by Penny Wylder
“I planned on that,” I say, my voice a whisper as I lower my mouth to her pussy. I breathe in slowly, closing my eyes as I indulge in her scent. “Fuck, that's sweet.” Flicking out the tip of my tongue, I lick her lightly.
“Holy shit,” she coos as she drives her fingers through my hair and her back snaps off the wall.
My eyes drift up to watch her. I love the way she's wriggling against my mouth. Her pussy is rubbing against my face and her fingers keep grabbing locks of my hair and yanking them hard.
I keep stroking my cock, moving my hand faster and faster as I drink her in. Her arousal coats my tongue and lips, and I swallow as much of her as I can. Her sweet flavor slips down my throat, making my cock throb in my hand.
I can fuck her right now, slip right in there and make her mine.
But I can't, I won't. Even if she begs me to, I can't cross that line. Narissa is still the boss's daughter. Fucking her will only complicate things. Eating her out, however, is barely a slap on the wrist. It's not sex. It hardly even counts as anything more than a little treat in exchange for a hard day's work. I'll indulge myself.
Over and over my tongue flicks her clit. Her needy button swells against my tongue as her pussy seeps like a fucking waterfall. Her legs wrap around my shoulders and her thighs squeeze against my head as she fucks my face.
Narissa yells loudly as her body convulses with pleasure. That's it, that's all I need to send me over the edge. My balls draw up and my stomach tightens as I blow my load all over my hand.
Warm, sticky strings of cum drape over my knuckles as I pull my face from her pussy and grin. Wiping her off my face, I lick her off my fingers, sucking them clean.
She jumps down from the workbench, grabbing her jeans off the floor and tugging them over her legs. Slipping her feet back into her shoes, she lets out a satisfied breath.
“Well, now that that's out of the way. . . back to work?” she asks.
“Back to work,” I say with a chuckle.
She surprises me more than once after our little tryst. Narissa is a hard worker. She helps me build the boxes for the six cupboards she destroyed with her car. Tomorrow we're going to work on the doors and staining the surfaces.
They'll be ready a lot sooner than if I had done them over by myself.
Narissa pulls the elastic from her hair, shaking out as much sawdust as she can. The dust spreads from her hair to her clothes as she flips her hair and runs her fingers through it.
“It's no use,” I say. “You're going to find that shit everywhere for a few weeks.”
She shrugs her shoulder, tying her hair back up. “You know what, I had so much fun today, I think I'm going to smile every time I see saw dust for the rest of my life. I think I even feel it in my pants.”
Chuckling, I find I’m really into this girl. I expected her to complain about breaking her nails or getting dirt on her clothes. I expected her to be the complete opposite of what I got.
She didn't challenge me. She didn't question my methods or reject any directions I gave her. Narissa is surprisingly willing to learn.
And her pussy is a meal I can eat for days.
I might have to find a reason to extend this little project just to keep her around a bit longer.
Why rush something so good?
3
Narissa
“How did it go yesterday?” my father asks, taking a sip of his coffee as he relaxes back with newspaper. He throws one leg over the other, adjusting the paper so he can peer at me over the edge as he waits for an answer.
My father is always dressed like he's going to a business meeting. His crisp button-up and starchy pleated pants almost crinkle as he shifts in his seat. His shoes shine, casting a light off the toe from the sun through the window. A dark blue blazer hangs off the corner of his chair, stiff as a paper bag.
Always clean shaven and smelling like he just walked out of a barber salon. His hair is combed to the left side with a feathered cut straight out of the nineties. This is the man I've seen every single day for as long as I can remember. The only sign of age on him is the thick wrinkle across his forehead and the tiny lines around his mouth when he smiles.
“It was fine,” I say. I hold back the tremble, hoping he can't read the nervousness in my voice. I was hoping to avoid him. I'm afraid to look him in the eye. I don't want him to spot the rosy cheeks I'm still carrying with me after Oliver ate me out.
He arches a brow. I suck in a breath of air and hold it in. Oh God, what's he thinking? What's he going to say?
The long pause is killing me. I'm hanging on, waiting for the hammer to drop.
“Good. What time are you supposed to be there today?”
Oh, thank God. I exhale quietly.
“He told me to meet him at his shop at ten.”
“And you're here at eight in the morning because. . .” He draws out the last word, his voice climbing from baritone to soprano.
“Because I wanted to grab some old clothes to work in, something I don't care if it gets ruined.”
His eyes drift back to the paper in his hands as he gives it a flip to fix the fold in the top corner. “How did it feel yesterday?”
“What?” I ask with a flutter of surprise in my tone. “How did what feel?”
Does he know? My heart races at the thought.
The idea that my father is somehow working his way up to berating me about inappropriate behavior with his contractor is knifing me in the gut. I don't know why I feel so guilty about it, it's not like I'm a child. I'm an adult, a woman, I can do whatever I want with anyone I want.
But this isn't just about my father wagging a stern finger in my face. It's about Oliver's job. It's about not risking his career, his livelihood, everything he's worked so hard to achieve. The last thing I want is for my father to fire him because of me.
It can't happen again. I won't let it.
“How did it feel to actually work? I mean, you've basically spent your entire life in school. I've never really pushed you to do anything but learn.”
I relax a little, giving him a basic answer. “I think it was good. I helped rebuild the cabinets I broke.” I lazily pull open the fridge and take out the orange juice. “Today he said we'd sand and stain them.”
“Good. I really hope you learn something from all of this.”
I do my best to not roll my eyes. I know what he's trying to do, but I think he's really underestimating who I am. I guess that happens when you spend more time away from home than with your own daughter.
After years of choosing work over getting to know who I am as a person. I know it wasn't something he did on purpose. My father loves me, he loves his family, and all those hours were put in to give me this life.
My father thinks I don't appreciate everything he's given me. He thinks I take all of this for granted, but he's wrong. He just doesn't understand how hard it is to be on the outside. Being rich has never automatically put me in the popular crowd. Sometimes it did the complete opposite.
“If I get a chance today, I'll swing by and see how you're doing. I'll make sure you're not giving Oliver a hard time.” My father stands up, rolling his paper and sticking it under his arm. Sucking down the rest of the coffee in his cup, he sets the mug in the sink. “I’ve got to go, I'm supposed to meet your mother to pick out tiles for the bathroom at the new property.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, giving him a sarcastic grin.
He smiles back, arching his brows high. “Yeah, wish me luck. That woman can never make up her mind on a design.”
I watch him grab his keys and head out the door. I finally feel like I can breathe normally with him gone. The anxious rope around my lungs untwines, allowing the air to flow freely through my body.
I take a giant gulp of orange juice from the container and put it back in the fridge. The house is quiet, leaving me alone with thoughts of Oliver. The way his hands felt on my skin was mind blowing. They were rough and gentle, taking me with ease. His lips were hungry
, stealing kisses I was far too eager to give.
It's not every day I have a guy as hot as him making advances. It's not every day I'm even in the presence of someone who isn't my family. I'm not a people person. It's hard been hard for me to really connect with anyone.
I have my reasons. It's just easier to be on my own.
The drive to Oliver's workshop is only about ten minutes. I've already decided I'm not letting what happened yesterday happen again, and I'm going to make sure he gets that point loud and clear.
“Morning,” he says to me over his shoulder as I walk inside. “You look nice today.”
“It's just some crappy old clothes. Nothing special.”
“I'm giving you a compliment.” He stands up straight, running his palms back and forth over each other to wipe away sawdust.
“I know, and I'm rejecting it.” He's walking toward me, so I go wide, walking around to the other side of the table. “What can I do?”
Oliver eyes me curiously, his mouth dangling between a smile and a frown. “Okay. Well, these two cabinets still need to be sanded before we can stain them. You want to give it a try?”
“That's why I'm here, to get this done and go back to my life.” I can feel him eyeing me, but I glance away. I don't want him thinking that what happened yesterday opens the door to anything.
He stands still for a long second, then picks up the sander, and attempts to bring it to me. I move away, not letting him get close, circling to the other side of the table.
“I need to show you how to use it,” he says.
“I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.” Holding out my hand, I flip my fingers. “Just let me see it.”
“Not a chance. These need to be done right, and I'd feel better if I just show you first.”
“Fine, then show me.” I cross my arms over my chest and hug myself tight.
“I need you to come closer.” Oliver lays the sander on the wood as he keeps his eyes on me.
“I'm fine right here, I can see.”
He stands up straight, tilting his head as he asks, “What's wrong? Afraid of me now?”
I furrow my brows, my eyes turning to slits. “Will you just show me already so we can get this done? I don't want to waste my entire day here.”
“Wow. Waste it, huh? Yesterday you couldn't get enough, but today you're too good to be here. That's really nice. I'm happy you're showing your true colors.”
“I'm not showing anything, I am who I am. Look, let's just get to work and make these cabinets.”
“You mean let’s remake the cabinets you destroyed, because that's why you're here, remember? Because you drove your car over the ones I already made.”
“I'm here because my father is forcing me to be, otherwise I'd be doing something better with my time.”
Oliver's lips thin as he leans forward, resting his bear sized hands on the table. The very edge of his lip pulls back angrily, his pupils turning to pinpricks. “Who the hell are you to—” He cuts himself off as the door opens forcefully, and a man comes storming through.
“Mr. Coolen,” he says, his tone changing drastically pleasant. “What can I do for you?” He's level, the anger almost gone completely, but I can still hear the faint edge of his sharp voice.
“What can you do for me? What can you do for me? How about you start by doing the job I hired you for,” the man snaps, his fists clenched at his sides. “My wife and I hired you to install a deck around our new pool, but I haven't heard from you in two weeks.” Mr. Coolen crooks his jaw, veering his stare at Oliver.
He doesn't even look in my direction. I don't even think he's noticed me at all. All his anger and rage are focused on Oliver. There's a thick vein in his neck that's bulging out from under the skin. His hands open and close at his sides, and I can hear his teeth grinding down against each other.
Oliver steps out from behind the table and walks toward him as he bounces a hand in the air. “Mr. Coolen, we talked about this. You and your wife want Bubinga wood. I have to special order that type of wood, and it takes a few weeks to get here.”
“This is unacceptable!” His voice bellows through the workshop, vibrating against the steel walls. “We paid you for a service.” His lids widen to expose all the white of his eyes. Small red veins spider their way across the sea of white like a river.
“Look, I'm going to give you what you want, I'm a man of my word and stand by what I say. But I need you to be patient, there's nothing I can do to make it get here faster. If you want to hire someone else, be my guest, but they're going to tell you the same thing.”
“Is this how you run your business? You agree to do a job and then fail to come through? Do you want me to destroy your reputation? Is that what you want? I'll have my lawyers here so fast you won't know what hit you.”
“Sir, I'm not—”
“Excuse me,” I snap, cutting Oliver off, “what the hell do you think you're doing?” I can't stop myself. I blurt it out before I even have the chance to pick my words wisely.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks, whipping his head in my direction.
“Me? Who the hell do you think you are? You came storming in here, demanding magic, and this man gave you a reasonable answer a second time.”
“Narissa, I got this,” Oliver says, trying to regain control of the situation.
I'm not having it though. This man is rude and has no right to come in here and talk like this to Oliver.
“No, this man needs to stop acting like you screwed him over.” My eyes move from Oliver back to Mr. Coolen. “Oliver is the best damn carpenter in the state, and if he gives you his word, he means it. Now, you can go find someone else, but guess what? You'll get a bullshit line, telling you what you want to hear, and then you'll end up with a deck made of shitty wood that's lopsided and buckled beneath your feet. Is that what you want? You want a piece of shit deck?”
Mr. Coolen's mouth hangs open, his expression softening as I force him to hear me. I don't know what's coming over me, but I can't just stand here and watch this man rip Oliver apart for no reason.
“Now, you can be patient, wait for Oliver to let you know when he's ready, and be grateful he's not some jackass just trying to take your money.” Mr. Coolen looks like he's about to say something, but I hold up a finger and keep talking. “Or you can go thumb through the phone book and find some dirt-bag to give you everything you're not going to want. You pick. Which one is it?”
His mouth wiggles as he tries to figure out what to say. Darting his eyes between us, I watch him deflate. He has no argument, because he knows I'm right.
This time he lost.
“Do you know when the delivery is coming?” he asks Oliver, his tone less abrasive.
“The twenty-first.”
“And you'll be starting it once it comes in?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mr. Coolen taps his hand against his thigh, and feigns a weak, embarrassed smile. “Okay, that sounds good then. I'll talk to you soon.” And with that, he's gone.
I can feel Oliver's eyes on me. Glancing at him, he's got a funny smile on his face.
“What was that?” he asks.
“That was me telling that jerk of a client where to stick it.”
“Yeah, but why'd you do that? I thought you thought my work was dumb and you have better things to do.”
“I do. But it doesn't mean he gets to just come in here and ream you out for something you already told him.”
“I don't get you, Narissa. Yesterday you were all over me, today you want nothing to do with me. What gives?”
Rolling my eyes, I ignore his question. “Can we get back to this now?” I ask, pointing at the cabinets.
“In a minute. I want to know why you felt the need to jump in there when you've been acting like you can't stand me since you got here this morning.”
“I never said I couldn't stand you.”
Oliver strokes his jaw, his gaze shifting around my face. “You didn't have to say it, I
can feel it. Not everything needs words.” He walks with smooth, long steps across the room.
My eyes follow his every move. He touches the table softly, his fingers gliding across the wood with the same ease I felt yesterday. The pads of his fingers brush back and forth, tracing the grain as he drops his head to his chest and looks at me under heavy lids.
I swallow hard. This man is intimidating in so many ways. My heart is in my throat, my stomach is flipping like a gymnast doing a bar routine. My palms are clammy, and my muscles begin to shake.
Oliver's eyes never leave mine. He smirks, caressing the wood in a way that puts an erotic massage to shame. “I know what this is,” he says. “Yesterday scared you. I made you feel so damn good you don't know how to handle it. Now, you want to pretend like it never happened.”
Yes. . . No. . .
It's more than that.
Oliver did make me feel good. His mouth is magic. His touch is panty melting. But, letting it happen again is too dangerous. My father will kill both of us. Not to mention the damage that can happen if I let him close and he ends up rejecting me.
Inhaling a slow breath through my nose, my nostrils flare. “You don't have any clue what I'm thinking.” Pressing my hands down on the table, I lean forward and challenge him. “Maybe yesterday wasn't as good as you think.”
Arching a single brow, Oliver keeps moving. His steps slow and methodical as he gets closer to me. “Oh yes it was. It was really good, we both know it.”
I can't stop the cynical laugh as it swells. Chuckling, I shake my head. “You can try to convince yourself all you want, but what happened will never happen again.”
He smiles, a sexy fucking smile that sends a blast of heat through my body. My clit is starting to throb, and my panties are growing wetter by the second.
“What's making you so cold?” he asks, stopping a few feet away from me. “Where did the girl from yesterday go? I thought we were friends, Narissa.” Oliver places a hand on his chest as if he's covering his tender heart.
“You thought wrong. You're just a guy my father hired for a job. That's it. Friends is the last thing I'd call us.” Crossing my arms, I tilt my head a hair and glare at him.