But I don’t.
Instead, I draw her further into the room. I tilt up her chin, kiss her mouth, gently turn her around and find the zipper tab at the back of her dress.
Slowly, I begin pulling it down, exposing her lovely shoulders to my eyes.
Her skin is pale gold in the lamplight. It begs to be kissed and I oblige, kissing the nape of her neck, and as I kiss, I bring the zipper lower and lower until the dress lies open to the base of her spine.
Just below the zipper, I see a hint of black.
I touch my finger to it. It’s silk. Panties. Black silk panties. I hold her by the hips, bend to her, kiss that sliver of silk.
Bailey moans. Her hands bunch at her sides.
I slip my hand inside the dress.
The silk is as warm and smooth as her skin. I remind myself to go slow, but I can’t resist turning her to face me, then sliding my hand between her thighs…
Cupping her.
Ah, God!
She’s hot as flame. And wet. She’s soaked, and I don’t know which of us moans first, she or I, as all that heat and dampness kisses my palm.
I look at her face She’s more than beautiful. Her head is thrown back. Her lashes are lowered. Her lips are parted and her cheeks are flushed.
I clasp her shoulders.
“Sweetheart,” I whisper. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
I want her watching me as I undress her.
As I make love to her.
As I make her mine.
Slowly, her lashes lift.
Even more slowly, I draw the blue silk dress down. When it reaches her breasts, she clasps my wrists.
I kiss her.
She lets go of my wrists. I lower my head and kiss the lovely slope of her breasts.
She is breathing hard. Sighing. Trembling.
I tug at the dress. It slides to her waist. To her hips.
It falls to the floor. I take her hand and she steps free of it.
I groan.
The sight of her is beyond anything I’ve imagined and now, in a rush of sharp honesty, I know I’ve been living this in my dreams for a long time, this moment of seeing what was hidden within those baggy suits, because some part of me always knew my Bailey was like this.
Lovely. Incredibly lovely.
And look at what she’s wearing!
A lacy black bra that makes an offering of her breasts. Panties that are nothing more than a tiny black triangle. And, sweet Jesus, thigh high stockings with those spiked heels…
“Casey,” she whispers.
I blink. “My sister?”
“She insisted. She said if I were going to be different, I had to feel different straight down to my skin.”
I grin. My sister’s some piece of work, but I don’t want her in my head right now, especially because I suddenly recall what she’d said about not hurting Bailey. Hurting her is the last thing I want to do, but…
“What?” Bailey asks.
I hesitate. “I just thought…” I hesitate again. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“This?”
I nod. “You. Me. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want…”
My shy, quiet, reserved PA digs her hands into my hair and hauls my face down to hers.
“If you knew anything about what I want,” she says fiercely, “you’d know that I’ve wanted this forever. You. Me. Exactly like this.”
I swing her into my arms and silence her with a kiss as I carry her to the bed and put her down on it. She reaches for me, but I’m unbuttoning my shirt, toeing off my shoes and socks, undoing my belt…
“Hell!” I shake my head. “I don’t have a condom.”
Bailey smiles. “It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”
Good. Great. Two questions answered. Yes, we can fuck. And no, that ridiculous idea I had a while back about her being a virgin is just that. Ridiculous.
I leave on my boxers. Not that they’re hiding much.
I am big to begin with. I think I already told you that. Now, I am more than big. My dick feels enormous, and from the way Bailey gasps when she looks at the tent my erection has made in my boxers, enormous may just be the appropriate word.
I sit down next to her.
“I want to see you,” I whisper, and I ease her up against the pillows, reach behind her and unhook her bra. She reacts instinctively, covering her breasts with her hands. It’s a sweet, old-fashioned gesture that makes me lean forward and brush my lips over hers.
I clasp her wrists, bring her hands down, and look at her.
I feel my throat constrict.
Her breasts are perfect. Not too small. Not too large. They’re—perfect. So are her nipples. They’re the palest shade of pink. They look delicious and, slowly, I bend my head and lick first one and then the other.
Bailey responds as if she’s touched a live electric wire. She gasps; her back arches. She gives a soft, keening cry. It’s the kind of response a man wants. A total turn-on, as if I’m not already turned on way beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. I run the back of my hand across her nipples. Then I feather my fingers over them; I use my thumbs and index fingers to play with the tender, lovely flesh.
Bailey is going wild and it’s all I can do not to rip off our remaining clothes and plunge into her, but as badly as I want that, I want to bring her pleasure even more.
Her hand closes over mine.
It’s as if she’s stroking herself with me, and I hear myself groan.
How much more can either of us take?
I whisper her name. Then I bend to her, close my lips around a nipple and suck. She sobs my name. Falls back against the pillows. Her hair is like dark silk against the white linen.
“Matthew,” she says brokenly. Her hips lift.
And I know the answer to my question is that I can’t take much more.
I kiss her throat. Her breasts. Her belly button.
Her hands are in my hair. She’s making little crooning sounds as she arches towards me. I am still kissing her. She tastes like honey. Like cream. She tastes like Bailey, and I wonder if I somehow always knew this would be the way she tastes.
I reach the place where the black silk panties kiss her skin. I ease the panties down her hips. Her thighs. Her legs.
Then, only then, I give myself permission to look at her again.
There has to be a better word than beautiful to describe her.
She is everything a woman can be. Her face. Her breasts. The feminine curve of her hips. The soft, dark curls between her thighs. How can I not kiss my way down to those curls?
I press my mouth to her belly. I go lower. Lower. Her breath hisses through her teeth. When I am almost where I need to be, she shakes her head and puts her palms flat against my chest.
“Wait,” she says, “Matthew, wait—”
I can’t wait. If I do, I’ll die.
I clasp her hands, bring her arms above her head and kiss my way to those delicate curls. I nuzzle her. Breathe against her. I urge her to open to me and, at last, she does. I press my mouth to the petals of the pink flower her parted thighs reveal. I lick, kiss, tongue her sweet clit…
She cries out into the silent room and comes apart.
Her response shatters the last of my control. I tear off my boxers, slide my hands under her ass, lift her to me and enter her.
I shudder with the pleasure of it.
She is hot and slick. And tight. So tight.
Then she gasps. Not with pleasure. I have found a barrier…
The crazy idea that she’s a virgin isn’t crazy after all. My Bailey is a virgin. Pills or no pills, she’s never been with a man before.
I go completely still.
My head spins. A virgin? I’ve never been with a virgin before, but I know enough to realize getting past that barrier of tender flesh will be painful. I’m going to hurt her when what I want is to pleasure her. I have to stop. Withdraw…
“Please,” she sobs. “Please, please, pl
ease. Matthew. Don’t stop. Don’t…”
She lifts herself to me. Impales herself on me.
The world tilts.
Somehow, I manage to hold still. I can feel her body accepting mine, adapting to the intrusion. Sweat beads my forehead. I am shaking. I wait. I wait.
Bailey moves her hips.
She moves again.
Slowly, I slip forward. Very slowly. Slowly enough to kill me. One sweet inch at a time. She moans. I go very still.
“Am I hurting you, sweetheart?” I whisper.
Her eyes meet mine. Her hand cups my face. I turn my lips to the center of her palm.
“Matthew,” she sighs as she lifts herself to me.
I shift my weight. I am taking her just as she is taking me. She is gasping. So am I.
And then finally, finally, I am there. I am inside her. Deep inside her. Her heat, her softness. All mine.
All mine.
At first, I am afraid to move. But my Bailey is afraid of nothing. She rocks against me. Gently. Then harder. Harder. And finally I stop thinking, stop worrying, I say her name and it has to be now.
The need to have her, take her, possess her is all I know.
I bend to her; she lifts to me. She wraps her hands around my biceps. We find a rhythm and it’s perfect—but it isn’t enough. I need more. I need to see her come.
I need her to surrender to me, to me, to me…
Her muscles begin to contract around my swollen dick. She sobs my name. I am driving into her. I am lost within her…
She cries out. Her body arches like a bow, and she splinters in my arms. Then, only then, I throw back my head, I let go, and we fly into the night together.
* * *
I lie sprawled over her. I outweigh her by at least seventy pounds and I know I have to move, but the world is still tilting. Finally, I lever myself away and roll to my side with her in my arms.
I feather kisses over her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “Bailey? Honey, are you okay?”
Yeah, I know. It’s the most banal after-sex question imaginable, but I have to ask. Did I hurt her? Does she have regrets? Not that I can do anything about either of those things now.
She sighs. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because—”
She lifts her head and gives me a long, tender kiss. “Stop worrying,” she says gently.
“I’m not worrying.” Hell. Of course I’m worrying. I have never taken a woman’s virginity before. “Do you need something?” I ask, as I go from banal to foolish. “Water? A towel? Anything?”
She laughs softly. “I need to get up, that’s all.”
She feathers another kiss over my lips. Then she starts to shift away and I stop her.
“Bailey? I didn’t plan this. I mean, I didn’t think…” Liar! “What I mean is, I didn’t plan it. But I thought about it. About us, like this…”
She lays her hand lightly over my mouth. “So did I.”
I blink. “You did?”
She blushes. “Yes. Now let me get up. I have to, you know, I have to wash up.”
Reality hits. Shit. I have all the sensitivity of a bull moose. She’s probably bleeding. Because of me. Because I took—
“And stop being such a male chauvinist,” she says lightly. “You didn’t take anything.”
Hell. Did I say that out loud? “That’s sweet of you to say, but—”
“Matthew.” She rises up on her elbow. Her hair swings over the side of her face. I slide my hand into all that lovely silk and draw her to me for another kiss. “Matthew,” she says, a little breathlessly, “this isn’t some Victorian novel. Making love was as much my idea as yours.”
I laugh and tug her down into my arms again. “What happened to my prim and proper PA?”
“You set her free,” she says as she traces the outline of my mouth with the tip of her index finger.
I am delighted by her sexy confession. “Really,” I say, sucking her finger into my mouth.
“Yes, really. Now, come on. Let me up. I promise, I’ll be right back.”
I let go of her and she rises from the bed. The chambermaid has left white velour robes on chairs on either side of the nightstands. Bailey reaches for hers, but first I get a look at her from the rear. She reminds me of an Impressionist nude. Rosy skin. Long lines. Gentle curves. Even her ass is a work of art.
I wait until she closes the bathroom door before I check the sheets. If there’s blood, I don’t want her to have to deal with it. No. The sheets are pristine.
I roll onto my back, fold my arms beneath my head and stare up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. I am not a jerk who compares making love with one woman to making love with another, but there’s no escaping the fact that this was…
Incredible.
Man. It was amazing—but as amazing as it was, now what? I have gone from being my PA’s boss to being her lover. And one of the basic rules in business is that you don’t sleep with someone who works for you.
The realization wipes the smile from my face.
Coop warned me of where this was heading. So did Casey. I warned myself, for Christ’s sake. Despite all of that, here I am, lying in a bed that bears the scents of sex and woman, waiting for Bailey to come back so we can make love—and what’s with the making love thing? We fucked, is what we did.
And we’ll do it again.
Why not?
I don’t have statistics to back me, but I’m damn sure that the Basic Rule thing gets ignored a lot. You just have to set the right parameters…
The right parameters?
What in hell does that mean? What will it mean once we’re back in the real world? If she won’t even address me as Matthew in the office, she’s sure as hell not going to want to do anything like this. I know my Bailey. She’ll have rules. No fucking before noon. No fucking on my desk and, hell, the very thought of bending her over that gleaming glass surface, pulling down her panties and taking her while life outside my locked door goes on its humdrum way has me turning hard again.
Okay. The thing to do is end this now. Get up. Tell Bailey this was great, but it was a mistake…
The bathroom door opens. In the second before she switches off the light, Bailey stands silhouetted in the doorway, the white robe untied and framing her body.
Everything logical drains from my head.
Or maybe everything logical rushes into it.
This isn’t about fucking or about figuring out the rules. It’s about being with this woman.
“Matthew?”
I sit up against the pillows, hold out my arms, and she hurries across the floor, straight into them.
I stroke the curls back from her forehead.
“Are you all right?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” she replies, and within a few seconds’ time, I know that she is all right, indeed.
* * *
We doze.
When we wake, I notice faint red marks on her throat. On her breasts. Dammit. Did I do that? Did my beard scratch her?
“What?” she asks, reading the look on my face.
I stroke my fingers over the marks. “My beard,” I say. “It left marks.”
She smiles. “Mmm. I know.”
“I’m sorry. I should have been more gentle.”
She puts her hand over my lips. “I love the feel of your beard on me, Matthew.”
“You do?” I say. I don’t know why, but her admission pleases me.
“On my throat. On my thighs. On my nipples.” She catches her breath as I bend to her and rub my face lightly against her breasts.
“Matthew,” she whispers, and seconds later, I am deep inside her again.
* * *
Later, she asks about my tattoos. Traces them with her finger.
I don’t really talk much about the tatts. I had them done when I was straight out of college, still trying to figure out who I was and how I fit into the world—something it took me a while to do.
But this is different
.
Bailey already knows how I went into a profession it turned out I hated. She knows endless stuff about me, so I tell her about Kathmandu. How Coop and I took six months to backpack our way through India, Nepal, Kenya and half a dozen other places and how Nepal was the one where I began to see life more clearly.
“Not clearly enough to turn down that Wall Street job,” I say, as I play with her hair. “But enough to learn things.”
She smiles. “Things?”
“Uh huh.”
I consider telling her about mindfulness. But she’s gone back to tracing my tatts, this time with little kisses. She starts at my wrist and works her way up my arm, across my shoulder, and she keeps going when she gets to my chest, even though I’m not tattooed there, and I don’t want her to stop kissing and touching and…
“Bailey,” I whisper, and we forget about tattoos and trips and lose ourselves in each other again.
* * *
We sleep, she in my arms, the sheet and comforter drawn over us. We sleep for hours and when I wake, pale gray light is poking through the sheer ivory curtains. Rain is pattering against the windows.
Bailey is still in my arms.
She’s lying with her head cradled on my shoulder, one leg high over mine. Her hand lies over my heart. Her breathing is deep and even. I want to kiss her, but I know I should let her sleep.
Liar.
I want to do more than kiss her.
We’ve made love three times and my dick is standing straight up again. Yes, it’s the way it usually begins the day—that famous male-salute-to-the-morning thing—but this is more than that. This is me, wanting to return to Bailey’s silken warmth; it’s me, wanting to hear her sweet voice chanting my name as she comes.
Okay. I won’t disturb her.
I’ll just—I’ll just ease her onto her back. Lower my mouth to hers. Kiss her. Nip gently at that luscious bottom lip. Kiss her throat. Her breasts because, hey, somehow the sheet and comforter have slipped down just enough to bare them…
Her arms rise and loop around my neck. Her eyes open; her lips curve in a smile.
The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 16
