears from her cheek. “Then I’ll see if I can work it into the repertoire, if only to see your reaction.” He was watching her face carefully as he added, his voice taking on a more earnest tone, “But, seriously, Amy, what would you prefer me to call you?”
She would prefer him to call her “love”—and mean it. Call her the most important person in his world. Call her his girlfriend, his partner—for the rest of their lives. Maybe someday even call her his wife.
But she wasn’t any of that. She was someone he fucked on the weekends. And presuming any more than that basic truth would only keep breaking her heart.
Looking him straight in the eye, she teased, “Pumpkin pie definitely tops the list.”
It wasn’t brief disappointment in his eyes, no matter how much she wanted to see it there.
She had to pull herself together. Had to accept what Owen was willing to offer her. It wasn’t insignificant. Just this afternoon, he’d given her the most intensely pleasurable experience of her life. She could be satisfied with that. Accept it for what it was. Not ask for or expect things that only happened in silly fantasies.
Concentrate on the sex. Just on the sex. The sex was incredible. How many women would kill for what Amy had in bed?
She closed her eyes briefly, assessed how her body felt. She was tired and sore and still tingling and sensitive in a number of places.
But she was definitely up for one more orgasm.
“You ready for number seven?” Owen asked, his hand gently brushing her messy hair back from her face.
She was ready, and she was going to use her last orgasm to regain the reasonable control over her world she’d almost lost this afternoon.
So she gave up on their wager. She hated to lose, but winning just wasn’t as important as saving her heart. And if it took coming one more time to make her appreciate what she had—and to not yearn for something more, something that could never be hers—then she was willing to suffer through one more orgasm.
But she couldn’t make love to him. Couldn’t do anything that would soften her, deepen her, make her want things that couldn’t be hers.
What she needed was a good fuck.
A few random comments from earlier gave her the hint she needed. She knew exactly what kind of sex would distract her, would get her mind off love.
She scrambled out of the bed, her knees wobbling a little as she stood beside it. She saw Owen’s eyes crawl greedily over her naked body, which was marked all over now from his hands, mouth, and teeth.
He wanted her. He had always wanted her. It was something—and something she should appreciate.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes settling once more on her face. “What about number seven?”
She put her hands on her hips, stretching her breasts slightly and feeling a little smile at Owen’s obvious reaction to the move. “What makes you think I’m going to make it easy for you?”
“You certainly haven’t made it easy for me yet. But I’m up for any challenge you throw my way.”
Amy glanced at the clock. “We have sixteen minutes left,” she said as a plan came together in her mind. Not a plan to win the wager, but a plan to make her focus purely on sex. To affirm what their relationship had always been about.
If Owen could do it, so could she.
“What your point? That’s more than enough time for me to give you one more orgasm.”
“Maybe.” She shifted her stance in preparation. “But only if you’re able to touch me.” She saw momentary confusion on his face, so she cleared it up for him. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
As enlightenment dawned on his face, Owen moved, as quickly and dangerously as a predator. But Amy had been watching and, as soon as he pounced, she squealed and raced to the doorway.
He was on his feet and had taken two steps toward her. Then he called out, “Damn it, Amy. I have a raging hard-on! You’re not actually going to make me chase you around, are you?”
Giggling, Amy skittered down the hall and waited. Her plan was working. She was excited, aroused, and breathing heavily. Was indulging in absolutely no mushy feelings, despite how adorably aggrieved he had sounded.
He appeared out of the bedroom, took a step into the hall—scowling, naked, and very erect.
“You don’t have to chase me,” she taunted. “You could always just give up and admit defeat.”
Owen growled at her in a way that made her shiver. Then he paced toward her, not running, but each stride long and purposeful.
Amy turned around and hurried into the living room.
She wasn’t actually planning to elude him for long. She wanted to have sex but wanted to get them both in the proper mood before they fucked. Running over to the other side of the room, she planted herself behind a leather armchair.
When Owen approached her, she darted away, leading him first into the kitchen. Then down the hall again. Back into the living room. And then finally where she had planned to end up all along.
In the corner near the window. Where she would accidentally get trapped.
He’d cornered here now, and he stood in front of her, looking impatient and aroused and dominant.
Amy lost her breath at the sight of him—but her reaction was definitely from lust and not from tenderness. She was flushed all over but she managed to throw out some teasing insults about what a wuss he was, just so he’d know how he was supposed to act.
From the clock on the cable box, she saw that they’d only wasted three minutes on the chase, which still left them plenty of time for wild, primal fucking.
No love here. Just sex. Nothing in the world wrong with that.
Amy waited until Owen approached her.
“I believe I’ve caught you,” Owen said in a silky voice, raking his gaze over her possessively. “I guess that means I can touch you now.”
“Touch me all you want. You only have a few minutes left, and you’ve yet to prove that you’re man enough to make me come seven times.”
She turned her back on him, giving him a hopefully tempting view of her ass. Waited.
Didn’t have to wait long.
Amy squealed with real surprise when Owen grabbed her by the shoulders and whirled her around. Before she had time to react, he had heaved her up over his shoulder and was carrying her back to the bedroom.
“Hey!” she shouted, pummeling him on the back with very little force. This was working out even better than she’d imagined. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You’ve had your fun,” he rasped, in a voice she found absolutely thrilling. “Now it’s time for both of us to play.” He
had her legs trapped with one arm or else she would have flailed her legs in a show of outrage.
But she squirmed enthusiastically until he gave her a swat on the bottom, the slapping sound of his palm on her flesh startling and strangely erotic.
As they approached the bedroom, she grabbed his sides for leverage and twisted her body until she could see around to the front of his body. She giggled in satisfaction as she saw his erection bobbing as he walked.
“You think that’s funny, do you?” he inquired, in a soft, dangerous tone. He must have intuitively realized what she was giggling at.
“Hilarious,” she admitted. Truthfully, it was more exhilarating than hilarious, but she wasn’t here to stroke his ego. “Poor Owen. Are you ever going to get to do anything with that thing?”
They’d reached the bedroom again, and he hauled her off of his shoulder and set her on her feet in front of him. She had to clutch at his shoulders to get her balance. “Oh, yes. I’m definitely going to do something with it. Exactly what you want me to do with it.” He pinned her with his eyes. “Ask me.”
She felt a deep jolt between her legs. “You know what I want.”
He turned her around until she was facing the mirror over the dresser and his hands skated over her curves with light, tantalizing stimulation. “Ask me anyway.” His fingers settled on her nipples and played with them in a way that made her stifle a groan. She stared at the mirror—mesmerized by the sight of his skillful fingers twirling her rosy nipples.
“Owen,” she said on an indrawn breath. Watched in the mirror as his hand dipped down to nudge at her intimate folds. Then they explored deeper. Found how hot and wet she still was. Despite all her earlier orgasms, she still wanted him again. “Fuck me.”
He grunted his approval, and she felt his erection pushing into her from behind. Then his hand was pushing into her back, folding her at the waist until she was bent over the dresser. “Like this?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yeah.” She felt pulsing desire vie with something else inside her. She ignored that something else. This was working. This was just hot sex. This was meaningless fucking. Nothing else. “Fuck me like this.”
