by SE Hall
The next morning I wake before her, the drumming of rain outside signature weather to accompany my grave mood—we have to return to their world today. Who knows when I’ll get time with her again, better make the most of it now.
I nestle in closer, never wanting to leave the intimate cocoon we’ve created, and push her hair forward off her shoulder and steal open-mouthed tastes of her decadent skin, nimbly working off the lace panties she slept in.
A tremble ripples through her, my insatiable advances stirring her aware, but not yet fully awake. “Mhmm,” she drones, pushing back against me, jolting alert when she feels my motivation.
She reaches one arm behind her, skimming it along my thigh in welcome, squirming in cooperation ‘til we have her naked, nothing between us now as I’d shucked my boxer briefs the second I woke to her supple bare back and pert ass thinly veiled in lace.
I slide my hand between her thighs and lift her leg, throwing it over mine, shuffling into position. Words unnecessary, I probe her wet, ready entrance in permission, accepting the up and out thrust of her ass as a yes.
Unhurried, I ease inside of her, marveling at every tremor of her incredibly narrow walls, grasping my dick and naturally sucking it deeper inside her. Keening now, hips undulating, arms wrapped back around my neck, she turns up her face.
“Kiss me too,” she thrums, our tongues meeting, a slow-paced tangle of lazy morning lovin’.
Steady and insistent, I withdraw all but the head, then take my time driving back in, memorizing each tingle up my spine, her satin texture, firm grip, and tiny little trills of her muscles.
Languid, serene, and phenomenally sensual, we start our day by coming apart in and over each other, me suckling her neck and squeezing her breasts as her scorching, tight pussy contracts around me. We stay like that until I soften and ease out of her, jumping up to grab a washcloth.
“Good morning,” I remember to say as my hand works the warmed cloth between her legs.
“Very good morning to you,” she curls on her side, hand tucked beneath her cheek. “I like it that way.”
“What way is that?” I’m pretty sure I ask, transfixed on the puckered nipple I’m tracing with my fingertip.
“In the morning, sleepy, from behind,” her voice fades out.
“Noted.” I give her a playful wink. “What else do you like?” I’d be taken aback that I just asked that, never having done much foreplay and damn sure no afterplay—but weird, fascinating, and new all at the same time—I genuinely want to hear the answer. And then I want to ask her other stuff and listen to those answers too.
Jocelyn Craig, one brush with her is terminal…knew it the minute I saw her.
“Lots of things,” she shrugs one shoulder and her nose scrunches with contemplation. “Reading, music, movies, the usual I guess.”
Clearly she’s not accustomed to talking about herself, needing prompting. “What kind of books, music, movies?”
There we go…now she’s talking, and I soak up every word. When she stops for a breath and appears out of things to say, we both seem content to bask in the comfortable silence, her studying my intricate tracing of her body. As appealing as captivity is, I want to do things, besides that, with her too; so I pinch her pretty nipple, startling her off of the indulgent cloud she seems intent on floating upon all day. The last one, my day, with her. “Get up gorgeous, let’s go do something.”
I stand, dragging her by the hand toward the edge of the bed. “Babe, come on, I wanna make the most of our time.”
Mouth agape, baffled eyes enlarged, she stares at me. “What?” I ask, equally perplexed by her reaction.
“I just, I didn’t know it was possible for a guy to pull the girl out of a bed, to spend “other” time with her. You’re quite the enigma, and I’m flattered, but,” she frowns and points to the window, “it’s raining.”
“Very nice, my lil’ weather girl,” I now force her up, into my arms, breasts smashed against my chest, lush ass cheeks in my hands. “Now, what’s there to do around here that’s indoors?”
“Jocelyn, if you want the necklace, let’s go back and get it. Your pout is cute as hell and all, but not as pretty as that smile I’ve grown quite fond of.”
We’d grabbed breakfast, after a shower—together. She “likes it that way too.” So we did it again, just to make sure, then made our way to the historical 96th Street shopping district. Strolling hand in hand under our umbrella, I’ve listened intently to stories about every single store, her pitch high and excited as she talks about her childhood family vacations.
“I don’t need it really. If I bought everything that caught my eye, I’d be broke and need a bigger place—that I wouldn’t be able to afford.”
Heir to a dynasty and frugal—and I’m the enigma?
I steal a kiss on her temple, silently admiring her humble, down-to-earth qualities.
“Oh, this one!” She squeals in delight, hauling me into a bookstore, sucking in a long, audible inhale when we enter. My face must be talking, because she giggles and answers unasked, “I love the smell of old books, don’t you?”
I sniff; yeah, not bad. As she moseys around, collecting a stack in her arms bigger than she is, I too putter, wanting to seem interested for her.
How I stumble upon it can only be explained as happenstance, and my heart drops in my chest at the memory, knocking me from my high.
A dusty, worn copy of “Where the Red Fern Grows,” in my hand, my mind travels back. Devon loved this book, made our mom read it to him incessantly until he finally started reading it himself. Oh, how he nagged the hell out of our parents for two coonhounds; my father’s NO swift and adamant every time.
Two dogs, the girl’s name... it won’t come to me, but the boy’s—like flicking a light on right when the bulb blows out, a loud pop—I’ve got it! The male hound, Devon’s preferred of the two, was named Dan, Old Dan—OD!
Clever, Devon, I smile and shake my head. He’s really working me, and I respect and appreciate the challenge. He’d woven a maze that only his big brother would figure out, and I’m one step closer to doing just that.
“I loved that book,” she sneaks up behind me, commenting on it, still in my slightly clammy hands.
“Yeah, it’s a good one. You ready?” I ask, placing it back on the shelf and relieving her of the pile in her arms.
“I guess so,” her brows fold, head dipping sullenly.
Setting the books by the register, I tip up her fretful chin. “J, don’t worry. We’ll find our ways,” I wink, “promise.”
Now she glows, throwing her arms around my waist, burrowing that sweet face into my chest. “‘Kay.”
The drive back to the city is less than lively, even though I’d assured her we’d see one another again soon; but I get it—no one claps the whole way back home from a trip in paradise.
I grab her bag and walk her to the door, taking her once more in a possessive embrace, branding her lips with something hot and ferocious to hold onto for what I hope is only a very short while.
“I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” I trickle onto her lips.
“Yup,” she nods, trying her hardest to seem alright.
“And,” I dig in my pocket, pulling out her surprise, “I better see you wearing this.” I place the gift in her palm, giving her hand a squeeze. I’d snuck back and bought the necklace I knew she wanted, a white gold lighthouse, sparkling diamond for the beacon.
“You, wh, how?” She sputters, pools of happy bewilderment glistening on her bottom lids. “Bryce,” the wistful sound feathery, “put it on me?” She pulls up her hair and turns around.
I kiss the nape, that evocative valley, of her neck, and clasp the necklace closed, spinning her back to face me. “Go on inside now,” I pat her butt. “I wanna make sure you get in safe. And I’m glad you like it, Ms. Craig. Thank you for this weekend.”
Our last kiss lingering, tempting me to hoist her up and take her inside, I pull back, catching my breath. “To
morrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she blows me a kiss as she disappears behind the door and I hear the bolt snap in place.
THE COMBINATION OF STAYING on the phone with Bryce until the wee hours of the morning and two days of not working out made this morning’s run challenging, to say the least. The five miles I normally complete with ease began to feel more like a marathon around the halfway mark. Huffing and puffing, with achy calves, a cramp in my side and parts hidden deep inside me long neglected a bit tender, I finally made it back to my house—nearly fifteen minutes later than it should’ve taken me and without the mental clarity a run usually rewards me with.
In what was supposed to be a quick refresher beneath the warm spray, I find myself reminiscing of the shower Bryce and I took together yesterday morning. The visuals still fresh in my mind, I fall victim to temptation and an additional five minutes are tacked on to my tardiness as I plunge my fingers inside myself, revisiting each place he’d caressed with the tip of his cock. Forehead resting firmly on the cold shower tiles, I thrust, curl, and stroke until I scream out his name as my body submits, quaking with pleasure.
There. Mental clarity achieved.
I hastily finish washing up and jump out; rushing through fixing my hair, applying makeup, and getting dressed. Touching the necklace around my neck, smiling at the thoughtful gift; cool metal from a scorching man securely in place, I’m ready to head out the door. Unsureness of how it’s going to feel seeing Bryce at the office where we have to pretend we don’t know each other tugs worrisomely at my gut, but giddy anticipation wins out.
A massive pile of paperwork is waiting on my desk when I arrive; apparently I didn’t get much done last Friday, eagerly counting down the hours for my escape. Groaning, I toss my purse under my desk and fall ungracefully into my chair. At least all this work should help keep my mind off of him, and the overwhelming desire to sneak down and steal a kiss.
An hour into working on updating the marketing angle for one of the gastrointestinal drugs we released a couple years back, my door opens. Assuming it’s Alyssa, whom I’m expecting will act a little “off” today since I didn’t call her all weekend, I don’t bother looking up from the files I’m studying.
“Good morning, Jocelyn,” my father’s voice booms across the office, startling me enough that I jerk in my chair.
My dad never comes to my office—we always speak in his. My head snaps up and his smug smile does nothing to settle me, especially when he stalks over to the front of my desk. “Morning, Daddy,” I reply sweetly, hoping that playing the Daddy card will lessen the intensity of whatever he’s about to discuss with me.
“Gloria informed your mother and I that you were at the cabin this weekend,” his arms fold across his chest as he pins me motionless with his interrogative stare, “with someone else.”
My heart plummets into my stomach, currently clenching, while my throat restricts simultaneously, inhibiting my ability to speak or breathe.
“Well?” he asks, irritated voice rising. “Were you or were you not in Stone Harbor with another person this weekend?”
I gulp down the nerves inching their way up, threatening to release in tears or vomit, and somehow find my voice, small as it is. “Yes, Daddy. I went to the cabin with a friend this weekend.”
He harrumphs, running one hand through his thinning, gray hair as he ponders my answer. “You’re more than welcome to use the house, Jocelyn, but from now on, you need to let either your mother or I know you’re going to be there. What if we would’ve had plans to go there as well, perhaps with some of our friends?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, relief that he’s not upset washing over me. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Great. Now what are you working on?” He surveys the papers scattered across my desk, figuring it out for himself. “Put this stuff aside; it’s not important. I want drafts of the launch and press kit for Cerefore presented to Hunter and I next week.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat, assuming the role of the accommodating, subservient broken record that I’ve played all my life.
I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I want to tell him what I’m working on is important, and that we’re jumping the gun on the Cerefore project—the final trials still not completed. But I smile and nod, complacent and obedient, mainly because I don’t want him to press the “friend” thing from this weekend any further.
He turns to leave, but my shoulders relax too soon. “Oh, and one more thing,” he spins back around to glare at me, raising his brow with disapproval. “The next friend you leave the city with, I expect to meet beforehand.” And then, he does leave.
By the time I get home, my mood has gone from souring to downright spoiled. After the condescending visit from daddy dearest, Hunter had stopped by... rounding out my morning circle of hell. And I’m still not sure why exactly. He’d had nothing pertinent, or even specific, now that I think about it, to say.
No, looking back, mind calm and clearer now without him right in front of me, fluffing up my dander—the visit was odd, even for Hunter. Other than to remind me yet again how many good years of young adulthood I ruined with an arrogant asshole, he’d accomplished nothing, almost seemed lost…meandering about my office, eyes drifting over my desk…some weird fishing expedition?
Then, after lunch, I tried to find out more information on all the missing files from Devon’s server, but every path I traveled, ended in an abrupt dead-end. Numerous journals from the earlier trials are missing from storage and others look as though they’ve been reproduced—the handwriting from what’s supposed to be the same person looks completely different from one to the next. The more I research this issue, the more questions and inconsistencies arise.
What began as a faint whiff of shadiness is rapidly growing into a potent stench of fraudulent corruption.
And sadly, seeing as how I work for my own father; I don’t feel as though I can air my suspicions to anyone.
My only saving grace today was the ninety seconds I shared an elevator with Bryce—alone. Security cameras equipped to record our motions but not voices kept us from touching in any way, but our exchange of words was enough to get me through the afternoon.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Griggs,” I greeted him as he stepped into the lift I was riding alone to the ground floor. The meeting was not planned, but very welcomed.
“Ms. Craig,” he tipped his head at me with a wicked smile tugging at his mouth, “I hope you’re having a nice day.”
The doors closed, but we both kept our focus forward, staring at each other’s reflection in the mirrored doors. “Mondays are always hard, especially after a fabulous weekend.”
“A fabulous weekend, eh? I had one of those too. Maybe we should compare notes sometime soon?” he retorted cheekily.
“Sounds like a plan.” The chime dinged and the doors began to open. I strode forward to exit first, but before I stepped out, I snuck a quick glance over at him. “Oh, and I’d really like to do it over lunch one day this week.”
“Do…?”
“Compare notes,” I taunt, running the rigid point of my tongue along the inside of my upper lip. “Isn’t that what we just discussed?”
I’d strutted off that elevator with a surge of empowerment, blushing wildly, but swishing my hips as though completely confident in my sexual prowess. No need to turn around, I could feel the heat of his stare, tracing every sway of the hips his fingers had dug into as he’d taken me gently, barbarically and then somewhere in between, this weekend.
Simply remembering it now has me toppling into another swell of provocative hunger, longing to touch him, bask in his touching of me. Impatient, and now annoyingly flustered, I grab my phone and get settled on the couch, nightcap of Sangria in my reach.
Jocelyn: Good evening Mr. Griggs, how are you?
Each passing minute without a reply twists flustered into frustrated, my breathing accelerating, thighs rubbing together; I take a generous swallow of my drink.
Bryce: Same as you I’m guessing.
Jocelyn: Which would be?
Bryce: Miserable, lacking a certain someone close by.
I am but a girl, my heart doing a pitter patter in triple time. I’ve never had this; flirting, build-up, romance, hand in hand shopping…conversation. I’m not ashamed to admit, it makes me positively giddy—waiting to hear what he’ll say next, what we’ll discuss, when I can see him again.
Jocelyn: That’s exactly right. Why don’t you come over?
Too forward? Oh for heaven’s sake Jocelyn, he’s bent you over the shower seat and almost fucked you through a wall.
Bryce: You don’t know how tempting that is, but how about tomorrow night? I’ve got something tonight I have to take care of, or I’d be there right now.
Sexathon or not, I know we’re not to the point where I can ask what’s so important tonight that he can’t come see me without seeming the needy, way too fast clingy chick, so I tuck in my bottom lip and square my shoulders.
Jocelyn: I understand, tomorrow works. My place, 8 o’clock? I’ll cook you dinner.
Bryce: Perfect, can’t wait. And I’ll see you tomorrow at the office…wear something special, just for me?
Jocelyn: I’ll see what I can do.
Bryce: Til then, good night gorgeous girl.
Jocelyn: Dream sweet.
Well now I have something to occupy my mind, other than what’s he’s doing of course—which will totally nag at me all night no matter what, just not as much. I spring from the couch, leaving the drink behind—this is a crucial decision that cannot be clouded with alcohol.
What the hell am I gonna wear, for him?
REAGAN SKIPS THROUGH THE front door of our apartment with a mega-watt smile plastered to her face. I’ve been home from work for about twenty minutes, waiting for her, hoping she’d arrive with good news. From the look on her face, I think she’s about to make me a happy man.
“I found him!” She squeals once the door is closed and locked behind her.