“Because I thought you might be paralyzed, or, you know, dead!”
“BAHA!” She’s laughing again.
“Bloody hell, woman, you're going to kill me. Let’s get you up, come on.” I say, helping her to her feet, both of us unstable in the snow.
“Let’s go again!” She says, surprising me.
“Really?”
“Yeah but this time I’ll sit in front, you were right.” The second she says it, she regrets it, but I seize the opportunity.
I tease her all the way down the rest of the slopes and on the ride up again. I joke that I’ll get the admission and the date tattooed on my chest. I beg her to say it again on the drive home. And again when we pull into the garage. She rolls her eyes and I use it as an opening to kiss the shit out of her even though there are no cameras here.
“It’s still Saturday,” I say when I can finally pull my mouth away from hers.
“Didn’t we say once per Saturday?”
I shake my head and kiss down her neck, straining over the center console. I speak into her delicious honeysuckle skin, “No, and even if we did, let’s renegotiate. Name your terms.”
“My terms are that we only scratch the itch once per Saturday,” she says but her voice is breathy.
I lick up her neck to her ear, nip at her earlobe, then pull back. I lower my voice in the way she seems to like. “That is not what you want us to do.”
“No, but it’s what weshoulddo.” I start to slump but she grabs my lapels. “But I owe you a Saturday.”
“Owe me?”
“Yes, I was sick with the plague and we had to skip. It’s only fair.”
“Right, fair, yes,” I say, my mouth already back on her neck but I want to bury my face in her cleavage and there are so many clothes. “Too many clothes, let’s go.”
I barely finish the sentence and she’s already bounding out of the car. I smile, watching as she hustles to the door, her coat half off already. At least I’m not the only one going absolutely mental.
I think of her all day long. I re-read her texts. I look at photos on my phone. Every time I close my eyes I see her gray irises, her skin, her lips, I smell her perfume, I hear her whimpers.
Damn, I’m hard already.
I hurry after her, and she smiles and runs, literally, through the house. I chase, and she laughs. I love her like this. Cheeky, a bit mean. But with me, for me, wanting me. I find her in her closet where we become totally mad for each other. Buttons pop off, a zipper breaks, I curse, she laughs again. When we’re finally both down to just our underwear, she steps back, panting.
“I want to watch you,” she says, hands squeezing her perfect tits. “And I want you to watch me.”
I step closer to her and grit out, “How badly do you want that?”
She breaks out in goosebumps as she says, “Pretty freaking bad.”
I bracket my arms on either side of her inside the cabinetry that should have long hanging clothes, but sits mostly empty. It makes a perfect cage. My body pins her in with no escape and I think she likes it.
“Then come with me this week,” I say before I know what I’m saying.
“Where?”
“Wherever I’m going,” I put out a hand to stop hers that’s headed down her stomach. She whimpers and I go on, “I’ll be a gentleman Sunday through Friday. But I did get you remote status. Come be remote with me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Ben!” She whines, wanting to touch herself but unable to move her hand.
