The back of his head hit the back of the chaise at the first warm brush of her tongue. He was going to lose it in about thirty seconds. Time to think about baseball. The national debt. The missing insulation at the southwest corner of the roof.
When he lifted his head, Rosie was looking at him expectantly, and he remembered that he was supposed to be playing a role.
“Um, you’re a bad secretary,” he said, because he hadn’t practiced his lines. “And you’re going to have to work late collating things. Overtime.”
The curve of Rosie’s lips where they were wrapped around him convinced him he was going to have to dig deeper into his improv abilities.
“Keep going,” she encouraged him, pulling off only long enough to press him against smiling lips before wrapping one fist around his base and leaning back in. This was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“I’m an evil billionaire,” Tom declared. “I spend all my time doing white-collar crimes and staring at your ass. But that’s okay, because I work out.”
Rosie’s mouth felt like magic, like every good and sweet thing he’d ever wanted. This was going to be oververysoon, and then he just had to hope Rosie understood that he wasn’t eighteen anymore and he’d need a union-length break before he was ready to bend her over any imaginary copy machines.
“Dictation,” he muttered. “Imagine I just made a really good dictation pun.”
He couldn’t concentrate enough to keep up the game. The tight, wet slide of Rosie’s mouth wiped all conscious thought from the surface of his mind. He kept speaking anyway. He’d heard from more than one lover that he was a talker. Rosie had never minded, because the only things that he ever managed to say were compliments (Your tits are so hot, the best in the entire world), blasphemy (Oh God, oh fuck, Rosie, please), and forward-looking statements (I’m going to come in your mouth).
Rosie stopped abruptly and sat back. The shock of the cool air on his wet cock had Tom sitting straight up in discomfort, wondering what the hell he’d done wrong now.
“Are you still playing?” Rosie whispered, eyes worried.
What had he said? It had all been pure stream of consciousness.Rosie, nobody does this like you, please, Rosie, I love you—
That wasn’t the line she’d been looking for?
Tom pressed a palm to his muddled head. He should have volunteered for Bad Secretary and gotten onhisknees. His body throbbed with thwarted desire. “You cannotexpect me to stay in character while—Jesus, Rosie, Sir Kenneth Branagh himself couldn’t stay in character with your mouth on his cock.”
“I didn’t mean—” she said, shoulders tensing. “I just meant you didn’t have to say that.”
Tom groaned and yanked his jeans and underwear back up over his hips. Served him right for sitting back on the couch to get his dick sucked like a king when he’d been begging her for weeks just to let him sleep upstairs with her.And, scene. Let’s take that from the top. Put in a little effort this time, Tomasz.
“You’re in a position that allows for too much heavy thinking,” he told her. “Let’s go upstairs. I have some better ideas.”
He’d never thought the act where they got back together would start with Rosie on her knees in front of him, dressed like a wrapped present.
She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, obviously still wondering if she should shut things down. Tom stood up and hauled her up to her feet too, hoping to intercept any more thinky thoughts. He kissed her swollen mouth and swept her hair out of her face with his palms. “Okay?” he prompted her.
“Your ideas. Right,” she said, seeming to calm down. “I thought that maybe this could be—an opportunity. To try some new stuff. So that’s good.”
“Uh?” Tom said. He thought he and Rosie had done it just about every way two people with their anatomy could do it, in the spirit of mutual discovery, and he’d also thought he’d gotten a pretty good handle on which ways she liked.
She put her hands back on his chest, smoothing the line of dark hair down his stomach in an appreciative way. “If there was ever anything you felt like you couldn’t do—let’s try it now. You know. Get it out of our systems.”
Tom left his hands framing her face as he tried to pry instructions out of that. “Out of our systems?”
“I mean, we can see how it goes,” she said, apparently under the impression she was being encouraging, even though he didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Maybe it’ll be fun. To stretch some boundaries. But if it’s not, at least we’ll know, right?”
Tom now had no idea what she was talking about. He hadn’t ever thought there was a problem with the sex they’d had, only the sex they hadn’t had. Her soft blue eyes searched his, and he wished he knew what she was looking for.
Tom put his most charming expression on his face. Jesus Christ, no pressure, right? Just go upstairs and rail her so good that she decides it’s worth ever doing again. And make it new. And different. With zero specifics.
He swatted Rosie lightly on the rear and urged her toward the ladder. “Whatever you say, babe.”
19
Tom had always been a giver. Patient. Open-minded. Devoted to the ideal of orgasm parity. Rose had never talked about their sex life with anyone else, but even in the politely repressed community of Boston College, she’d heard enough complaints about other men to know that this attitude wasn’t something to take for granted. She’d known she was really lucky that the first person she’d ever slept with—the person she thought would be the only person she’d ever sleep with—put in a lot of effort.
Still, Rose couldn’t imagine that with her encouragement to do whatever he wanted tonight, the absolute top items on Tom’s priority list were kissing his way along the line of her high-top stockings, followed by twenty to twenty-five minutes of oral sex.
