“Stuff. Important stuff. Never you mind.”
“You know, that’s not very sexy. Shouldn’t you be more poetic or something if you’re a rock star? Are you sure you’re not just a roadie?”
I barely held in my laughter that time. “Hey, now. Roadies need love too.”
“Fine. I guess since I’m here already…”
Didn’t matter how many times I’d seen her, the thrill never dulled. Her body, her voice, her mind, turned me on like no fucking other. She leaned back against a shelf of books, couldn’t have been comfortable. Ever so gradually, she exposed herself to me. Long bare legs, the curves of her thighs, and yes!
“Very nice,” I growled, wrapping my hand around her thigh. Already, wetness lingered on those juicy lips. The musky sweet scent of her went straight to my head. I leaned in, lapping at her with my tongue, humming with pleasure. “For the record though, I really am a hugely important internationally renowned rock star. I have fan clubs and everything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I licked her again. “It’s true.”
“Sure. Whatever.” She shifted one foot out, giving me more room to play. “Eat my pussy.”
“So demanding. Next time, let’s pretend I’m your sex slave. Subject to your every whim.”
“Sounds good.” Her fingers threaded into my hair, pulling just a little. Lighting me up even more. Lust tugged hard low in my gut. I breathed on her swollen sensitive flesh, nudging her mound with the tip of my nose, licking now and then. Her tummy trembled, her breath caught. “Stop messing around, Mal. I can’t keep the shop closed all day.”
Calm as can be, I slid a finger into her. Fuck. She was so hot and wet inside. My day dreams and sleeping dreams and every other kind of dream come true. First I pumped one finger into her, then two. And the noises coming out of her throat were so fucking sweet. “Is that really what you’re thinking about right now, the shop?”
“No.”
“Good girl.”
Then I ate her like it was my job. Because it was job. My life rocked like that. If you didn’t get girl juice all over your hands and at least half your face when you gave head, then frankly, you weren’t doing it right. Nobody likes someone who half asses a job. So rude. I licked and sucked and generally made a meal of her. Then fingers hooked, I rubbed against her sweet spot, aiming to get her off hard and fast. Her legs shook and she came with a cry, eyelids slammed shut.
Now my aching dick pointed straight at the ceiling. There was no time to lose. Before she could come all the way down, I got to my feet and lifted her. Like we’d done it a million times before, which we probably had, she wrapped her arms and legs around me. I slammed my dick up into her, fucking her hard. Just how she liked it. Sure as hell just how I liked it. After tremors had her pussy fluttering faintly around me. It felt amazing. My balls swung with each thrust, slapping against her hot body.
“This is going to be quick,” I panted. “But I’ll make it up to you later.”
She just groaned in my ear.
Lungs labouring, heart hammering, I fucked her. Shelves rattled and banged back against the wall, a couple of books fell onto the floor with a thud. My hands sat on her ass and back, trying to protect her from the worst of it. But Anne didn’t mind a little rough and this had, after all, been her choice of location. At her workplace. Dirty girl. I tried to think of something else apart from the heat and tightness of her body. How good it felt being inside of her again. But with my cock slamming into paradise and my balls drawn up tight, it couldn’t be helped. I came hard, pouring myself into her, giving her everything.
My head shot off into outer space, sailing out amongst the stars. My body nothing but light. No one but her did this for me. To me. My wife’s hands slid over my back, all loving and soothing. Slowly I caught my breath.
“Another exceptional sexual performance,” I muttered. “I’d give me eleven out of ten as per usual. You weren’t bad either.”
“Thanks,” she laughed. “Happy almost third wedding anniversary, Mal.”
“Right back at you, Pumpkin.”
She made her happy noise, holding onto me tighter.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said.
“What?”
That’s when some asshole banged on the storage room door. “Anne? Are you in there?”
Carefully, I set her down, smoothing a few sweaty strands of hair back from her face. “I’m here. Just a minute.”
“That was fun,” I whispered. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Is Mal in there too?” Reece the asshole asked through the door.
“No,” I said, pulling up my pants. “Fuck off please, and don’t come back later.”
“Mal,” my wife chided. “Sorry, Reece, we’ll be out in a minute. We just had to, um, discuss something.”
“Christ’s sake, you guys. You can’t have sex at the shop. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Don’t lie to me. That is not okay. It really isn’t.” The idiot finally stomped away. And it had to be stomping because I could hear it through the door.
Anne smoothed down her dress, taking a deep breath. Then she smiled at me. Man I loved that smile. “What did you want to talk about? It’ll have to be fast.”
“Yeah. Okay. So I was thinking, we should make a baby.”
She froze.
“I mean, it seems a crime for us to be this good looking and not pass it on.”
“Are you serious?”
I nodded. “I mean…if you still want to?”
The slow smile spreading across her face was even more beautiful than the one before. Holy shit the woman levelled me. Truth be told, I’d give her all the babies she wanted. The thought of her carrying our child, of being parents…it was scary, but exciting.
“When do you want to start trying?” she asked, eyes glossy.
“Whenever you’re ready is good with me.”
“Wow.” She wiped away a tear. Jesus I hated it when she cried. Though I guess these were happy tears, so not as bad. Her cheeks were still pink, her mouth swollen from kissing. The most beautiful girl in the world. “Pretty cool anniversary present.”
I frowned. “Huh? Fuck no. Got you diamonds at home.”
She laughed. “Of course you do. My rock star.”
“World famous, incredibly important, rich, and handsome, rock star,” I corrected. “You know, I was checking last night and my Instagram account has way more followers than Davie. He must be so bitter about it. Bet it’s just killing him inside, poor sap.”
“Oh really?”
“Well, five more followers.”
“Holy cow, yeah, you’re burying him.”
“Right? Though Jimmy unfollowed me again, the prick. He thinks it’s funny or something.”
She laughed, winding her arms around my neck. I pulled her in tight, sitting my cheek atop her head. We fit just right. We always have.
“Mine,” she said.
And I could only agree.
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It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time
Until the Cock Crows
Sierra Simone
Reverend Dr. Mark Trade is too young, too handsome and too cocky...and Corabel Dennis is not impressed. Until that is, she learns that they share the same dirty secret...
Copyright © 2018 by Sierra Simone
All rights reserve
d.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Until the Cock Crows
Reverend Dr. Mark Trade wasted no time in pissing me off.
There was, of course, the scowls whenever he passed by my desk and I didn’t appear to be working hard enough for him. There was the swagger when he walked to the pulpit—the same swagger that had all the teenage girls fluttering their eyelashes at him, like this was an Austen novel and he was the handsome young clergyman just come to town. And most damningly, there was the high-handed way he wanted to change things. They weren’t always bad ideas; some of the changes I’d been suggesting myself for the three years I’d been working in the Thrive United Methodist Church office. It was just the way he wanted to do them, as if he merely wanted to snap his fingers and have his will be done.
Like God. And I only liked my men godlike in bed.
“Cocky,” Edith the organist had muttered to me one day after a meeting. “I’ve seen preachers like him before. Too young, too handsome, and too damned cocky.”
It didn’t help that his cockiness—that swagger—wasn’t entirely unearned. He already had his ordination and his PhD at age thirty, a host of diplomas and certificates on his wall, and his sermons were…well…they were really fucking good. He didn’t perform his sermons like a southern televangelist because he didn’t have to; he could command a room of hundreds with his deep, slightly husky voice; he could captivate an audience with his brilliant, insightful thinking.
And he was handsome. Dangerously so, with dark eyebrows slashing over clear blue eyes and a straight bladed nose with the tiniest crook at the bridge. There was a mouth lush enough to belong in a cologne ad, fair skin with a hint of suntan, and a shock of silky brown hair just long enough to brush over his forehead sometimes, causing him to flick at it with an annoyed hand, as if offended that his hair had the audacity to pull his concentration out of whatever deep and powerful thought he was having at the moment.
But still. The reason I was a Methodist at all was because I’d needed to find a denomination with less men obsessed with power. Like I said—I have a place for powerful men (my bed), but once the sun rises, I’m back to wrinkling my nose at any man who so much as thinks about birth control policy within a fifty-foot radius of me.
And the good Reverend Dr. Mark Trade was not in my bed, he was my boss. And alleged spiritual leader. Sigh.
So I was not in the best frame of mind when two months after he’d started, he sent me an email. A terse, one-line email at the end of the day when I was the last one in the office, right before I was about to pack up my bag and head home.
Corabel—
See me in my office.
—Rev. Dr. Mark Trade
The fucking nerve…
My desk was in the staff room—I was the communications director and wedding coordinator for the church—and was possibly a whole two-minute walk from his own office on the other side of the sanctuary. He could have come and seen me right now! He could have called my office phone! He could have at least pretended I had better things to do than to be at his beck and call!
Righteous indignation burned through me, and I considered—really considered—not going. Simply pretending I hadn’t seen the email, finishing up for the day and then going home to my cat and my frozen entrée and my usual roster of British gardening shows.
Then a second email came in.
I mean it, Corabel.
Something else burned through me, so fast it was gone before I could catch hold of it. But it left contrails through my lower belly, tingled at the tips of my breasts, and a small shiver worked its way up from the base of my spine.
No! No. This was dumb. I was not one of those front-row teenage girls hoping the preacher man would take her flirting seriously, and I was not the kind of employee to be barked at like a dog. I was going to go to his office, fine, but I was going to go there to give him hell and that was it. If he wanted to bitch at me about the church bulletins needing more room for sermon notes or for the email newsletters needing better open rates, he could do it another day. After he’d scheduled a meeting with me.
I stormed down the hall to his office, not bothering to knock on the door before letting myself inside.
He was sitting at his desk, the usual sprawl of bibles, books, and papers in front of him, looking academic and stern in a thin sweater over a button-down shirt. He looked up at my sudden entrance, his expression mildly displeased. “It’s polite to knock,” he said.
Oh, that motherfucker.
“It’s also polite,” I seethed, “not to demand my presence like you’re entitled to it.”
My irritation had the simultaneous effect of both amusing and disappointing him. His eyes flashed with something hot as his jaw worked. But instead of scowling and lecturing me even more, he said nothing at all, getting to his feet and coming around his desk.
I couldn’t help it, my breath caught a little at the sight of him unfolding into a tower of wide shoulders and lean hips, of a firm, masculine body that even his sweater couldn’t entirely conceal. And the way he moved—with that kind of purpose and intensity—it made my heart race and my mouth go dry, arousal pushing up alongside the anger and making me dizzy. I suddenly thought about how the Reverend Doctor would be in bed, if he would push my head down and test my cunt with bored fingers. If he would make me crawl naked to him on the hardest floor he had, every light on, cold satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. If those broad shoulders and muscled arms were strong enough to take my weight as he fucked me against bookshelves full of lectionaries and tomes of Wesleyan theology.
I shivered.
“Close the door,” he said.
“I’d rather not,” I said, my voice still shaky with my earlier anger and now also shaky with something else. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—I was confident he wouldn’t hurt me, and even more confident that I could hold my own if we fought—but it was some kind of apprehension. I was nervous to be alone with him not because I thought he was dangerous, but because I suddenly realized that I might be just as dangerous.
He stopped walking toward me and raised a dark brow. “You’d rather not,” he repeated, and it reminded me of something, something, but I didn’t know what. I only knew that the déjà vu was so forceful it made me dizzy. “Alright then. We’ll have this conversation with the door open.”
“Fine,” I said, reaching down for my anger again, “and firstly, we need to talk about how peremptory you’re being with me. I’m not your secretary and I’m definitely not your servant. I do communications, I do weddings, I don’t do your bidding. Is that clear?”
To my immense frustration, a small smile tilted his mouth upward, and the effect was to make him unbearably handsome. “Preemptory,” he echoed. “Well, then.”
I had to resist the overwhelming urge to stamp a foot on the ground. “Are you listening? You can’t just summon me here, and you especially can’t treat me like you hate me for two months and then expect me to be cheerful when you order me around.”
At that, his smile fell and his brows pulled together. “I don’t act like I hate you.”
“Fine, like you dislike me,” I said, waving a hand to show that I didn’t care about the semantics.
“I only have deep respect and fascination where you’re concerned,” he corrected, taking another step forward. “No hate. No disdain. The more I learn about you, the more I want to know.”
Uncertainty drizzled through my thoughts. “You can’t feel that way. You don’t know a thing about me.”
This brought the smile back to his mouth, and how had I never noticed how unsafe that smile was before? Arrogant, yes, attractive, fine—but the way he smiled at me brought to mind the way a wolf might smile at a lost, innocent doe.
Except I wasn’t a doe and I certainly was
n’t innocent. I made a noise at his smile and turned to leave—I was going to go and damn the consequences—but he stopped me with a single sentence.
“I saw you at Persepolis last night.”
Panic, cold and meanly jagged, dragged through my entire body, shredding my composure and sending my thoughts flying in all directions like woodchips from a log being split.
Persepolis.
He saw me.
Oh God, how much did he see?
Is he going to tell other people?
Is he going to find a way to convince the church to fire me?
I stopped and turned back.
“Would you like to shut the door now?” he asked.
Yes. Yes, I would.
I shut the door and then leaned against it, eyeing him warily.
“I know lots of things about you, Corabel Dennis,” he continued. “I know that you could be making three times what you earn anywhere else, but that you choose to work here. I know that you haven’t had a boyfriend or girlfriend since I’ve met you and that you prefer to walk around the grounds on your lunch break instead of eating in the staff room. I know that you use the word peremptory in a sentence.” He took another step forward, close enough now that I could see the individual arcs of his sooty eyelashes. “And I know that last night you let a man strip you bare on a stage and give you pleasure while a crowd of people watched. While I watched.”
My heart pounded in my chest like it was fighting to get free. Because I finally realized the source of my déjà vu earlier, the reason for my earlier responsiveness and arousal.
He’s exactly the kind of man I like in bed.
Godlike.
Dominant.
Fuck.
I grabbed for self-control, lifted my chin. “I hope I don’t have to explain to you that you don’t have a right to anything—to any part of me—just because you saw me at a sex club. Just because I like certain consensual games in my free time does not make me easy or a whore.”
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