by Hazel Parker
I haven’t been kissed by anyone in a long time, and I don’t know if I have ever been kissed with this kind of intensity before. I can feel an energy coming off of him in waves, barely restrained, but definitely there.
His hands fall to my waist, and I know that if he pulls me closer to him, I will very likely swoon off-balance. Between the wine and the kiss, my head feels like it’s about to float away like a balloon in a high wind.
As if sensing my distress, he instead grips my waist and presses slightly downwards. I feel anchored now, such that I can be buffeted by his mouth with no risk of falling over.
I somehow manage to raise my own hands and place them on his chest. I can feel the hard muscles through the fabric of his shirt, the strong pulse of his heartbeat.
The kiss intensifies even more. I’m trying without success not to whimper with pleasure as his hands begin to roam over my body. Everywhere he touches, especially where there is bare skin, wakes up and begins to sing.
Then he is pulling at my T-shirt, yanking it up and over my head and tossing it aside. My bra is quickly disposed of as well, off into parts unknown of the room.
Trent kneels before me, unsnaps my jeans, and hauls them down to my ankles, dragging my underwear right along with them. My shoes are gone before I know it, allowing me to step weakly, unsteadily free of the garments puddled around my feet, and leaving me standing completely naked before him.
He is still down on one knee in front of me. He trails his fingertips from the tops of my feet, over my shins and knees, and up the insides of my thighs. I shiver with pleasure and gasp as those fingers skate up the sensitive flesh there, then up and over, coming to rest on the blades of my hips.
I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin as he kisses my stomach, the point of his tongue barely grazing me as he begins to move down, down, down.
It’s gloriously agonizing when he veers off slightly, his mouth moving over the top of one thigh. His hands reach around behind me to cup my ass.
I try to say something, but all I can manage is another short, gasping sound. I don’t dare close my eyes, lest I topple over, but I’m being driven crazy by the things I see by keeping them open.
The flesh jumps along the inside of my thigh as he kisses a faint line upwards from the knee. When he can go no higher, he pulls back slightly. I can’t help but moan as I feel his tongue, barely touching me, slip slowly up one side of my slit, then down the other.
My knees are threatening to give way. Because I have no idea what else to do with my hands, I lay them on his shoulders. My fingers dig in deeply as the very tip of his tongue penetrates me. Spots flash before my eyes.
He releases his hold on me with one hand and brings it around. One finger slips inside me, and, finding me more than receptive, a second one joins it.
“Trent, that…” I say, but that’s all I can get out. The rest is a mixture of a sigh and a groan as his fingers begin to move. His tongue withdraws, moves up. A heat is beginning to radiate from below the pit of my stomach; a maddening tension is building up.
The sensation grows and swells until fireworks seem to go off deep inside me in small bursts. I’m left wobbly-legged and trembling, leaning all my weight on his shoulders. He stands carefully, supporting me under the elbows for a few moments while I collect myself enough to stand on my own.
“That was…” I say, but again my words trail off, failing me.
“That was a good beginning,” he finishes for me, and his head dips to my breast. That tongue is at work again, this time on my nipple, which is still rock-hard from the previous excitements.
Speaking of work, he has been doing all of it so far, and while it has been magnificent, it hardly seems fair. Now that I have command of my limbs again, somewhat, I reach out and stroke the hardness straining against the fabric of his pants.
He could take me right now, I think, right here where I stand; he’s that ready!
I have never felt so desired, so primally wanted. It makes me feel bolder. I begin fumbling with his belt as he unbuttons his dress shirt.
I had been right about his physique—he is in exceptionally good shape, the muscles across his torso and abdomen well-defined. His shoulders look as strong as they felt.
I help him out of his clothes, and we fall to the couch in a tangle of arms and legs, kissing deeply while our hands roam frantically over each other’s bodies.
One of his hands is on my breasts; the other is back between my legs, starting me on the upward path to ecstasy again. Only this time, I want more of him. I want all of him.
“Trent,” I pant in his ear. “I want you.”
“And I want you,” he says back, withdrawing his hand and using it to spread my thighs wide. Then he is between them, and I feel him push his way up and into me. It’s an almost unbearably good pressure that seems to keep building and building.
Finally, he is inside me fully. He pauses, maybe to savor the sensation, before he begins to move his hips, working in and out of me.
“Trent!” I gasp, wrapping my legs around his back and hugging him to me. His mouth is punishing mine, his tongue scouring. One of his hands supports his weight off me, and the other plunges into my hair.
He is so hard, I think he can’t possibly last long, and yet he does. His hips piston slowly at first, withdrawing almost to the point of him slipping free of me, and then he is sliding back into me all the way to the base of his rock-hardness.
A thousand sensations are exploding within me as he moves faster, with more urgency. All of them are nearly driving me out of my mind, and yet I want more.
“Yes!” I urge him, “Faster! Please! Don’t stop!”
He obliges, and soon he is slamming into me with full force. Each jarring impact is shoving me closer to an orgasm so strong, it promises to dwarf the previous one as Jupiter dwarfs the Earth. I am writhing beneath him, one arm locked around the back of his neck, bucking my hips back on him to meet his thrusts.
I am calling his name over and over, and then I’m just screaming incoherently as I begin to violently climax. I have never, ever come so hard in my entire life, and I put back my head and wail unabashedly at the joy and pleasure of it all.
My reaction tips him over the edge, and I feel him pulsing deep inside me. This causes another explosion to go off within me, and I arch my back against it, angling my hips so that he can go even deeper.
At last, we collapse against one another on the couch, both of us heaving for breath.
“What was that?” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“That was—” he starts.
“If you say, ‘That was a good beginning,’ I want you to know that I’ll die if I have another orgasm right now.”
He smiles, sitting up partially and looking down at me. “I was going to say that was incredible.”
“Incredibly incredible,” I say, not in the least bothered by the foolishness of my words. I doubt if anything can touch me enough to bother me at this point.
He holds up my glass. “Drink?”
I nod weakly. “Wine, water, something, anything.” I accept the glass, noting that my hands are shaking. I’m not sure I trust myself to drink from it without spilling it all down my front.
He takes a drink from his glass, then sets it down again.
“Steph,” he says, “this isn’t why I asked you here tonight.”
“Are you sorry it happened?” I ask.
He grins. “Not even remotely.”
“So where do we go from here? What happens now?”
He points out of the room. “We go to bed; that’s where we go from here. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of any other destination but that at the moment.”
“I still need to clean up the kitchen,” I say without any real conviction or enthusiasm. The professional in me only just manages to get the words out.
“Leave it,” he says, kissing me again. “Just leave it.”
It takes all my strength to round up my cl
othes from the four corners of the living room and follow him off to the bedroom, so I suppose he’s right.
We collapse into each other’s arms in his king-sized bed and are asleep barely a minute later. I have no dreams, but that’s all right—there’s no way mere dreams could compete with the reality I have just lived.
Chapter 12 - Trent
It’s been a long time since I’ve woken to “the morning after.” They had been less and less frequent as my marriage had imploded, until they had ceased altogether about a year before my ex-wife left. I haven’t dated much since that unhappy milestone, and haven’t slept with any other woman until now.
Fluorescent light is supposed to be harsh, but in my opinion, the morning daylight can be the most brutal when it comes to honestly putting someone on display, especially if that someone happens to be sleeping. All of the makeup and done-up hair and fancy clothes of the night before are wiped away, and you can see a person as they really are, natural and undecorated. It’s always a very telling moment.
You can’t tell who’s going to be a snorer, or who sleeps in an ungraceful posture, or who’s going to wake up looking like a completely different person than you went to bed with the night before. The morning light always tells the tale.
Steph is still sleeping as I sit up and rub my eyes, and she is beautiful. She looks like a study for a marble statue to be carved by Michelangelo, all graceful limbs and alabaster skin. She is lying on her side, facing me. The sheet has ridden down her side and exposes the top of one creamy hip.
Her breathing is deep and steady. She is still fast asleep. I lay back down and drink her in, her face, her hair, her body.
I don’t know how much time goes by, but it’s enough that I’m able to tell that the sunlight coming through the bay windows is brightening as it shines its glow across the bed. It’s as though it is spotlighting her in a slow pan for my gratification.
Maybe ten minutes passes, or maybe it’s an hour, and then she begins to stir. Eyes still closed, she stretches her arms and hunches her shoulders, her head tilted to one side. She makes a mew of contentment.
“Good morning,” I say.
Her eyes open. They are hazel, like polished exotic stones. They find me and slip shut again as she smiles.
“Yes,” she replies. “It is.”
“Did you sleep all right?” I ask her, tracing a finger lightly along her shoulder.
She shivers a little. “Like I’d been clubbed over the head. You?”
“Better than I have in a long time.”
She shuffles herself closer to me, burrowing into my side.
“It is still Sunday today, right?” she asks.
“Yep. And a much better one than last week’s, I might add.”
She frowns a little. “I should go. I have to get to work.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
She nods, her hair tickling my chest. “The restaurant business never sleeps. I have planning and prep work to do for tomorrow. Emails to answer. Menus to finalize.”
“Sounds like you’re going to be pretty busy.”
“I have a feeling you empathize with me.”
“You do?”
“I do. You’d probably gone into the weekend planning on working today, too. Am I right?”
“Well,” I say. “Okay, you got me…I did intend on going into the office this morning.”
She chuckles. “Another resident of the mines, it sounds like. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.” She sighs and settles back under the covers. “Trust me; I really don’t want to go in.”
“Things you’d rather do?” I ask, brushing the hair off her forehead.
“Yes,” she says. “Things.”
I think for a moment. “Okay, how about this—I’ll change my schedule around, go in later this afternoon. That way, I can take you out to lunch.”
She blinks at me. “You can do that?”
I shrug. “I’m the boss. I can do whatever I want.”
“Must be nice to rule over your domain like that.”
“Says the queen of three kitchens,” I add. She swats my shoulder playfully.
“You have a date, Mr. Stone,” she says and slips from beneath the sheets.
I give Curtis instructions to drive Steph home. He plays it cool, offering her a pleasant, “Good morning, Ms. White,” before leading her out and away.
I amble into the kitchen for a coffee. Curtis has already not only brewed a fresh batch, but he’s also cleared away all of the leftover materials from Steph’s cooking last night. I feel the briefest stab of guilt at the waste they must have gone to—when I was just starting out, that kind of neglect would have been unthinkable—then realize it had been a paltry sacrifice for the evening I had enjoyed.
The coffee, brown sugar bourbon, is strong, just the way I like it, and it begins sharpening my senses almost immediately. Time to plan the day.
I’m making a few notes in my planner when my phone rings. It’s Scott, following up on Tomasso’s impromptu visit to Steph’s restaurant.
“He gave her a rave review,” Scott informs me. He sounds incredulous. “This is not a man who raves over anything except how disappointed he is in something.”
“I’m glad he had such a good experience. I understand he has surgery coming up. Find out where and send him a get-well package for me, will you?”
“Thinking of retaining his services again, are you?”
“I’m thinking that if his word is the gold standard, and his word on…White is a good one, he may be inclined to use said good word on another occasion, one that might be advantageous to her.”
“I’m confused,” Scott says. “You were clearly out to dynamite the woman’s reputation and now you’re talking about helping her?”
“There was no dynamiting intended.”
“Well, you wanted her at least chewed on a little bit, otherwise you wouldn’t have hired a pit bull.”
“I can have a change of heart, can’t I? Look, just send something nice to Tomasso’s hospital room. You above all people know it never hurts to look after your contacts.”
“Just as you like, Trent. Anything else?”
I briefly consider directing him to send some flowers to Steph’s home address, even though she and I will be seeing each other later today anyway. I decide against it. I feel like doing it myself, rather than having one of my people handle it.
“No,” I say. “That’s it. Thanks, Scott. Let me know what you put together.”
“Always do,” he replies and hangs up.
I search up the top florist on my phone and am on the verge of calling when I stop. As long as I’m doing things that, according to Scott’s implication, are out of character for myself, I might as well keep going. I call Curtis instead.
“Yes, sir,” he answers on the first ring.
“Don’t bother parking the car when you get here,” I tell him. “We’ll be going right back out again.”
“Yes, sir,” he says again.
“Are you done with your first errand?”
“Yes, indeed. Ms. White is a very pleasant person.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “Even at this early hour.”
“She certainly is,” I say, overlooking Curtis’s friendly jab. He has intimated several times in the past that I should start seeing someone, lest I find myself, in his words, married to my work.
I smile. This must make him happy.
“She insisted on riding up front and made marvelous conversation the whole way,” Curtis informs me.
“Sounds like what I’d expect from her.”
“Will you be going downtown, sir?”
“Sort of, Curtis. I have an errand of my own to run.”
I recently made a resolution to slow down and enjoy life more, and it looks like here I am, doing just that. I’m even taking the morning off.
Not off, the workaholic voice inside my head corrects. You just shifted everything ahead a few hours. That’s why you’re taking her out to lunch rat
her than dinner. You’re planning on working late.
Not true, I tell myself. Steph told me herself she was going to be working today. Lunch just seemed like a perfectly reasonable mid-day break for us both. She’ll go back to work afterwards, I’ll go into the office, and if I end up working late, so be it.
I rest my case.
I observe, and not for the first time, that that little voice in my head sounds an awful lot like Curtis, so much so that when he pulls up to the curb and rolls the window down, the first thing I say to him is, “Lunch just works out better for both of us.”
“Sir?” he asks, mystified.
“Never mind,” I say, getting into the car. “We’re going to Stalinsky’s.”
This is the florist I had looked up earlier, and although I’ve never had Curtis take me there before, I have no doubt he can find the place without trouble. He’s more reliable than GPS.
“You remember Ms. White’s address?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Of course, sir,” he says, and though I’m in the back seat and can’t see his face, he certainly sounds like he’s smiling.
“Anything noteworthy happen as you drove her home?” I inquire after a few miles.
“Not on the drive itself, sir.”
“Meaning?”
“She asked if I would mind giving her a ride to work. It was on the way back, so I didn’t think you would mind.”
“Not at all. You weren’t gone that long.”
“Ms. White ducked into her building long enough to change clothes, apparently, then came right back out again, ready to go.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “It reminded me of other hardworking individuals with whom I am acquainted.”
We pull up in front of Stalinsky’s Floral. Parking by the curb, Curtis asks, “Shall I go in and place an order for you, sir?”
“No, thank you, Curtis. This is something I’d…prefer to do myself.”
I wonder if I really can hear the sound of Curtis’s eyebrows going up in the front seat.
“Will be going to your offices afterward, sir?” he says.
