“Oh, come on now. It’s Friday night. Unless you have somewhere to be?” I ask, and the spike of jealousy I feel at even the idea that she might have plans with someone else shocks me.
She shakes her head again. “No, it’s not that. I just—”
“Boss’s orders, then,” I tell her with a smile, and, after a moment, she nods, laughing a little. I lead her upstairs, where, other than the administrative office, there’s also a small gallery. I sometimes host artists and clients up here, but mostly, this gallery is for me, and I want her to see it.
I open the glass doors into the upstairs gallery and step aside as she walks in, her eyes wide as she looks around. Before I can say a word, she’s strolling over to one wall, which is dominated by some of my favorite pieces.
“I wondered what was in here,” she murmurs. “You can’t see the art from outside the door.”
“Did you try?” I ask with a smile.
She turns back and gives me one of her crooked little smiles. “Obviously. Nose pressed to the glass and everything.” She turns back to the art, and I can’t take my eyes off her. She moves like a dancer; graceful and fluid. As she looks around, I grab two wine glasses from the wet bar tucked into one corner of the gallery, uncork the wine, and pour it. I carry both glasses over to her and offer her one, which she accepts with a smile.
“I’m pleading inebriation for anything improper I might say from this point on. I don’t drink much,” she says with a little laugh as she takes a sip.
“I can’t imagine that you’d say anything that would be considered improper.”
She raises one eyebrow, and her eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief and humor. “Well, you never know,” she murmurs, taking another sip.
I motion her toward one of the long sofas in the middle of the gallery. There’s a chaise lounge tucked into another corner, but she seems to be into looking at the art, and I’m happy with letting her get her fill of it. It gives me more of an opportunity to admire her without her knowing. Before long, we’re talking like old friends—about college and art and books and places we’ve been and places we want to visit. She’s kicked off her shoes and has her legs curled beneath her, her body facing me as we sit and talk. Soon, the wine bottle is empty, and I’m feeling drunk. Not on the wine, but on Poppy and her scent and her laugh and that devilish little twinkle in her eyes. The desire I felt the first moment I saw her, and then again at lunch last week, has just continued to build at an almost frightening pace.
And at that moment, I realize that I’m done pretending I don’t want her. I’m going to have her. I’m going to know her body in ways no one else ever has. And she won’t turn me down because I’m going to make her the kind of offer she’d be crazy to want to walk away from.
Finally, after all this time, the scar of my past doesn’t burn so bad.
Chapter Seven
Poppy
This man is every naughty dream I’ve ever had. I mean, he was irresistible enough when he was just my hot, if sometimes curt, boss. But this guy? This guy who’s open and relaxed and even actually laughed at a few of my dorky jokes? This guy has me so hot and bothered I’m already adding extra vibrator batteries to the mental shopping list I keep.
Down, girl.
I clear my throat, wishing for more wine, but we demolished the entire, absolutely delicious, bottle of it.
“How did you get into all this?” I ask, vaguely gesturing at the gallery. “Art, I mean.”
He takes a breath and looks like he’s not going to answer. But then he turns those sexy hazel eyes on me. “I don’t remember a time when art wasn’t central to my life,” he says. “Growing up… my life was pretty rough. My parents were the types of people who should never have kids. Hell, my parents shouldn’t have been allowed to have a goldfish,” he adds, and I don’t know what to say to that. “I would sit in my room and draw. I’d sit on my bed, my back against the pillows, and stay that way for hours. When I was drawing, everything else disappeared. The shouting, the fear, the hunger, the sense of being just kind of alone in the world.”
My heart clenches, and I wish I had something deep and profound to say to that.
“And then I started painting and sculpting, and I won a few contests. I won a scholarship to my top choice of art school, and I haven’t looked back.”
I can’t stop looking at him. His voice feels like it’s wrapping itself around my soul. I realize that I like Nathaniel. I actually like him, as a person, not just as someone I’d love to ride someday.
The is… not good. I can’t actually like him. This is my boss; the man who can help me reach the next level in my career. But damn if his story, if the way he talks about the art we both love, hasn’t cracked that little wall of professionalism I’m trying like hell to keep between the two of us. I let it down at lunch last week, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since, trying to regain some ground. I meet his eyes for a moment, then look away as my stomach does this stupid little flip/flutter thing.
I mean… I’m still a virgin after all. I’ve always gone after what I wanted job and career-wise, but men are a whole other battlefield. Sure, I did stuff with guys in college, but frat types are all the same, and I wasn’t going to let some drunk, baby-faced dude pop my cherry.
But this man, Nathaniel, is so much more. More mature, more intense, more mouthwatering. Not even my best self-pleasing experience would compare to what he could do to me if he wanted to.
And I’ve thought about that a lot. Good God, have I thought about it.
I force my mind out of the gutter and back to the conversation at hand.
“What about you?” he asks. Somehow, we’ve ended up closer to each other on the long sofa. We’d started out at opposite ends, and now we’re just a few inches apart in the center of it.
“My mom was an artist,” I say. It still hurts to talk about her, even after all this time. “She was amazing. And she went at it with everything she had. I knew I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.”
He searches my eyes, and I swear he can see right into my mess of a soul. “How did she pass away?” he asks.
“Cancer. I was ten,” I tell him, determined to keep my voice even.
“I’m sorry.”
I nod. “She was amazing. So gorgeous, so talented. I feel connected to her doing this work. So, in that way, she’s always with me.”
This feels like too much. Too much sharing, too much personal shit. I glance at my watch. “Oh! It’s after nine already. I didn’t think I’d stay that long,” I add with a small laugh. “I should go.” Nathaniel nods.
I stand up, and so does he. I slip my shoes back on, and then glance up to see him watching me, his eyes are dark, and he has this unreadable look on his face that has my entire body breaking out in goosebumps.
“I want to show you something before you leave, if it’s okay?” he says.
For a split second, I consider refusing, but I’m curious. I nod, and he turns and leads me out of the room, into one of the smaller galleries off this main one. There’s a large canvas at the very end, and he stops in front of it. I catch up to him and study the canvas. It’s a portrait, a beautiful, laughing woman with dark wavy hair and hazel eyes.
She looks just like Nathaniel.
I glance at him and then back at the painting.
“This is stunning,” I say, and it’s the absolute truth. The brush strokes, the colors, the way the artist captured this particular moment in time… amazing. “Did you paint this?”
He nods.
“Is this your mother?”
“Yes. This was the first portrait I ever painted. I kept it to remind myself of where I came from.”
I look up at him, and our eyes meet. I swear it’s almost impossible to breathe, seeing that look in his eyes, and I can’t look away.
Hell, I don’t want to look away. He slowly lowers his lips to mine, as if he’s giving me a chance to run if I want to. But that’s the last thing I want, and the second his li
ps meet mine, it’s like being caught up in a storm—dizzying, electrifying, with more than a little sense of the fact that I’m doing something dangerous, something I should know better to resist.
He pulls me toward him, pressing my body up against his, and the feel of his hard, big body against mine has me on the verge of losing my mind. He buries his hands in my hair and tilts my head, controlling the angle, the depth of our kiss. He kisses me with hunger and possessiveness, which has me practically on the verge of an orgasm. When he sweeps his tongue over my lips, I open for him, and then his tongue is tasting me, darting into my mouth, invading me in a way that has me wishing with all my might that his tongue won’t be the only part of his body I’ll have inside of me.
He lowers his hands to my neck, resting them around my throat, and the sensation of his big, strong hands on the sensitive skin causes me to release a helpless little moan.
He’s using his body to back me up, maneuvering me, and a moment later, the backs of my thighs hit the arm of the chaise lounge in the center of the room.
“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Poppy?” he murmurs against my mouth, and I moan again. “I need to hear the words, darling.”
“Yes. I do,” I whisper. “But there’s something you need to know first.”
He lets out a low, dangerous laugh, and then his hands are trailing heat down my shoulders, down my chest, until he reaches my breasts and cups them. I cry out at the overwhelming sensation. I’ve fantasized about him touching me, wondered what it would be like to have his hands on my body this way. He cups my breasts firmly, weighing them in his hands, massaging them, and I thrust my chest toward him, needing more. In the next instant, he’s unbuttoning my blouse. He pushes it off my shoulders, and it falls onto the chaise behind me.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and I press my thighs together, needing some form of relief from the way I need him. He reaches up and unclasps the front of my bra, and my breasts spill free. He makes a low, appreciative growling sound deep in his throat, and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s barely hanging onto control. He pushes my bra down my arms, and it joins my blouse on the chaise.
The second he cups my bare breasts, I cry out. It’s almost too much. Too intense. Too damn good. His thumbs flick at my nipples, over and over again, and I let my head fall back, thrusting my breasts closer to him. I feel his hands at my waist, and then he’s pushing my skirt down.
“Nathaniel, wait,” I tell him, stopping him before he can do the same with my panties.
His eyes find mine again, curiosity tracing across his brows. “What is it, Poppy? Am I going too fast for you?”
I shake my head, the heat rising to my cheeks now due to embarrassment rather than pleasure. “I’m…”
Just say it, Poppy. Rip off the Band-Aid.
“Yes?” Nathaniel prompts, the frown on his face deepening.
“This is kinda… going to be my first time.”
At first, he just stares at me as if he’s not sure he’s heard me right. Then, he laughs. “Oh, I see. Sure, we can roleplay.”
Oh no, things just got ten times more awkward. He thinks I want to play a sex game.
“No, Nathaniel. This isn’t a game—I really am a virgin.”
He backs away from me a little but doesn’t break my gaze. “Wow, you are serious?”
I nod and swallow the lump that’s risen in my throat. “But I want to do this. It’s definitely time I… matured… in that way.”
His jaw flexes as he lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Poppy. This might cause a lot of—”
I cut him off and reach over to cup his face in my hands. “Please. I want you to be the one who does it—someone mature, intelligent, and artistic. Please?”
After what feels like an eternity, but could’ve only been a minute at most, Nathaniel finally speaks again. “Leave your shoes on,” he says, with a devilish grin. “I’ve been picturing myself fucking you while you wore nothing but those all day.”
I freeze. “Y-you have?” I manage.
“Just one of many fantasies, Poppy.”
I try to think of something to say, but totally lose my train of thought when he pushes me back onto the lounge and bends his head down to resume touching me. He slides my panties down to where my skirt is pooled around my feet, and I quickly kick both garments aside. He claims one tender, aching nipple with his mouth. He gives it one long, hard suck, and I cry out again, thrashing my head, almost unable to take how intense the sensation is; the perfect mix of pleasure and pain.
And then he does it again, and again, and then his teeth gently clamp down onto my nipple, and when he starts nibbling me, all I can do is plead for more.
His hands are on my hips, holding me where he wants me as he tortures my breasts with his mouth. All too soon, my breasts are swollen and tender, aching and heavy from the things he’s done to them, and he’s still not done. He’s savoring one nipple, and my head is back, taking in every bit of the pleasure he’s giving me, when I feel him cup my pussy in one big, warm hand. I buck against his hand, and he hums in appreciation.
“So fucking wet for me, Poppy,” he murmurs. “Soaking wet, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I manage, just as his fingers find my clit. He presses a finger to it, and I gasp. He rubs circles over and around it, and I swear I’m going to lose my mind. I’m so close to coming, the need to come so intense that I’m practically on the verge of tears.
I’m thrusting my hips toward his hand, and he lowers his mouth to my breast again. One thick, long finger slides into me, and I scream as my first orgasm hits. It seems to go on forever, and Nathaniel is clearly not done. He starts pumping his finger into me, hard and fast, and I’m almost ashamed to find myself riding his hand, chasing another orgasm.
Just as I’m about to come, Nathaniel stops. He straightens, then gently pushes me back on the chaise lounge. We’re at the end where there’s an arm, which slopes down to the seat with a plush gray velvet cushion. He settles me the way he wants me, my pussy up in the air, exposed to the cool air of the gallery, my thighs spread open, one thrown over the back of the chaise, the other foot resting on the floor. He steps back, looking at me. I’m blushing. I've never, ever had a man look at me like this. It feels dirty, naughty to be doing this in this place, with him looking at me like he’s about to fuck me so hard I’ll forget my own name.
“Please,” I beg.
“Please what, Poppy? Please fuck you?”
I nod, and he smiles.
“Soon. There’s something else I need to do first.”
I’m about to ask what that is, when he lowers himself to his knees between my thighs.
“Oh my God,” I whimper, and then I feel his tongue tracing my slit. I moan and then scream as he slowly, firmly licks my clit. He does it again and again, and I feel that orgasm building again. My hands find my breasts, and I can’t help pulling and tweaking my nipples as he devours me. So close. So close… and when he slides two fingers into me as he uses his tongue on me, I fall apart, screaming his name, my orgasm so strong I swear I can’t see for a moment. My orgasm ends, but he’s still there, doing evil, delicious things with his tongue, and when he sucks my clit into his mouth, I can’t take it anymore. I try to push at his head.
“It’s too much. I can’t… please,” I beg. He gives my clit another couple of long, slow, intense sucks, then pulls back. He gets to his feet and looks down at me, spread open for him.
“You taste so damn good, Poppy,” he says. And then he pulls me up and lowers his lips to mine. I can taste myself on his lips, on his tongue, and it’s the sexiest, most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. “I could spend all night with my face between your thighs, making you scream for me,” he murmurs against my lips. I whimper, and he deepens our kiss as his hands trail down my body, over my back, to my ass. He grips my ass in his hands, pulling me toward him. I can feel his erection pressing into my belly, and I moan. He’s massaging my ass cheeks, his fingers getting d
angerously close to touching me where no one else ever has.
I press myself closer to him, and he groans. He pulls back, then pulls something out of his pocket. I recognize the foil packet immediately, and my pussy throbs in response. He’s not done with me yet. My body is so sensitized, so tender from what he’s already done to me, but I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.
He unbuttons his pants and unzips his fly, and I realize he’s going to fuck me while he’s still fully dressed, suit, tie, and all, and somehow that makes this all the more erotic. His cock springs free, and I moan. It’s long, thick, and I know he’s going to fill me completely. I watch as he rolls the condom onto his cock, and then he turns me around and bends me over the arm of the chaise. I grip the cushion and wait.
“So wet again, Poppy,” he murmurs. “Are you never satisfied?” he asks, and there’s a hint of humor in his dark voice. “Look at you. You’re dripping for me.”
I bury my face in the cushion of the chaise lounge, mortified, and more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. No one has ever talked to me this way.
“So needy,” he murmurs. “So ready to please me. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. His hands are on my ass again, massaging, spreading me, and the thought that he’s looking at me, that he’s seen every part of my body this intimately, briefly has me wondering how I’ll face him when this is over.
He gives my ass a not-so-gentle pat, and I moan for what seems like the fiftieth time.
“Now, just relax,” he murmurs. And then his hands are on my hips, and before I can think of anything else, he enters pushes himself into me. I cry out as he stretches me, fills me so full I swear I’m about to split. The pain is sharp at first but then starts to recede.
“That’s it. Take it all, darling,” he purrs, and a moment later, I feel his balls pressing against my clit as my body tries to accommodate him.
I have a momentary flash, a twisted memory, of seeing my father fucking his secretary just like this, her bent over his desk, and it hits me, that it’s happening all over again—the older, more powerful man rutting the younger woman like an animal.
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