by Remy Rose
“Believe it.” I spy a plate of what looks like homemade brownies with green frosting. “Those look dangerous.”
“Oh, they are. Chocolate mint squares.”
“Everything looks delicious. Including the cook.”
Her lips part slightly, I see her breasts rise up with her inhale, and that does it. I reach her in two strides, sweep her up against me as she makes a little gasp, and cover that sweet mouth with mine. If she’s at all resistant, I’ll back off, but no...she’s yielding to me, all of her—her mouth opens to take my tongue, her back bends and her pelvis tilts forward, and fuck me, I want this beauty.
I pull her closer with one arm, my other hand splaying out at the base of her ponytail, gripping her hair as I kiss her deeper. Her mouth, it’s incredible—warm, soft, eager. I’m falling deeper into her, my right hand leaving her hair to travel down the front of that peach sweater, and then, I remember.
Slow, Cavanaugh—you said slow.
As much as I want to go further, I don’t want to freak her out. Reluctantly, I take my mouth off hers, pulling back to assess the situation. She’s blushing like crazy, breathing hard, and there’s a comical expression on her face that clearly says, whatwhatwhat? why the fuck did you stop?
She doesn’t ask the question, but I answer it. “I told you we’d go slow.”
I watch the little skirmish of desire and resignation duke it out on her face. Her breathing slows, and she nods. “I know.”
“It’s fucking excruciating, though, Sprite.”
“I know that, too.”
The quick little smile she flashes launches me back into thinking-with-my-cock-mode, and I have to change the subject fast. “How about we get something to eat?”
I open the bottle of Riesling while she sets out white plates and wine glasses. We eat the nachos while the shrimp’s in the oven, and she admonishes me when I decide I have to try one of the chocolate squares.
“Will power, Demon, remember?” She waggles a finger at me.
“You gotta allow me this one slip, Sprite. Especially when I’m being so good holding back with you.”
“All right.” Delaney sips at her wine, looking at me over the glass, and I’m back to wanting to fuck her this very second.
She seems to know what I’m thinking, because her cheeks are getting pink again. “Alexa, play 80’s rock.”
The kitchen fills with the sounds of Motley Crue.
“Ahh..classic. I’m impressed you like the old stuff.”
“It’s because I’m cool.”
“I’ve never doubted that.”
“But I like more refined music, too.”
“Are you saying Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room isn’t refined?”
The oven timer chimes, and she’s laughing as she gets up to take the shrimp out of the oven. “Oh, it totally is. I meant to say other refined music. I love listening to piano.” She gives Alexa a command to play it.
“What a coincidence, because I happen to play piano.” I’m watching her bend over and take out the baking sheet. Not thinking very refined thoughts right now.
Sprite twists around to look at me, clearly surprised. “Seriously? I had you pegged for a jock.”
“Oh, I was that, also. The son of Gloria Cavanaugh was raised to be very well-rounded.”
“Did the son of Gloria Cavanaugh also have a dad?” Instantly, her face turns contrite. “Ugh, sorry—that was insensitive.”
“No worries. My father was around till I went into high school. He lives out of state, and I hardly see him, which is just as well since he’s an asshole.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So when I’m a prick, that’s my dad coming out. Although as you’ve seen, my mother can also be a prick. I’m fucking doomed.”
She smiles, and then her expression gets soft. “You’re not a prick, Damon.”
“I’ll do my best to make sure you keep that lofty opinion of me.”
“So back to the piano—could you ever do Richard Gere in that Pretty Woman scene?”
“Sure—but only if you could do Julia Roberts.” I wink at her, but underneath the table, things are getting hard, picturing Delaney in a black teddy on a piano. “He actually played the piano in that scene. Composed the piece, too.”
“Really? And you know this how?
“Buzzfeed.”
Delaney giggles, and then we’re both laughing. I’m feeling good, relaxed, and it’s clear she is, too. The delicate notes of the piano swirl around us as we finish our wine. Her eyes are fastened on mine, and something between us changes.
“Let’s go in the living room,” she murmurs.
I’m not used to a woman taking the lead—if it were up to me, we would have skipped the shrimp and gone straight to her bedroom—but I want her to be okay with whatever we do. And I had my doubts we’d actually ever get to this point, so I’m feeling fortunate.
She takes a seat on the couch. There are two other chairs in the room, and I’m waffling about where I should sit when she pats the cushion next to her.
I like that option.
She pulls her legs underneath her, the sweater slipping off her shoulder again which puts me back in nibble mode. She’s looking down at her hands like she’s not sure what to do or say next, and I don’t want awkwardness or uneasiness to spoil what’s been a really good night so far.
“Nothing needs to happen, you know,” I tell her. “It’s been great, just talking to you.”
Gratitude shines in her eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by an unmistakable craving, and seeing this makes me want to shove the kinder, gentler Damon aside to make room for the Damon who wants to climb on top of her and fuck her lights out because she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.
Jesus Christ, easy, boy.
“So you’d rather share some more trivia about Pretty Woman?”
“I can do that.” My pants are getting tight. “Did you know that the homeless guy in the scene where Richard Gere asks for directions is actually Garry Marshall, the director?”
“I didn’t know that.” She slides the tiniest bit closer to me, rests her small hand on top of mine.
Fuck. “Yeah, it’s true.”
“What if I want something to happen?”
I swallow hard. “I can do that, too.”
Those sparkling blue eyes catch mine, hold them. They’re almost beseeching as she speaks. “The thing is, though—I want this to be natural and not forced. I’m going to try to just be me, and I want you to just be you.” A pause, and I see her face tighten. “I mean, I know we’re not dating for real, but I want—I want this mutual fun thing to be real.”
Fucking Christ. I want that, too. “Tell me what you want me to do, Delaney.” My words come out rough and husky, and I know she hears how horny I am for her.
Her voice is low and feathery. “I want you to do what you usually do, with women. Help me get carried away, so I can maybe forget and lose myself in it. I want to be able to do that.”
Whoa. There’s a fierceness in her eyes, a determination along with the pleading. I want her more than I can express in words, but even more than that, I want her to enjoy it. Lose herself. Totally let go.
“I’d love to help you, Delaney. You have no idea how much.” I shift a little on the couch; my dick is hard and uncomfortable, but this is going to be about her. Reaching out, I brush the wisps of blonde strands back and tuck them behind her ear. She shudders. “Just tell me if at any point you want me to stop, and I will, immediately.”
A barely audible murmur. “Okay.”
I pull her close, inhaling the flowery scent of her hair, and her arms go around my neck. God, I love the feel of her, just holding her like this. I wanted to do this the second I came in the door.
My lips are at her ear. “That sweater looks great on you, but it has to come off.” I press my mouth gently behind her earlobe, on her cheek and neck, grinning when she shivers. I kiss her bare shoulder, nibble lightly at her skin like I wanted to and
feel my hard-on grow as she gasps. “God, I love how sensitive you are, Delaney.” I lift the bottom of her sweater, and we both pull it over her head. Her hair is falling around her flushed face, she’s breathing harder, and watching her perfect little tits rise up and down under the fabric makes me want to see more of them.
“Your shirt.” Without hesitation, she takes off her tank top, and Jesus...I have to just look at her. Flawless skin, toned arms, her perfect round tits peeking out of a white satin bra...I want my lips around her nipple and my cock deep inside her, but I’m not going to rush.
“You’re gorgeous, Sprite,” I tell her huskily. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
She raises her gaze, her lips parting slightly, and I crush them with mine. Our tongues meet, we find our kissing rhythm, and I can’t get enough—her mouth is so eager, so hungry. I taste wine and warmth; I’m swallowing the little sighs she’s making and it’s driving me fucking crazy.
“You want me to touch you, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I’m going to.”
Wrapping my left arm tight around her small waist, I slide my right hand into her bra to cup her breast, pulling my mouth away from hers just a fraction so our warm breaths are entwining, and so she can concentrate on only my fingers as they roll and tweak her nipple. Fucking erotic as hell, listening to her sounds.
I move to the other breast, circling my finger around the pebbled skin and pinching that nipple, and then she’s lifting up the bottom of my sweater, fumbling with my belt...holy fuck, she’s trying to release the Kracken, and I’m not about to stop her.
I attack her mouth again, groaning when I feel her hand slide past my waistband and grasp my length.
“Feel how hard you make me, Delaney?”
“God, yes,” she breathes against my lips. “You feel so big.”
“I’m so fucking hard for you, girl. And I bet you’re wet for me, aren’t you?”
Her fingers wrap around the base of my cock, sliding up to my head and stroking hesitantly. Just having her down my pants is enough to make me blow my load. I grit my teeth and reluctantly take her hand away. “You’re turning me on so much, Sprite—but I want this to be about you, and I’m not going to be able to last long. I’ve got to touch you—see how wet you are. Get on your knees.”
“Damon...oh, God...” She’s moaning as I ease the leggings down her hips. I have all I can do not to lay her down on the couch and take her. Not too fast, Cav, I warn myself. But Christ, nothing could have prepared me for how much I want her.
I’m kissing her again, hard, as I slowly walk my fingers down into her panties. White lace panties. What is she, trying to kill me with the virgin vibe here?
I can feel the heat of her pussy even before I touch her there. She’s trembling; I’m so close, my fingers just millimeters away from those sweet soft folds I’m out of my mind wanting to feel, and when I whisper for her to close her eyes and relax, everything comes to a shocking, screeching halt.
Chapter 14 / Delaney
Apparently, I wasn’t as ready as I thought.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with him—my God, I’ve never been more turned on...have never wanted a guy to touch me more than I wanted Damon to. I didn’t tell him, but it was his words that triggered my slamming on the brakes. I didn’t want to get into explaining the whole thing, so I just said I was sorry—really, really sorry, and I didn’t want him to think I was a tease because I’m not like that, even though I’d told him I wanted him to do what he usually did with a woman, and I was so deeply sorry for being like an idiot.
Not surprisingly, he’d looked pretty shocked, his eyes filling with bewilderment, but that quickly switched to sympathy and concern which both mortified and comforted me. I just wanted to have a normal, natural sexual encounter with a magnificently-sculpted and charming guy, and I fucked it up. As if I wasn’t already knee-deep in humiliation, I made it worse by starting to cry, and Damon took me in his arms and held me until I loathed myself so much, I had to gently pull away and suggested as nicely as I could that maybe he should leave. He asked me twice if I was sure I wanted to be alone, and he was so incredibly sweet and understanding about the whole thing that I literally ached watching him walk to the door. I texted him how sorry I was again before he even got in his car, and then again later that night, and then sent him a text on Tuesday that said I would understand if he totally hated me. He texted back for me not to be ridiculous, that he didn’t hate me at all, and he hoped I would someday want to try again, and that Vivian Ward and Edward Lewis had some issues but worked it out, and he thought we could, too. It took me a few minutes to realize he was talking about the characters in Pretty Woman. This made me laugh and text back that I hope he wasn’t comparing me to a prostitute, to which he replied absolutely not, just that they were two people in a business sort of arrangement that unexpectedly turned personal, and also that he could never compare me to Julia Roberts because I was hotter by far.
I was just starting to feel better when I got another text from him telling me that his mother was having a small dinner party at her house to welcome Portia, and he needed me there. This a) stressed me out, because Gloria Cavanaugh is way more than I bargained for and isn’t going to want me attending her party, and b) brought me down, because it was a reminder of my role in Damon’s life.
But it’s reality.
So that’s where I’ll be going tonight. After a brisk walk and spending much of today packing up non-essentials for my upcoming move, I lay out what I’ll wear to dinner (short-sleeve, little black dress from T.J. Maxx, black patent leather pumps and silver jewelry) and also make an impromptu decision to stop in at the Ellsworth Humane Society. They put out a plea on Facebook for some towels and sheets to use in the kennels as bedding, so I’m dropping some off.
And maybe I’ll just look at the cats.
The strong scent of cleaning solution makes me wrinkle my nose when I open the door. The receptionist at the front desk smiles at me and motions me over. I hand her the bag of towels and ask if I could look at the cats.
“Absolutely. They’re down the hall on the left, and there’s also a big room we call the Cattery where our long-time residents can roam around. We’re pretty full, and kitten season just started. Let me know if you have any questions, and if you’d like to visit with an animal, one of our volunteers can help you.”
I thank her and walk down the tile hallway. There are glass windows that double as the back of the cages, so you can see the cats from the hall side. Some of them are curled into crescents sleeping; others arch their backs and lift their tails when they see me. I open the door and go in.
I know I’m not able to choose a cat today, but very soon I will be, seeing as the closing on the building is less than two weeks away. I will just look.
And speaking of looking...the first thing I see when I enter the cat room is probably one of the most impressive male asses I’ve ever seen. The guy is crouched down in front of one of the lower cages, wearing jeans and the same color maroon shirt as the receptionist has on, so I’m guessing an employee or volunteer. It’s not the shirt I’m focused on, though—it’s the tight jeans. I realize I’m supposed to be looking at calicos and tigers and tabby cats instead of masculine, muscular derrieres, but holy Hannah...I can’t help but stare. Broad back tapering down to a fit waist and ending very happily in that amazing butt. And it hits me that I shouldn’t be looking at this guy because of Damon, which is so ridiculous, because I’m not in a real relationship with him. Still, though, I’m feeling inexplicably guilty until the guy stands up and turns around...and it is Damon.
What. The hell.
Damon Cavanaugh, standing there looking at me, as surprised to see me as I am him, holding a litter box in his hand.
“Hey, Sprite,” he says, after a few seconds.
“Hi...Damon,” I manage. I’ve imagined a crap ton of scenarios involving Damon, but not one of them where he’s at an animal shelter clean
ing a cat box.
“So you’re probably surprised to see me here.” He flashes me a sheepish smile so adorable it makes me scrunch up inside.
“Um, yeah. You could say that. Do you...work here?”
“I volunteer. Usually once a week, on the weekends.”
The gray tiger cat in the cage Damon was cleaning sees his chance and starts to climb out. “Not so fast, dude.” Damon sets down the litter box, scoops the cat up and starts scratching him behind the ears. The tiger closes its eyes and leans into Damon as he pets him, and if I thought the smile was charming just a minute ago, it’s taking second place to seeing Faux Boyfriend loving on a purring shelter cat. After a few seconds, he gently sets the cat back in the cage, swaps out the litter box in the cage for the clean one and latches the cage door.
He goes to the hand sanitizer on the wall and squirts soap in his hands. I watch those hands as he rubs them together, thinking of how they touched me last week, and my toes curl inside my sneakers.
“Are you looking to adopt?”
“Yes, but not till I move into my new place. I was here to drop off some towels.”
“Oh, nice. We were definitely running low.” He moves to the next cat cage, two buff-colored kittens with blue eyes.
I instantly fall in love. “They’re so precious!”
He nods, reaching in to pet them as they mew and raise their tiny tails. “They are. Everyone loves the kittens, and who wouldn’t, right? I tend to gravitate toward the older ones, though, just because people don’t tend to want them as much.”
I’m practically bursting with the question. “Damon—what are you doing here? I mean, I know you’re volunteering, and that is so awesome, but why would you, of all people?”
There’s a look on his face I haven’t seen before, and I realize with a start that my words stung him. Shit. I didn’t mean to. I start to apologize (seems to be a pattern with me lately), but he speaks first.
“I guess it is pretty surprising, but it’s really quite simple. I’ve always loved animals. I begged my mother for a dog for years, but she refused to let me have one. She had all kinds of excuses: they shed, they bark, they have accidents inside the house, and whenever I’d try to counter those with I’ll brush it, I’ll train it, I’ll clean up after it, she didn’t believe me...said the newness of owning a dog would wear off and I wouldn’t take care of it, and she didn’t want to be stuck doing everything. I guess a small part of this is proving my mother wrong.” He smiles wryly, and then his expression turns earnest. “But most of it is because I love being around the animals. And the people here, they’re great to work with. They don’t see me as the president of Cavanaugh Yacht—they don’t even know about that, and I want to keep it that way. They see me as just...me. I like that. I don’t tell my friends and colleagues I work here...for some reason, it wouldn’t mean as much to me if anyone in my circles knew. They’d probably question my motives, think I’m doing it for good PR or something, when I’m doing it for these guys.” He tilts his head in the direction of the cages. “And for me.”