by R. C. Martin
Michael takes his time, reacquainting himself with my mouth.
I give as good as I get, trying to express how much I’ve missed him.
“I missed you,” I practically whine when he finally pulls away from me.
Shaking his head, his eyes dance around my face as he breathes, “You have no idea, angel.”
He presses another quick kiss against my lips, and I slip my fingers into his hair as he pulls away. Having him in my arms—being crushed by his—it almost makes me forget the week that I’ve had. Almost. Yet, as long as it was, as I stare into his eyes while we both work to catch our breath, I concede to the reality that it was worth it—even if for just this stolen moment. Only, now that I’m here, I have to admit that I’m in this, wherever it’s going.
“I have to tell you something,” I murmur, afraid to let him go.
“Okay.”
With one arm still holding me close, he reaches up and traces a finger along my face, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear. I swallow hard before I confess, “I broke up with Mateo. Sunday—right before you called—I ended it.”
He freezes, his fingers still at my ear, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait for his response.
“Blaine,” he mutters, his brow furrowed as he retreats, letting me go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Don’t apologize,” I insist, taking a step toward him.
Shaking his head, his blue eyes expressing his worry, he goes on to tell me, “It wasn’t my intention for you to—”
I don’t let him finish, pressing my hands to his stomach as I plead with him, “Don’t apologize. It was my decision.”
He sighs and runs a hand down his face. Clenching his jaw, he stares at me for a second before he mutters, “I could use a drink. You want a drink?”
“Uh,” I stammer, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Sure?”
The word comes out more like a question than an affirmative answer, but he nods and steps away from me anyhow. I watch as he goes behind his desk and pulls open the bottom, left-hand drawer. As he sets out a bottle of bourbon and two tumblers, I have to bite my lip to keep myself from laughing. The fact that he has liquor hidden away in his desk seems so humorously cliché.
“What are you smirking about?” he asks me, breaking the seal on the bourbon.
A blush blossoms across my cheeks. Having not realized that I was smirking, I look down at my feet as I admit, “It just, I don’t know—seems like something out of a movie. The straight-laced governor with a bottle of bourbon in his desk.”
“And his mistress in his office?”
I suck in a breath, my amusement evaporating into thin air as I lift my eyes to meet his. Hearing him say it like that, hearing him put a label on it, makes it feel more real. Joining him behind his desk, I wrap my hand around one of the empty glasses and push it toward the bottle.
“I could use that drink now.”
He pours us each two fingers of bourbon before he stows the bottle away and sinks down into his chair. I take a sip, the brown liquid warming me from the inside out as I prop my backside against the edge of his desk. We stare at one another, the truth exposed in the last two minutes hanging between us.
I swallow another shallow drink of the strong liquor before I break our silence and explain, “I know that it’s hard to separate the two—the beginning of…whatever this is and the end of my relationship with Mateo, but they don’t go hand in hand.” Staring down into my tumbler, I go on to say, “We were together for two years. Somewhere along the way, it became more convenient than anything else. I didn’t notice until, well…”
“Until when?” he asks, his voice soft and rumbly.
Peeking at him from beneath my lashes, I whisper, “Until someone better came along.”
He nods his understanding, but I can tell by the crease in his brow that he’s still rattled by my news. When he looks away from me and takes a sip of bourbon, I realize what it is that he’s feeling. Guilt. At first, I don’t understand it. Sure, he didn’t know that much about Mateo and me. He wasn’t privy to the dynamic of our relationship, but he’d somehow managed to see me during a couple of our low points, which means he knew we weren’t perfect.
“Blaine,” he mutters, pulling me from my thoughts. I study him, watching as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck before he says, “I’ve been with my wife since I was—”
“Oh, my god!” I gasp, suddenly understanding his confliction.
Setting aside my glass, I hop up onto his desk, holding onto the edge as I lean toward him.
“Please don’t think that I expect you to, like, reciprocate or something. I might be young, but I’m not dumb. I also read your bio, remember? I know how long you’ve been married. You’ve known me for a millisecond. I don’t know where this is going, but—god—I do not expect you to make any sudden movements. Honestly. I swear.” I pause to take a breath and then hold out my hand for him to take. When he curls his fingers under mine, I hold on tight as I promise him, “I broke up with Mateo for me. You—you’re just who I’m hoping for.”
Michael
I WON’T DENY that hearing her tell me she broke up with her boyfriend filled me with a shocking amount of relief. I never met the guy, but I didn’t like the way he treated her. I can’t claim to know a lot about their relationship—if anything—but what I saw convinced me that she deserves better. It’s laughable to think that I’m somehow better, but I want her. There’s a part of me that likes knowing that whatever we share, she won’t be going home to give herself to someone else. It’s selfish, hypocritical, and shameful. I’m fully aware. Yet, that doesn’t make it any less true.
At the same time, upon first hearing the news, I was afraid that she had skipped ten steps ahead of me. To think that she expected me to make some sort of bold declaration—it filled me with a sense of panic. We’ve barely just begun. I don’t want what’s happening to end because of expectations that are too daunting for me to even wrap my head around. Except now, after what she’s just said, my relief is of a different sort. We’re on the same page.
Almost.
I readjust our hands so that my fingers are laced between hers. Then, after setting aside my half empty glass, I move my chair so that I’m sitting directly in front of her. Reaching up to take hold of her hip, I graze my thumb against her in slow circles as I bring my eyes level with hers.
“I want to get to know you. I want to see where this goes.”
She squeezes my fingers, and I squeeze back, moving my opposite hand up to her waist.
“It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you—hell, it’s not fair to anyone—but I can’t…” I sigh in defeat, leaning forward to press my forehead against the bare skin of her chest, just above her dress. I inhale deeply when she buries her fingers in my hair, and my eyes fall closed as she tickles the nape of my neck. “I can’t stay away from you,” I confess on a whisper.
“I don’t want you to.”
Her declaration has me dropping her hand so that I can wrap both arms around her hips. She sucks in a breath when I pull her closer to the edge of my desk, her knees now straddling my sides. When I lift my head, she drops hers immediately, touching the tip of her nose to the tip of mine. The feel of her hot, shallow breaths against my lips makes my dick jerk, and the bourbon I smell on her makes me want to taste her—so I do.
Sinking my fingers in her hair, I pull her closer, until her lips are pressed against mine. The instant I flick my tongue across the seam of her mouth, she opens up for me, moaning softly as she leans into our kiss. It’s not long before the soft whimpers coming from her throat have me so hard, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable. I stand, hoping a shift in position will help alleviate some of my ache.
It does nothing of the sort.
As Blaine tilts her head back, so as not to break our connection, she hitches her legs around me. With a groan, I plunge my tongue into her mouth, kissing her deeper as I ease her across my desk. The bulge in my pa
nts connects with her center perfectly. When she digs her heels into the back of my thighs, beckoning me closer, I know she feels it, too.
I don’t think as I grip one of my hands around her side, holding her as I sweep my thumb along the slight curve of the underside of her breast. She arches her back, sighing into my mouth, and I can’t stop myself. I palm her small breast through her dress, and her legs grow tighter around me.
“Michael,” she moans, rolling her hips.
Certain that I should stop, that it’s imperative that we slow down, I drag my lips away from her mouth and kiss along the side of her neck. She smells amazing, like flowers in springtime, and I don’t deny myself a taste. I deliver one wet kiss, then another, and then she’s reaching for my wrist. She drags my hand away from her chest, down her stomach, and in between her legs. I lift my head abruptly, seeking out her eyes, and find them hooded in lust.
“I’m so wet,” she pants. “I want you to see. I want you to know how much I want you. Every time I think of you. Touch me, Michael. Please.”
I can’t tell her no. I cannot reject her. Not like this. Not with her laid out beneath me across my damn desk—I cannot deny her when she’s looking at me the way she is now. So I lift her dress and touch two fingers against her panties. My eyes fall closed of their one volition, my jaw going slack as I feel my self control slipping away from me.
She’s soaking wet.
I don’t know how it happens. I can’t explain how it is that I don’t recall moving aside the drenched fabric of her panties. All I know is that when I slip my fingers inside of her, she shudders beneath me as her hands begin frantically pulling at the buttons of my shirt.
And I don’t stop her.
As I coat my fingers in her arousal, something happens in my brain.
Suddenly, I only have five senses.
I feel it when her hands greedily paw at my bare chest.
I hear it when my belt buckle clinks as we both unfasten it.
I smell it when the sweet scent of her arousal begins to fill the room.
I see it when her face relaxes into a state of bliss as I fill her.
And I taste it—the sound of her moan as I close my mouth around hers.
Blaine
I THOUGHT KISSING Michael was amazing.
I thought the feel of his hands on my body was enough to set me on fire.
And then he filled me with his big cock, and now I feel frantic and voracious and absolutely out of control.
I hadn’t anticipated that this would happen. I didn’t agree to meet him because I had some sort of agenda—and I believe in my heart that he didn’t, either. Then he moved my panties, and it was like we both hopped on a freight train traveling a hundred miles an hour, and there was no stopping it. Now, if he stops, I’m sure I’ll never recover.
I’m so wet, I can hear the sound of my arousal soaking his dick over the noise of our panting breath. I’m without a doubt that I’ve never been so turned on in all my life. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had illicit sex before; or maybe it’s because I’ve never had sex on a desk before—or maybe it’s because I’ve never had sex with Michael before. Whatever the reason, I don’t care. I’m too busy enjoying it to care.
When I start to sweat, I try wiggling out of my jacket. Michael’s quick to help me, sliding a hand against my back and lifting me off of the desk. After I blindly toss my jacket somewhere behind me, he doesn’t lay me back down. Instead, he grabs my right knee, lifting it as he holds on and pumps into me faster. My breath catches as I grab the open flaps of his shirt and tug him closer. He brings his lips to mine without further instruction, and neither of us close our eyes as we tangle our tongues together.
For reasons I can’t explain, I find that incredibly hot, and I sense it as my orgasm starts to bloom inside of me.
“Como me haces sentir, angel—No puedo parar. Mierda, no puedo parar.”
I have no idea what he just said, but the sound of his voice makes me moan anyway.
“Michael, I—” My breath hitches and my head falls back as I climb higher and higher toward my release. I let go of his shirt and slip my hands up his sweat soaked neck and into his hair. Gripping two fistfuls, I feel my body start to lock up as I whimper, “I’m gonna come. Shit, Michael—don’t stop!”
He growls, fucking me harder, his arm around my waist holding me so close, I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to pry our bodies apart. Then it hits me and my jaw falls open. The euphoria that bursts inside of me is so intense, I can’t even make a sound. I’m still lost in my own orgasm when he buries his face in the side of my neck and groans deep and long. He thrusts into me twice more, and then we’re both still—neither one of us letting go.
Michael
MY DICK TWITCHES inside of her, and she relaxes in my hold, her hands still tangled in my hair. For a moment, I can’t sense anything except for her warmth enveloping me. Then my conscience starts to awaken, and I realize what we’ve just done.
“Mierda,” I curse. “Mierda, mierda, mierda.”
I loosen my grip from around Blaine as I start to free her, but she clings to me, refusing to let go. When she leans back and gives me her beautiful hazel eyes, I find myself at a loss for words. My heart is at war—my mind lost somewhere between regret and longing. For the first time in my life, I’ve had sex with a woman who is not Veronica.
As a married man, something in the back of my mind tells me that I should feel disgusting. Something tells me that I should feel remorse and shame. In my mind, I know that what we just did was wrong. It was impulsive and stupid. In my mind, I know that the consequences of our actions are more than we could possibly measure in this moment—and I should let her go.
But then she reaches up and lightly traces her fingertips across my forehead, quietly and gently smoothing out my frown. Her eyes grow glassy as she cups my cheek in her hand and whispers, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, and maybe I don’t want to know, but I just want to ask one thing.”
She pauses for a second, long enough to bring her lips a hair’s breadth away from mine before she breathes, “Don’t regret me.”
I don’t hesitate. I close my lips around hers and I kiss her ardently. I know not how else to express that she is impossible to regret.
IT ISN’T UNTIL after we’ve both straightened ourselves up that my lust haze begins to fade. I think back, not merely on what we’ve done, but how we’ve done it.
“We didn’t use a condom,” I mumble, combing my fingers through my hair. Coughing out a dry laugh, I add, “I haven’t used a condom in over a decade. I didn’t think. I—”
“I’m clean, I swear,” Blaine interrupts, taking a hesitant step toward me. “I’m also on the pill.”
I nod my acknowledgement and inform her, “Veronica and I have only ever been with each other. I’m clean, too.”
Her lips part open as she stares at me with what looks like a mix of shock and worry. Not wishing her to feel either one of those things, I gather her in my arms and seek to reassure her that what we’ve started is not a mistake, regardless of my history. More than that, it is merely our beginning. I meant what I said to her before, that I want to get to know her, and I intend to.
“I’d like for us to be more careful in the future.”
“Yes. Of course,” she agrees, leaning into me as she curls her fingers around the front of my shirt. “I’ll—I’ll pick up some condoms on my way home. It’s probably better.” Dropping her chin, she lowers her voice and says, “Your wife would suspect something if you came home with a box.”
“Blaine, look at me,” I insist, sliding a hand around the back of her neck. She lifts her eyes to meet mine, and I lean down to brush a kiss against her lips before I ask, “When can I see you again?”
Pressing up on her tiptoes, she gives me her slight weight, her gaze locked with mine as she whispers, “Not soon enough.”
I kiss her again, and when she slips her tongue into my mouth, I know that she’s right.
<
br /> “You work every night this week?”
“Not Wednesday,” she says hopefully, her eyes searching mine for a response.
“Wednesday then.”
She grins up at me, and my hold around her tightens as she whispers, “You could come over. I could make you dinner.”
“I’d like that,” I admit softly, tracing my nose alongside hers.
Sliding her hands up my chest and wrapping them around my shoulders, she tilts her head back, signaling her desire for another kiss before she replies, “Me, too.”
I take my time with our next exchange, making it slow and sensual, knowing it’ll be our last for a few days. She follows my lead, and we stay lip-locked until my dick starts to harden. Reluctantly, I pull away, touching my forehead to hers.
“We should go.”
“Okay.”
“Clay will walk you out.” She nods, and I give the back of her neck a gentle squeeze, hating that I can’t take her home myself, like a gentleman.
“Wednesday. I’ll text you my address,” she says, retreating from my arms.
“Wednesday,” I repeat with a nod.
She grabs her bag and hurries to the door, turning to look at me from over her shoulder before she whispers, “Goodbye, Governor.”
Smirking, I wink at her and call back, “Goodbye, angel.”
AS SOON AS I step foot into the mansion, I head straight for the shower. I’m relieved when I manage to submerge myself under the spray of hot water without being stopped or questioned by Veronica. Nevertheless, as I wash away the scent of Blaine, I do so regretfully. It makes me feel like a bastard to admit it, but it’s not the smell of our intimate encounter on my skin that I regret, but the fact that I have to wash it away so soon. As awful as the truth may be, the anticipation that consumes me as I look forward to Wednesday evening makes it hard for me to hold onto any sort of self-degradation.