by Olivia Dade
He couldn’t wait. He welcomed any excuse to hold her in his arms again. If he could, he’d do fifty trust falls with her. A hundred.
He twisted from side to side, limbering up for the task ahead. When he bent over at the waist to touch his toes, she made an odd little sound from behind him.
He paused. “You okay?”
“Yup.” Her voice was strangled. “Never better.”
The stretch of his back and legs felt so good, he let himself hang down for another few moments. After he finished, he straightened and turned to her. “Ready?”
Her eyes seemed especially bright. Almost feverish. “Oh, I’m ready all right.”
“According to the instructions, I’m supposed to make sure you don’t feel frightened about falling.”
“Fear is the last thing I feel.”
“Good.” He smiled at her. “I’m glad you trust me.”
She fanned herself. “Is it warm in here?”
“Maybe a bit. Which reminds me, I should loosen some of my clothing before I catch you. Don’t want to rip my clothes with a sudden movement.”
Removing his tie with a few swift jerks of his hand, he draped it over the rolling chair at the front of the room. He opened the top two buttons of his shirt and untucked it a bit from his waistband. Finally, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. There. That should do it.
He glanced her way and caught her hot eyes on the skin he’d uncovered. His throat. The top of his chest. His forearms. Her gaze seared him like a brand, and his thoughts grew fuzzy from the heat. He hadn’t intended to take off any more clothing, but if she looked that riveted from two undone buttons . . .
What the fuck? He finished unbuttoning his shirt and placed it over the back of the chair, exposing the formfitting white tee beneath. With numb fingers, he dragged the T-shirt’s hem out from beneath the waistband of his pants, allowing a few inches of his abs to peek out before he let the shirt drop again.
A pink wash of color suffused her cheeks. Without looking away from his chest and arms, she slowly reached for the bottom edge of her sweater and dragged it upward. One glorious inch at a time, the thin blue tank top beneath came into view. It lovingly outlined her rounded belly and generous breasts. Through it, he could see every rapid breath she took. Every minute shift of the muscles and soft flesh beneath the cotton.
When she tugged the sweater over her head, he couldn’t help but stare. The motion lifted her breasts like an offering. To him.
His. She was his.
She threw the sweater on the floor and stared at him with sensual challenge in her eyes.
“Ready?” she asked.
He bit back a growl. “Bring it.”
15
Angie shivered at the rough timbre of Grant’s voice. She hadn’t heard that particular intonation in his voice for three days. It was the sound of a man on the verge of losing control. A man whose visceral desires had overcome his innate cautiousness and good sense.
A man she wanted. Oh, God, she wanted him. Cautious, wild, buttoned-up, rumpled . . . any way she could get him. If that meant tempting him in a children’s storytime room with a judgmental-looking stuffed owl watching them, so be it.
Logically, she knew she should run. A stray coworker could come by at any moment and see Angie and Grant half-undressed and flushed with lust. She should flee the quiet, dim room and stay away until her heart rate slowed and desire didn’t cloud her decisions. But her gut and heart—her gurt?—shouted at her, telling her she’d regret it if she fled. They urged her to within a hairsbreadth of Grant, close enough that when he inhaled deeply, his chest brushed her breasts.
His fists lay clenched against his sides, and she imagined she could see the throbbing of his heart through that wispy tease of a T-shirt. That shirt would feel warm from his body. She knew it. The man put off heat like a furnace. Standing in front of him was like drawing near a roaring fire. Sure, she could get burned. But the heat . . . Fuck, the heat was intoxicating.
She moved close to the pile of stuffed animals and turned her back to him. She glanced back over her shoulder, catching his eye. “Get behind me, Grant.”
Walking around her, he moved into position at her back. His hands reached out, his fingertips brushing the soft cotton of her tank top. He evidently didn’t intend for her to fall far. His breath whispered against the bare nape of her neck, stirring the tiny hairs there. The warmth from his body made her eyes close and a bolt of electricity flash through her pussy.
The roaring fire crackled behind her, and she needed to incinerate herself in it. Now. Without further warning, she let herself fall into Grant’s arms.
The first sign that she should have given him more notice came quickly.
“Shit!” he bit out. Her head smacked into his shoulder, and he tottered under her weight. She could feel his hands struggling to get a good grip as he attempted to keep her upright.
Her feet scrabbled at the floor as she tried to find her footing and help him. “Let me just—” she panted.
“Stop . . . moving,” he ordered, his voice sounding strained.
She obediently froze. For a moment, it seemed like he’d regained his balance. The staggering almost came to a stop, and she took a relieved breath. Then, as he shifted his stance one last time, she felt his foot catch on something. His body jerked and began to buckle.
“Fucking platypus!” he yelled, and they both hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and stuffed animals.
For a minute, she lay stunned on top of him, the surreality of the moment overwhelming her. Was she really staring at the ceiling of the children’s storytime room? Somewhere over her shoulder, was a stuffed anteater really gazing inquiringly at her? And was that really Grant’s erection nudging against her bottom, despite the fall and the exceedingly bizarre surroundings?
She wiggled her ass. He groaned. Yes. Yes, to all those questions.
His hands clasped her upper arms and stroked slowly up and down. He didn’t try to shift her off of him. She continued gazing blindly at the painted ductwork as his fingers glided up to her shoulders and caressed her collarbones.
“Are you all right?” he whispered into her ear. His lips grazed her earlobe, and she trembled in response.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m definitely hurting because of you,” he said, a wry note in his low voice. But when she moved to roll off of him, his hands clamped back onto her arms. “But the fall has nothing to do with it.”
She lay still once more, allowing his hands to resume roaming. This time, when they traveled up her arms, they didn’t stop at her collarbones. With a deliberate pace, giving her every opportunity to protest, he let his fingers slide to the swell of her breasts. He pulled the tank top down below her bra. Then his hands slipped under the silky material of the cups, taking the curves of both breasts in his hands.
Her nipples beaded against the warmth of his palms, and her breathing quickened. His hands moved slightly upward, back toward her collarbones, and she almost gasped out a protest. But then his forefingers brushed back and forth over each nipple, and she understood. He wasn’t stopping. He was adjusting, changing where he could touch, what he could feel.
When his thumbs joined his forefingers for a gentle pinch, she moaned and shifted her legs. As if he’d merely been waiting for that invitation, he removed his hands from her bra and skimmed downward. Over her stomach, past her hips . . . and to the hem of her skirt. He pushed up the fabric bit by bit, stroking the skin of her thighs as he did.
Finally, the denim of her skirt bunched around her belly, exposing her panties to the cool air of the library. Not for long, though. One of his hot hands came to rest possessively over the cotton covering the curls between her thighs.
“Spread your legs. So I can feel how wet you are.”
She nearly whimpered at the order. He’d find the answer to his question easily enough if his fingers delved a little lower.
“Angel,” he said
. “Do it.”
She did, closing her eyes as she opened her thighs to him.
“So pretty,” he told her. “I can’t see it, but I remember how pink and gorgeous your pussy is. How good it tastes. How it feels when you come against my tongue and around my cock.”
“Oh, fuck,” she panted. She spread her legs even further, inviting his touch.
Without warning, his body stiffened beneath her. “Jesus,” he muttered. “What I said . . . I don’t even recognize myself.”
She turned her head, trying unsuccessfully to see his face. “Grant?”
He lay silent for a moment, and she braced herself for his withdrawal. Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she fought the need to argue. She knew he was right to stop. They couldn’t do this here. Not on the floor of the children’s storytime room. Not behind an unlocked door, with patrons passing just outside and other members of their training group likely to stop by at any moment. Not when they could both lose their jobs for this.
She lay silent, though, savoring this last moment of his hand resting between her legs. His body under hers. His mouth at her ear. Her world complete.
Then his hand began to move again, but not away. Down under the top of her panties. She nearly cried in relief.
“Doesn’t matter right now,” he said. “All that matters is you. You and me.”
He slid his fingers down her lower belly and into her thatch of curls. For a minute, he simply played with them, combing through and petting. “I love that you’re not bare,” he said. “I don’t want to fuck a girl. I want to fuck a woman.”
Normally, she was the main talker in the bedroom. Or, in this case, the storytime room. But something about this situation had stolen her tongue. Was she afraid that he’d change his mind if she spoke? That he’d come to his senses, apologize, and make sure never to find himself alone with her again? Or was she concentrating so intently on what he did and said that no words would come?
She didn’t know. And as he’d said, it didn’t matter right now. The two of them, together and touching, mattered. Nothing else.
His fingertips explored lower. “Exactly like I remembered. So soft and wet for me. Sinking into you felt like . . . shit, I don’t know. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. But I must’ve jerked off to the memory of it ten times since Monday night. I think about it so much I can’t sleep.”
He stroked her clitoris, and she fumbled for something to grasp with her hands. Some sort of purchase. She reached down and grabbed his waist, her nails digging into his sides.
His low laugh vibrated through her body. “Hold on tight. That’s only the beginning.”
He played in her wet folds, testing the sensitivity of every inch of flesh. His fingers circled the entrance to her body, but didn’t push inside. When he returned to her clitoris with a soft rub, barely moving his finger, she choked back a moan of mingled pleasure and protest. The deliberate pace of his movements made her desperate for more contact and pressure. She lifted her hips into his touch, but not for long. A large hand settled on her belly, keeping her in place for his exploration.
“You don’t need to work for it,” he said. “Be patient, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Not a patient woman,” she reminded him through gritted teeth.
His finger against her clit stilled. “No?”
“That’s playing dirty.” But she lowered her hips, showing him her intent to cooperate.
He laughed, waggling his fingers against her belly. “Loose fingers. What can you do?”
She couldn’t help grinning. The smile died, though, as his finger began making slow rotations around her clitoris. Her head turned to the side, seeking the heat of his shoulder against her cheek. His scent surrounded her, and she felt dizzy with the pleasure of his body against hers. His fingers toying with her pussy. His mouth against her neck, and his tongue flicking where her pulse beat.
She clutched his waist tighter. So very slowly, his fingers began to press more firmly, move faster against her. Her legs shifted in restless entreaty, and she couldn’t hold back a whimper as the pleasure built. He dipped into her pussy to wet his fingers, and then returned to her clit. With each circle around it, she could hear the faint sound of slick flesh.
“I can feel you quivering against my fingers,” he whispered into her ear, giving the lobe a tiny bite.
The sting arrowed straight to her pussy, and she whimpered again.
“You’re getting tense. Are you about to come?”
She couldn’t help it anymore. She was panting, squirming against his hands. Her legs spread even farther, inviting him into her empty pussy.
“Are you?” he persisted, scraping his teeth against her neck.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Yes.”
His hand on her belly skated up to her breast, back beneath her bra. As he kept circling and circling his finger against her clit, he took a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. For a moment, he only gave a gentle tug. She held her breath, waiting.
“Good. Now,” he said, and he gave her nipple a firm pinch.
Fire shot through her pussy, and she barely stifled a scream as she came. His relentless fingers stroked her clitoris through each contraction, drawing out the pleasure until she could barely stand it. Her legs drew up, seeking something to wrap around. A man’s hips. Grant’s, as he slammed inside her. She tossed her head against his shoulder, gasping for breath and rocking her hips into his hand.
“Grant,” she gasped. “Fuck, Grant.”
She came hard and long, but the pleasure eventually faded. His fingers slowed as her shuddering stopped, and her legs dropped limply on either side of his. Finally, his hand merely lay covering her pussy. Marking his territory. Now that the buzz in her head had diminished, she could hear their harsh breathing. She could feel his insistent cock pressing against her ass. And when she opened her eyes, she could see that the door to the storytime room stood closed but unlocked.
Quickly remedied, that. Much as it pained her, she rolled to her side, dislodging his hands. On shaky legs, she rose and smoothed down her skirt. She walked to the door and reached for the lock with an unsteady hand. The decisive click seemed to echo through the room. She turned back around and looked at Grant where he lay on the ground. His T-shirt had ridden up, exposing the taut muscles of his belly and the trail of dark hair leading downward. Pointing to the bulge behind his zipper.
He was watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Come here,” he said. “And take off your panties. I want to taste you before I fuck you.”
Her legs almost collapsed beneath her.
“Okay,” she managed to say, and started moving toward him.
Then from somewhere near the front of the room, her cell phone rang.
“Ignore it,” he rasped.
She wanted to. With all of her heart, not to mention her loins. Except. . .
“That’s my sister’s ringtone,” she said, her eyes pleading with him to forgive her. “I have to answer it.”
He closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I understand. Go ahead,” he said, his voice muffled.
When she tapped the screen to answer the call, the first thing she heard was the sound of her sister Vicky crying. All thoughts of sexy time with Grant fled immediately.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked. “What happened?”
It could be anything. For that matter, it could be absolutely nothing. Postpartum depression had hit her sister hard. So hard that Vicky had trouble dealing with her daily life, even on days when nothing in particular had gone wrong.
“I need you,” Vicky sobbed.
“Anything, Vix. Please don’t cry,” Angie said. She jerked her tank top back up over her bra and looked for her sweater. There. On the floor, piled in a heap. After tugging it over her head, she asked, “Are you or the baby hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“We’re fine,” her sister said, her breath hitching. “But I n-need you tonight. For di
nner with Mom and Dad.”
Angie stopped with her left arm only halfway into the sweater’s sleeve. “What?”
“François can’t come. The gallery added an extra day to his exhibition, and he has to be there. And I can’t go to their house alone with Angela. I can’t,” Vicky repeated, breaking again into sobs.
“No, honey. Don’t cry. We’ll fix this,” Angie soothed. “Why don’t I call and tell them you can’t make it tonight? Dinner with our parents isn’t worth this kind of grief.”
“I can’t cancel,” Vicky said, sniffling. “They keep calling and complaining that they haven’t met Angela yet. If I don’t answer the phone, they try again at one-hour intervals. If I have to dodge one more phone call from them, I just . . . I don’t know what I’ll do, Angie. Please come to dinner. Please.”
“If they’d been willing to get their asses in their fucking car and drive half an hour, they’d have met Angela the night you gave birth to her,” she said in frustration.
“I know.” Vicky’s breathing had begun to even out, thank God. “But that’s not how they see it. And I need you beside me as they question every decision I’ve made in the last ten years. I know they’ll have concerns about how I deal with Angela, and I can’t do it alone. Please.”
“Honey, I would.” She tried to keep her voice as gentle as possible. “But I’m working until late this afternoon. Mandatory training with my new supervisor.”
“The one you slept with? Bring him with you.”
Angie choked on thin air, coughing for a minute before she could respond. “Excuse me?”
“Bring him with you. We could use another person at the table to distract Mom and Dad. Like an extra buffer.”
Vicky sounded excited by the prospect. And Angie hated to disappoint her, but . . .
“I can’t bring him to dinner with our parents, not even to serve as a buffer. He’s my boss now, Vix, not my boyfriend.” Despite what the two of them had just been doing on the storytime room floor. “And if I don’t complete this training, I’m going to get fired.”