“What do you think?” I tease, kicking the blankets off my body. I lie on his sheets, completely exposed. His free hand, the one not holding my hands against the headboard, cups me between the legs.
“I think you can’t be trusted.”
His mouth lowers ever-so-slowly until it hovers just over my syrup-covered nipple. I arch my back, desperate for contact, but he just pulls back.
Looking at me through his lashes, he grins. His tongue darts out, barely flicking the top of my pebbled bud.
I moan, struggling to work my hands free. He keeps them still against my effort.
The top of his tongue lays flat at the top of my chest and rolls slowly down the sensitive skin of my breast. The trail behind it is chilled, a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth.
My head falls deeper into the pillows, his free hand gripping my vagina harder. One finger slips inside me and I release a moan.
My hands are released and I reach for him, but he pulls back. He turns back to me, a strip of bacon in the air, dripping with sticky goodness from the breakfast plate.
Holding it over my body, the sweet liquid falls to my skin, trickling wild lines from my thighs to my neck.
Graham looks at me with untamed, yet reverent eyes. I’m desperate for his touch. He lies along my legs, holding himself up over my abdomen. A smirk graces those delicious lips.
“I think I’ll have my breakfast like this,” he growls. “Lie back. Eyes open. I want you to watch me lick this off of you.”
His tongue dips into the pool of liquid in my belly button and I nearly jump from the contact. He growls and I know to stay still. I want to stay still. I don’t want this to end.
He works his way around my stomach, following the ropes of syrup as they crisscross my body. His tongue is hot, his fingers tucking under me and squeezing my ass. I try to shimmy, to make his fingers find my opening, but he knows my game and doesn’t budge.
Looking me in the eye, he starts a torturously slow path from my stomach up my breastbone. Then, in a flash of a movement, he sucks my left nipple.
“Gah!” I exclaim, feeling a burst of pleasure shoot through me. My fingers run through his hair, encouraging him to suck harder, take in more.
He sucks the sweetness from my skin and looks at me, licking his lips. Pressing on my clit, he laughs. “This is going to be a good fucking day.”
“I hope so,” I laugh. “Now start the fucking me part.”
“Oh no,” he says, leaning back and stripping off his briefs. “Not today.”
“What do you mean ‘not today’?” I ask, alarmed.
“Today, I’m enjoying you. Savoring you. Relishing the fact that I have an entire day of you all to myself.”
“That,” I say, reaching up and pulling his face to mine, “you most certainly do.”
Mallory
HUMMING A TUNE, I ENTER the last data from a report Graham gave me into our system. A few simple clicks and a flourish as I hit enter and it’s complete. And so is the work day, for all intents and purposes.
We haven’t discussed what happens in thirty minutes, when five o’clock rolls around. I don’t have yoga class tonight, but I also don’t want to assume he wants me to come over. This is new to us, especially to him, and I know he’ll need to ease into this. Hell, so do I.
I think we were both surprised at how easily today went. We were so much better at setting our chemistry aside to get the job done than we were before this past weekend. Maybe it’s because we know where we stand and that we will have that time, time to say and do all the things that are running through our minds, when the day ends.
Tidying up, I put together a few notes for Graham and stick them on the corner of my desk. Since I have a few minutes to spare and Graham isn’t back from a meeting with Gulica Insurance and Ford in the conference room, I pull out a file for Lincoln’s charity and get to work on it.
I’m putting some numbers into a spreadsheet when the office door opens. I smile and turn, expecting to see Graham, when my grin falters.
A woman is standing in the doorway. Long, jet-black hair hangs to her waist and bright pink lipstick paints her mouth. She eyes me suspiciously, and while I have no idea who she is, I instantly don’t like her. At all.
“Can I help you?” I ask politely, turning to face her head-on.
“I’m looking for Mr. Landry.”