Taking Over (Like a Boss Book 2)

by Serenity Woods

  Holy fuck, she wants me like this. I let her guide me to her mouth, and then I feel the warm wash of her tongue over the tip, lapping up the moisture that’s already formed on the top.

  “Mmm,” she murmurs, and then she takes me fully in her mouth.

  It’s a big bed, high off the ground, and as I lean forward and rest my hands on her bent knees, we’re at the perfect angle. Heat surges through me at the newness of the position. I hadn’t thought I had much to learn in the bedroom, but I’ve not had a girl do this before. I’m concerned about choking her, but Gaby tightens her fingers on the back of my thighs and pulls me toward her, and I realize she can let me know if I’m going too deep, and at the moment she wants more.

  So I give her what she’s asking for, and slide between her lips and into the hot velvet of her mouth. Ohhh, but that feels good. The breath hisses between my teeth. She looks so fucking hot stretched out before me. I run a hand up her body from her knee to her breasts to play with her nipples, which makes her moan around my cock and suck even harder.

  Still, I’m worried about going to deep, and I thrust a little, then gently pull back and look down at her. “Okay?” I murmur.

  She licks her lips, which are red and puffy from being stretched around me. “Come on Harry,” she teases. “You’re not going to break me. I want more.”

  I groan and sink back into her mouth, and this time I push my hips forward, plunging deep. She moans again, and, encouraged, I begin to thrust, knowing I’m not going to take long with her being so fucking hot like this. I slide my hand from her knee down between her legs, and I’m not surprised to find her wet and swollen again. She moves my hand away, but then I watch her lower her own where mine has been, and to my delight, she starts arousing herself.

  Watching my very own porn show, I play with her nipples with one hand, and continue sliding between her lips, so turned on by now that it’s all I can do to not come in seconds. Gaby’s fingers swirl over her clit, and she encourages me to thrust harder with her other hand, pulling me toward her.

  Giving in, I push forward, deep throating her, thrilled when she takes it without complaint, and that’s it, I’m lost. I plunge into her mouth, tugging on her nipples, watching her fingers slipping and sliding through her folds, and unfortunately, I can only take about twenty more seconds of this bliss before my balls begin to tighten.

  “Gaby,” I say hoarsely, “let me know if you don’t want me to come in your mouth,” but her fingers just dig into my thigh, so I let the heat rush through me, and as I watch her tease herself to an orgasm with her fingers, my climax hits. I pull back, and I’m able to watch myself fill her mouth, spilling occasionally across her chin and onto her pale throat, and see her swallow it down as she gasps and clenches.

  The whole show is fucking marvelous, and when I’m spent, I fall onto the bed beside her, gasping for air, and bewildered that although I’d promised to make her my sex slave, I have no doubt that she’s the mistress, and I’m the one who’s enslaved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gabriella

  Harrison and I lie and talk for about an hour, drinking wine and picking truffles from a box he bought, I think, especially for me. We make love again, slowly and luxuriously, making me feel as if all the truffles have melted and filled the room with chocolate, and I’m lying there letting it flow over my skin as Harrison worships my body.

  Afterward, we lie there, exhausted, but neither of us wanting to sleep. I don’t know what to make of this, and I’m afraid to study it too hard, in case it’s like one of those pictures you stare at where you’re sure it’s a face, but when you look closely it’s just squiggles and lines and the brain is filling in everything else to make it complete.

  And anyway, there’s no need to analyze it. It is what it is. It’s like a bird of paradise—I don’t need to know every detail of its feathers and understand the physics of how it flies to appreciate its beauty.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen after I get up and leave tonight, or in the morning. I’d assumed he didn’t want more, but quite clearly, I was on Harrison’s mind as much as he was on mine. We’re both about to take big steps toward our futures, him with his career, me with my travel plans—is it possible that this fling is born out of fear or apprehension of all the change to come?

  Possibly. Lying in my chocolate-and-sex-induced haze, I don’t really care.

  “I liked the chicken,” Harrison says. I presume he’s talking about dinner, because as far as I know we haven’t attempted sex in any position named after poultry.

  “Cajun rules,” I agree, sleepy but not sleepy. Contented, maybe.

  “I think it would have gone better with the penne.” He studies the ceiling with a frown. I love that he’s so serious about what kind of pasta we should have eaten several hours after the meal.

  “And possibly a touch more Parmesan,” I agree.

  “Yeah.” He turns his head and looks at me with a wry smile. Our eyes meet and our gazes lock, and my breath catches in my throat. There’s fondness in his eyes, and something else—an understanding, maybe, that this is something. Neither of us knows what, and it’s far too soon to give it a label. But it’s not nothing.

  He opens his mouth, and my heart skips a beat as I realize he’s going to comment on it, but at that precise fucking moment, his phone rings on the bedside table. He blinks, distracted, and looks at it, and I bite my lip and beg him silently to ignore it, but he sighs, rolls over, and picks it up.

  He stares at the screen, but frowns, apparently not recognizing the number. It’s late now, nearly eleven p.m.—who would call him that late from a number he doesn’t know?

  “Hello?”

  I prop my head on a hand to watch him. If he turns away from me, I’ll know he wants to take it privately, and I’ll slip out into the kitchen.

  He listens, still frowning. “Yeah… yeah…” His expression turns reluctant, even irritated. “Yes, he’s my father.” He listens again, and then he sits bolt upright, staring in front of him. “What?”

  I push myself up, my pulse beginning to race. Harrison has gone completely white. He listens a bit more, then runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, of course. Around eight a.m.? Sure. It’s okay. Yes, thank you, I appreciate that. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

  I stare at him, knowing it’s not good news. “Harry? What’s happened?”

  He turns his shocked gaze to me. “Holy fuck. My father died.”

  *

  Neither of us knows what to say or do. He’s told me a little about their relationship, so I know that his grief is going to be complicated and confused. If it was a woman who’d made the announcement, I’d throw my arms around her and we’d sob together, but I can’t imagine that Harry wants to be comforted like that. He looks bewildered and angry, not upset, staring off into the distance, and for a moment I wonder whether he’s forgotten I’m here.

  “Do you want me to go?” I ask softly.

  He turns his gaze to me and stares at me for a long moment. Then he shakes his head.

  I blow out a silent sigh of relief, and decide that the best course of action is to be practical.

  I rise and, pulling on one of his T-shirts, make us both a cup of strong coffee, and we take it out onto the balcony to drink it. It’s cool out here in the spring night air, so I duck back in, dig a couple of blankets out of a cupboard, and bring those out with me. Harrison’s sipping his coffee, having hardly said a word. I shake the blanket out and put it around him. He looks at it, puzzled, then gives me a small, curious smile, as if to say So this is what people do when a parent dies?

  I slip into the chair beside him, draw up my legs, and tuck the blanket around me. Then I sip my coffee, and we listen to the sounds of the city at night—the cars, the occasional siren, the raucous calls from one drunk group of friends to another, the sound of Stevie Wonder’s Superstition in the distance blaring out from one of the nightclubs.

  Should I say something? Whatever happe
ned in the past, the man was still his father. Do I say I’m sorry? Should I ask what happened? Or should I just sit here and wait for him to talk, or not, until the sun comes up?

  I’ve never been very good at not talking, so eventually I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  He leans his elbow on his chair and rests his fingers on his lips. “I keep thinking I imagined it,” he says. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away, as if he’s down in the nightclub, calling up to me. “Am I dreaming?”

  I know it’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer. “How did it happen?” I ask instead.

  “She said it was a heart attack. Possibly drug-related.” He says the words easily, as if this kind of thing happens to him every day. None of my family has ever done drugs, to my knowledge, so this sounds as alien and exotic to me as saying his father was a Russian spy who’d been shot by the FBI.

  “Was it your mother?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “A police officer. She’s going to call back in the morning to discuss the funeral arrangements.” His brow furrows, and he leans forward and puts his cup on the table, then rests his elbows on his knees and sinks his hands into his hair.

  “Aw, sweetie.” I move closer and slide my arm around him. “It’s okay.”

  “I’ve spent over twenty years hating him.” His voice is hoarse. “He was a pathetic human being, an evil man.” Now venom seeps in, almost making me wince. “He fucking deserved to die. I’ve told him that more than once. I should be laughing. I should be shouting thank you to the heavens and dancing on his fucking grave.” He clenches his hands in his hair. “But my chest feels as if someone’s reached in and squeezed my heart. Why?”

  “Because he was your father,” I say simply, and I lean forward and kiss his shoulder, willing all the grace I possess to pass into him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Harrison

  In the end, Gabriella stays all night.

  At first, I feel guilty, because the poor girl came here to get screwed senseless—I’m sure the last thing she wants is to have her stud moping about because his father has passed away. So, I ask her if she wants to go, and she says, “Sweetie, if you want me to, that’s absolutely fine. But I’d rather stay.” After that, I don’t mention it again, and neither does she.

  We sit out outside on the balcony for hours, drinking coffee and then moving on to whiskey, and for a while I don’t feel like talking, so we just sit and look at the stars. Then a memory rises into my mind—one of the few good memories I have of my father—and I tell Gaby the story about when I got my first bike, and how Dad ran behind me all the way down the street holding the back, and I was fine until I realized he’d let go, at which point I wobbled and fell off into a bush.

  She laughs and asks me about where I grew up, and I tell her about the small town where I lived with my parents and two brothers, and then I tell her about my school years, and soon I find I can’t stop talking. I tell her everything—the good and the bad—about the time when we still formed some semblance of a family, with grandparents joining us for Christmas, and holidays to the coast. And then I describe how it started to go wrong, with my father drinking more and then turning to drugs. About the first time I realized he was abusing my mother, and the fury and impotence I felt as a child at being unable to help her. I tell her about the first time he hit me, and how humiliated and hurt and angry I felt—I never did work out what had I done that was so bad he had to take a belt to me. I explain how I worked so hard at school in my early teens, joining all the sports teams I could, to build up my physical strength. And then I tell her about the first time I stood up to him one time when he beat me, and finally hit him back.

  I’m not ashamed to say there are tears on my cheeks while I relate the story. I don’t know if they’re tears of sadness or triumph, maybe both. But I’m not ashamed to show my emotions in front of Gaby. By this point, I feel as if I’ve known her forever. I so rarely open up to anyone—life as a single guy, especially a single guy in a city, is hectic and fun and frantic, but it’s rarely heartfelt, and I’ve learned to keep my emotions to myself. But I needed this tonight. I needed to talk, and Gaby is the perfect companion, quiet, attentive, and so fucking beautiful, curled up in her chair with her big violet eyes fixed on my face as she listens to me ramble on.

  Around two a.m., I think, I notice that she’s shivering and realize how cold it’s become, so we go inside and get back into bed, and I take her in my arms, and we wrap the duvet tightly around us. We still don’t sleep for a while, talking in the darkness, about memories and growing up and all the dreams we’d had as kids.

  I wrangle with feelings of love and hate and regret and bitterness that swirl around inside me like a rhythmic gymnast’s ribbons. When I tell her that I don’t know which emotion is the right one to be feeling, she says, “They’re all valid, Harry. There’s nothing wrong with hating him, or missing him, or feeling triumphant or sad that he’s gone. He was your father, and he died today. Grief is an umbrella term for an untold number of conflicting emotions. Just let the wave wash over you, and it’ll disappear. ‘This too shall pass,’ my grandmother used to say.”

  And then, just after three, Gaby finally dozes off.

  I lay awake for another hour or so, though, thinking about my father, and the fact that he’s not around anymore. I wonder for the first time if the police have rung my mother. I’ll call her first thing in the morning and find out. I’ll have to call my brothers, too. I suppose I should do it now, but they’re probably asleep, and I’m too warm and cozy here with Gaby molded to my body, her breasts and belly and thighs pressed up against my side, her breath fanning across my shoulder.

  Poor Gaby. She didn’t sign up for this. But the odd thing is that I can’t imagine having anyone else with me tonight when I got the news. Not a friend, not Sebastian or Caleb, even though I’ve known them the longest, not a stranger, not Sarah, my ex, or any other girls I’ve known. Gaby was perfect—is perfect.

  This too shall pass. I suppose that’s true for all things, including this relationship. In a few weeks, we’ll be moving on, and this night will become one of many memories shoved in a box in my mind.

  The thought troubles me, though, and it’s another hour before I finally succumb to sleep.

  *

  When I wake, I turn over and put out a hand, but find the bed empty. Gaby’s gone, and I feel a pang of disappointment and hurt. Then the memory of the night before hits me, and I almost gasp as I remember about my father. I roll onto my back and sink my hands into my hair. He’s gone. He’ll never have a hold over me or my family again. The wave comes, washes over me, and then vanishes just as quickly. This too shall pass…

  I open my eyes, and suddenly realize it’s light. Too light. I push up onto my elbows and reach for my phone, but it’s not where I left it. Did Gaby take it? I slide my tablet out from the shelf by the bed and switch it on—fuck, it’s nine-thirty!

  It’s only then that I hear someone moving around in the kitchen.

  I get up and pull on a pair of boxers, then walk out. Gaby’s there, wearing my T-shirt and panties, making coffee.

  “Oh, hey,” she says when she sees me.

  “Did you take my phone?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Yes.” Her cheeks flush. “I hope it was okay—I thought you’d probably set your alarm and I didn’t want to wake you. I rang Colette, and Sebastian said there’s not much on today so to let you lie in. He said to take the day off, but that you probably wouldn’t.” She gives me a hesitant smile. “You want me to go?”

  She thinks I’m going to be mad at her for making decisions for me.

  I walk up to her, remove the mugs from her, and put them on the table. Then I move her so she’s resting against the worktop. I take her face in my hands and study the beautiful violet eyes of this generous, thoughtful, caring, sexy woman. Then I kiss her.

  After I’ve kissed her, I lift my head and look into her eyes again. “Stay with me,” I tell her. “
Until you go away. Stay with me for the next few weeks.”

  Her jaw drops, and her mouth forms a perfect O. For a moment, I think she might refuse. Then her lips stretch into a smile, and she nods. “Okay,” she says.

  I kiss her again, and then I take her back to bed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gabriella

  I spend the next two weeks at Harrison’s place, and have the time of my life. Talk about a whirlwind romance. Both of us are working hard, but we still find the time to go out and eat, to go to shows, to visit friends, and then we come home and get into bed and have the most amazing sex that shows no signs of fading.

  It’s because it’s new, I keep telling myself. That’s the only reason it feels so exciting and wonderful. Harrison’s a lovely guy, but like all men—like all people—he has his faults, and no doubt they’d get on my nerves if this were to turn into anything long term. He’s untidy, he’s obsessed with his work, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly and can be impatient with someone if they don’t get his meaning right away. And the way he bosses me about in the kitchen might feel endearing now, but I’d probably end up resenting it.

  True, we do seem to fit together well. We have the same attitudes toward things—religion, children, family, politics. We like the same music, the same food. And there’s something about us that slots together, and I don’t mean physically—although that slots in pretty well too—I mean our personalities just blend in a way I don’t think either of us expected.

  I go with him to his father’s funeral, and meet his mother and his brothers and their families. Harrison introduces me as his friend, although he’s not shy about holding my hand or slipping his arm around me, so I’m sure everyone guesses we’re more than that. It’s nice to meet his mother, who’s not really like Harrison at all—shy, quiet, kind of tired with life. I’m surprised she’s come—I’m not sure I would have if the guy who’d died had beaten me, but then he was also the father of her children, and I guess, like with Harry, it might be good for her to have closure and say goodbye.