The F-Word

I keep kissing her. She moans again and her jacket—my jacket—slips back on her shoulders, baring her lovely throat, the rise of her breasts.

I slip the tip of my tongue between her lips, and she shudders and sucks on it.

Light explodes behind my closed eyelids.

My hands lift.

I cup her breasts.

I can feel the heat of her skin through the dress.

She makes a soft little sobbing sound and the earth doesn’t just tilt. It spins.

And I am lost.

I want her. Here. Now. Against the door, her panties clinging to one of her ankles, my hands on her ass, her legs wound around my waist. I’ll make her come and come and come, and then I’ll scoop her up, carry her through the dark house to my bedroom, to my bed, to my possession…

Jesus H. Christ!

What the fuck am I doing?

This is Bailey. My PA. I’m with her tonight because I volunteered to help her get through the weekend ahead. I mean, this is all make-believe. It’s a charade. A game. None of it is real; none of it is supposed to be real?

?

She seems to come to that identical realization at the same moment I do.

Suddenly, her hands are on my chest. She’s pushing me away and, okay, I’m complying, I’m stepping back, putting some room between us, and then I clear my throat and I hear myself say, “Good. Very good. If we can pull off a kiss like that with Cousin Vi watching, you’ll score an A for the weekend.”

Bailey is breathing hard. Yeah, well, so am I. Her face is pink; her hair is disheveled. Her lipstick is all kissed away. She has the look of a woman who’s just stepped from her lover’s bed, and I get an instant mental picture of the bed, my bed, just one flight of stairs away…

“Is that why you…” Her voice is rusty. She takes a breath. “That’s why you—it’s why you and I—”

“Of course.” I force a smile. “I probably should have warned you first, but I, ah, I figured a natural approach would make for a more natural reaction because, you know, we’ll have to exhibit some affection this weekend if we expect to sell us as a package…”

I’m babbling.

I know it. I can only hope Bailey doesn’t know it.

At this point, I’m not sure what she knows because my brain is still in free-fall, but I keep talking and talking and after a while she nods and her breathing steadies and I figure it’s time to shut the hell up, get her into the garage, into the car, and out of my reach.

In other words, we need to get back to business—which is exactly what we do.

And when we get to her building, though she assures me it’s unnecessary, I pull into a space next to a hydrant, walk her upstairs, take her keys from her, unlock the door like any proper gentleman would. Then I shake hands with her, flash a smile and tell her I’ll see her in the morning.

After which I drive home, strip off my clothes…and take a shower so cold I figure it’s liable to turn my balls blue.

That solves the problem physically. But not mentally.

Because I end up spending most of the night tossing and turning, reliving the incredible feel of Bailey’s mouth under mine.

10

It starts raining at six a.m.

I know this because after finally getting a couple of hours of sleep, I am wide-awake at six.

I lie there for a couple of minutes. Then I toss back the covers and swing my feet to the floor. I need to do something. Something mindless that will burn up the energy buzzing inside me.