by Paige North
And then his pace quickens, his grip on my hips tightening. He leans forward and sinks his teeth softly into my shoulder, a rumble starting deep in his throat.
“Come,” I whisper, mirroring his own words back to him. “Come for me.”
“Delaney,” he says through shattered breaths, before I feel him follow me over the cliff. “Delaney, fuck yes.”
He thrusts into me one last time, before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me flush against his body. I can feel his chest rising and falling, the pounding of his heart. I can feel his breath on my ear, can hear him barely whisper, as if he thinks I won’t hear it, “You’re mine.”
The small room is silent as we both come down from our orgasms. I let out a soft whimper when he finally pulls out. I want him to stay inside me all night.
I want him to stay inside me forever.
The thought scares me, but I also know I can’t run from it. I can’t ignore it. I can’t pretend it’s not there. Something changed just now, at least for me. And I think for him, too.
I don’t want to say anything like that, though, not after all the work we did to calm him down. So instead, I just rest my cheek against the warm wood of the door and try to catch my breath.
Nixon drops to his knees behind me, planting a soft kiss on my ass as he reaches down and pulls the silk dress up my thighs from where it was still pooled around my feet. As he brings the straps up, his fingers brush against my nipples, eliciting a gasp from my lips. His tongue traces a lazy like up the back of my neck as he pulls the straps around. I pull my hair to the side so he can retie the bow. And before I know it, I’m put back together, with no sign that just moments ago, Nixon Blake had me naked and pressed up against a door, fucking me to the greatest orgasm of my life while several hundred of the richest and smartest people in the country partied just on the other side of it.
I turn around to face him as he’s buckling his pants, his chest still bare. I run my hands across his chest again, wondering if it’ll be the last time. Dear god, I hope not.
“I trust I was able to help,” I say, trying to sound playful. I want to give him an out in case this was another one-time thing. I want him to know that I’m fine with what just happened, and fine if it never happens again. Even if I’m really, really not.
I’m completely surprised when he reaches up, a finger below my chin, raising it up so I stare straight up into those perfect eyes.
“Delaney, I mean it,” he says, his voice low and full of fire. “You’re mine.”
Chapter 3
Nixon buttoned his shirt and retied his bowtie, then slipped out of the door and headed straight for the nearest exit. He had his phone pressed to his ear to avoid any social interactions or interceptions. The person on the other end of that call? Me. Purring a play-by-play of our evening, while I waited for probably far too long in the supply closet before finally making my own exit. Better safe than sorry, though.
“You’re home early,” Elise says when I walk in the door of our apartment a little while later. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s only 10:30. But I couldn’t imagine staying in that room listening to executives talk about profit margins after what had just happened.
I felt so alive with pleasure that I was sure everyone would be able to see the experience written all over my face. I figured if anyone asked about my early departure, I could just claim a migraine. This time I definitely won’t make the mistake of talking about my orgasm at work.
“I take it that means you didn’t meet anyone?” she clarifies.
I’ve never kept a secret from Elise before. I’ve never really had any secrets to keep. So it’s totally new territory when I offer her a shrug and a grimace. But Nixon made it clear that no one can know. No one. And besides, I’m pretty sure I know what Elise would say about this new development in my work life, and I just don’t want to hear it. I don’t want any doubts creeping in after what happened tonight. I just want to enjoy it. To enjoy him.
“It was pretty boring, to be honest,” I lie to her. It hurts to do it, but I have no choice.
And then I drift towards my room before the look on my face completely gives me away.
“Who did these financial reports?” Randi Powers pops into the intern conference room looking effortlessly beautiful in a navy shift and a pair of Frye booties. She’s waving a binder of financials about a potential acquisition.
Shit.
It’s Monday, the first day back at the office after the State of Scour gala. I haven’t seen or heard from Nixon since he walked out of the supply closet, so it’ll also be the first day I’ve seen him since I was bent over against a door with his cock buried nine inches deep.
Oh my god, am I blushing?
I pinch my thigh to try and bring myself back to the conference room and Randi’s question, even though all I want to do right now is lean back in my chair and let my mind wander back to Friday night. And maybe let my hand do a little wandering, too.
Shit, that’s not working. Focus.
“I did,” I say, bracing myself for what could be an epic dressing down. I’ve been a favorite target for Amber and Jenna, which has often resulted in a few mistakes on my part. Not my finest work, that’s for sure. But Randi just smiles.
“These are fantastic. I really like the way you broke down the P and L. Keep it up, Delaney.”
I smile, and Colin gives me a high five from behind his laptop. He, at least, seems to have been able to move on from my first day faux pas. It took him a full week before he could look at me without blushing, but now that he’s out of tomato territory, he and I have become something of a team. We make natural foils for Amber and her little roadie, Jenna.
And they definitely have not forgotten about my orgasm. Or (former) lack thereof.
Randi’s praise seems to make Amber burn with the fury of a thousand suns, and I know she’s going to spend the rest of the day punishing me for taking the spotlight off of her. But I don’t care. I’ve gotten used to ignoring her vicious barbs and mean girl mannerisms. Partly because, as Randi just said, I’ve been thoroughly killing it lately.
And partly because my body is in a perpetual state of post-orgasm glow. To say I’m relaxed would be an understatement. I wish I’d known about orgasms during college. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been so stressed out during finals.
Randi places the binder down on the conference table, flipping through a few file folders of research reports waiting for her there. “Nixon said he wanted to go over these reports with you personally, so stop by his office before you head out for the day, ok?”
I smile and nod. “Will do,” I tell her, and then she’s gone.
“He probably hasn’t seen your research files on SmartSpace yet,” Jenna assures Amber, her voice low, as if we don’t all be able to hear her in this tiny room. She’s referring to another potential app that helps amateur interior designers plan their furniture layout at home.
“I’m sure,” Amber replies. She studiously smooths out her skirt, then flips her long hair over her shoulder. She’s trying very hard to act unaffected, but she’s only barely able to mask her roiling jealousy. She’s been practically doing backflips trying to draw Nixon’s attention, but the few times he’s dropped into our intern conference room, it’s only to offer rare cursory praise sandwiched between a whole hell of a lot of constructive criticism.
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to tell her. To just out with “I’ve fucked Nixon Blake.” Her face would probably melt. She’d look like a Picasso. She’d turn so many colors. It would be great.
But of course, I can’t say any of that. Not that we ever talked about it (or anything), but I know that no one can know about what happened between me and Nixon.
No one can know what might else might happen. Like what might happen when I go to his office this evening.
The rest of the day screeches to a halt, the clock seeming to tick in reverse. Hours feels like days, and I swear I’ve aged a d
ecade by the time the clock hits 5pm. But when it does, I try to gather up my things as nonchalantly as possible. It’s hard to beat back my instinct to run screaming to the elevator, but I manage to keep it in.
“Don’t you have to go see Nixon?” Jenna squawks.
“Oh, right,” I reply, as if the notion had just occurred to me. Damn, if I’d known I was such a good actress, maybe I could have moved to LA after graduation. I’d be well on my way to an Oscar by now. I shrug as I heave my leather tote onto my shoulder. “I guess I’ll just stop by on my way out.”
The elevator ride is interminable, and it gives me time to build up a good foundation of worry. What if Friday night was an anomaly? Or worse, what if it was a mistake? What if he spent the weekend second-guessing what happened, and he’s ready to tell me that I’m not his after all. What if he’s calling me up to his office to apologize and tell me it can never happen again?
I’d take it like a professional, of course. I wouldn’t fight, or beg, or plead. But holy shit would I be disappointed. Because all I’ve thought about since Friday night was that supply closet and what happened in there. And the muscular expanse of Nixon’s chest. And that incredible cock, which, while I felt every inch of it, I got to see very little of, thanks to the darkness and the fact that he was behind me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to set my eyes on it.
And my hands.
And my tongue.
By the time the doors slide open, I’m sure my cheeks are as flushed as strawberries, and I fan myself to try and mitigate the damage. I need to prepare myself for the worst.
The twin desks for Nixon’s assistants are empty once again. So I approach the glass door to his office and give it a tentative knock.
“Come in.” His voice is low and rumbles from inside his office. It sends a rush of heat through my body, and a rush of moisture into my panties.
I push the door open and step in. I’m aware that the red sundress I’m wearing, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate straps (topped with a very professional black blazer, of course), is providing the only color in the room. Nixon himself is wearing a pair of gray jeans and a black cashmere v-neck sweater, the sleeves pushed up on his tanned muscular arms. He’s sitting at his desk, a table in his hand, his other pushing his thick, dark hair back from his head. There are deep worry lines across his forehead, and he looks exhausted.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask. I adjust the bag on my shoulder just for something to do. I sort of feel like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office, and here I am standing in the center of the office, waiting for my scolding.
He glances up, and as soon as he lays those ice blue eyes on me, whatever tension he was feeling visibly melts away. He places the phone on the desktop, and the hand that was in his hair goes to his jaw, rubbing across the sexy shadow of stubble that’s grown there.
“I did,” he says, the growl that I recognize from our previous encounters creeping into his voice. “If that’s ok.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “It is,” I reply.
He rises from his chair and strides around to the front of his desk, leaning back against it, his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He crosses his arms across his chest, then lifts one hand to beckon me closer. And now my smile is full-blown. I can’t even begin to hide it.
I approach slowly, because I know as soon as I’m in front of him, any sense of control over this situation will be gone. This is my only chance to own him. To make him mine. And so I walk slowly. I make him wait.
Boss Bitch.
When I’m finally in front of him, I make a show of taking my time to set my bag down in one of the metal chairs opposite his desk, until finally he clears his throat and levels a chilling stare at me.
“You’re taking too long,” he tells me.
I beam at him, batting my eyes like a Pollyanna. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Blake, is there something I could do that would make up for it?”
He laughs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
“No, I’m very much not,” I say, completely enjoying that I can play, too.
“I like that,” he says, suddenly leveling a gaze that’s all fire at me. He rises from his perch on the desk and steps close, so close that I can feel the heat coming off his body. “You fight back.”
“I bite,” I reply, my voice a low whisper.
I barely get the words out before his hands are in my hair, pulling me to him, his mouth covering mine. As much as I’d like to keep playing, to show him what I’ve got, I’m no match for this kiss. I melt into him. My hands press into his chest as his tongue parts my lips. He spins us around until I’m the one with my back to the desk. He reaches down to cup my ass, lifting me until I’m sitting on the edge of the glass desktop, then he uses his hips to part my knees, stepping into the space. All the while, his mouth never leaves mine.
We make out like teenagers, his teeth nipping at my lower lip, sometimes tracing a line up my jaw and planting kisses in the spot behind my ear that makes my toes curl and a moan escape my lips. I’m so lost in his lips that I don’t even notice that one of his large hands has migrated south until I feel his thumb pressed up against the silk of my panties. A breath leaves lips in a long, low whoosh, my head dropping back as I revel in the pleasure of just that one touch.
“A dress,” he growls. “That’s convenient.”
“Uh huh,” is all I can say as his thumb starts tracing firm circles around my clit.
“Is it possible you were thinking about me when you chose it this morning?” He asks. His lips are at my ear, the hot breath from his deep voice pushing me closer to the edge than it should. “Were you thinking about how easy it would be for me to fuck you while you were wearing this?”
Before I can answer, he drops to his knees, his hands sliding the hem of my dress up around my hips. He bends low between my legs, nuzzling at my pussy, still covered by red silk. I cry out.
“Delaney, your panties are wet,” he says. His voice is low and teasing. He reaches up and hooks his thumbs into the waist band, tugging at them until I lift my ass. They slide down, and he leaves them in a tangle on the floor. He leans in close, his lips not quite touching me. It makes my toes curl. It makes me cry out. I reach for his hair and weave my fingers into the soft waves. I try to pull him to me, but he resists. “Oh no,” his voice rumbles. “You’re not in charge of this.”
I whimper. He’s hasn’t even touched my bare skin, and I already feel seconds away from an orgasm. I need his lips on me now.
“Tell me what you want, Delaney.”
“I want you to taste me.” I say the words without thinking, words that would normally cause me to flush with embarrassment. But Nixon makes me feel so sexy, so sexual, that telling him what I want him to do to my body feels as natural as breathing.
Thankfully, I don’t have to ask twice. His tongue roughly parts my folds, traveling across the slickness of my pussy until he reaches my clit. He rests the flat of his tongue there, then sucks it into his mouth.
I nearly come undone.
My hands, still tangled in his hair, grab fistfuls and pull. I cry out my, head thrown back, as the first wave of an orgasm washes over me.
“Don’t stop!” I cry out when he pulls back. I want more, so much more. I want his tongue on me always.
“Oh, I don’t plan to,” he says, rising to his full height. He towers over me, his eyes burning down onto me with such force I swear they’re going to leave marks. He reaches for his belt, undoing his pants quickly. He reaches into his black boxer briefs and pulls out his cock, and that’s when I finally get my first glimpse of it. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, and that includes when Elise and I got drunk freshman year and pulled up a bunch of porn on her laptop. We’d giggled, full of second-hand embarrassment. The idea of a huge cock scared me then, but all I feel when I see Nixon’s is lust. I want it. I want to touch it, to tas
te it, to feel it inside me. I know from Friday night that he fills every space inside me. I know from Friday that it feels amazing.
And I want it.
I put my hands on his chest and push him until he steps back slights. I can see a moment of confusion on his face, but it quickly dissipates when I wrap my hand around the wide girth of him, then bend over and wrap my lips around the tip. I let my tongue flick across the head, where a warm drop of precum is oozing. I moan my pleasure, and now it’s his hands in my hair. I smile as I hear the groans emanating from his chest. I suck him further into my mouth, letting the flat of my tongue run along the underside of his cock. He bumps the back of my throat, and I hum into him.
“Fuck, Delaney, you’re so good at that.” Which is not a compliment I’ve ever gotten before, but I suspect my newfound skill comes from just how desperately I want him.
And then he pushes me back, almost roughly. He reaches down and lifts me effortlessly back onto the desk. He pushes my knees apart roughly, then leans forward, his hands on the glass on either side of my body. I feel the heat of his cock brush against my pussy. I could shift slightly, and he’d slip inside me. But he stands and holds up a blue foil square. A condom. I quickly shake away the disappointment, because of course he has a condom. Of course we’d use one. I’ve never had sex without one. I don’t think I ever would, unless I was with someone I knew I’d be with forever — or at least for a very very long time. Still, something about the feel of his bare skin filled me with desire, and it felt dangerous to be so close.
He arches an eyebrow at me, as if he can hear the dangerous thoughts in my head. But of course, he can’t (can he?). He rolls the condom on, grabs my hips, and drives deep inside of me. The feeling of it nearly sends me crashing through the glass top of his desk. I scream — fully scream — wrapping my legs around his waist and pulling him deeper inside.
Nixon reaches for the hem of my dress, and in one swift motion, has it over my head, joining my panties in a puddle on the floor. He reaches up and flicks the hooks on my bra (which thankfully matches my red silk panties), tossing it aside. He sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, his teeth nipping roughly at the delicate skin. The whole time he thrusts away, my hips moving in perfect tandem with his. I’ve never felt anything like this, and I never, ever want it to stop.