“Russ is a nice guy, he works here, he’s an accountant and he and Arianna are very happy. They’re both good at their jobs and she is still one of my best friends, but no more, no benefits. You have exclusive access to my benefits.”
“I like that.” She grins and suddenly appears in my lap, straddling me. “My exclusive access to your benefits, and it goes without saying that I reciprocate fully.”
“I like that too.” I skim my thumbs across her cheeks, down to her lips and jaw before pulling her in for a kiss.
“Is Arianna your business partner?” she unexpectedly asks before our lips touch.
“No. I don’t have partners, it’s just me. When we divorced she got cash and property, no part of the business and she didn’t want any of it beyond her job which she is very good at. She is my right-hand woman.” I really hope we can get back to this kiss we were about to begin, but clearly not judging by the pout of Olivia’s lips. “What?” I ask a little more abruptly than I’d intended.
“After this afternoon, in my bathroom, I was hoping I was your right-hand woman,” she says nibbling her lower lip a little uncertainly, a vision of cuteness. There it is again, my ridiculous vocabulary, but there is no cause for her uncertainty she realises as I flip her onto her back and immediately climb over her, pressing myself between her thighs as my upper body covers hers, preparing to take her mouth.
“Nobody has ever been my right-hand woman quite like you, and for that reminder alone I am going to have to do some dirty things to you, Miss Carrington,” I tell her, slanting my lips over hers that are welcoming and warm.
Chapter 18
Olivia
I can’t remember the last time I slept in until noon on a Sunday, but that is precisely what I have done, although slept in may not be the right term as I was still shagging at three and was woken again at seven to find Mase suckling my breast which is certainly preferable to the mind numbing sound of my usual alarm. I must admit, if only to myself that I panicked slightly when I came to with those sensations coursing through me.
“Hey,” he mumbles against my neck as an arm snakes around my middle and pulls me back against him, the obvious erection digging in my arse.
“Are you sure you’re not taking Viagra?” I ask with a soft laugh referring to a comment I made about his stamina and recovery times in the early hours.
“Oh dear,” he chastens with mock annoyance. “Am I going to have to fuck you until you retract that inference, again.” He playfully nips my ear.
The idea of more sex is very appealing except for the fact that after the rigours of last night and this morning on top of my previous soreness I am unsure if I am physically capable of leaving the bed never mind adding to the feeling of swelling, tightness and bruising I am sure I have between my thighs.
“Can I take a postponement on that very kind offer?” I reach behind me to cup a very firm arse cheek making Mase laugh. “I think you may have broken me.”
“It had been my intention to let you sleep last night, sleep and heal, but you and your dirty thing conversation,” he says, laughing again.
“Are you ever going to let me forget thatdirty thingscomment?” I throw an arm over my reddening face.
“No, never. Even when we’re old and grey I will make you ask me to do dirty things to you,” he replies with such candour and honesty that it shocks and frightens me.
I leap from the bed grabbing the silky robe I very briefly wore last night.
“Olivia,” Mason says from his prone position in the bed with a serious expression.
“I’m fine,” I protest a little too fiercely. “I really need a drink and maybe some breakfast.” I’m already heading into the bathroom where I close the door and lean against it with a deep breath.
“…even when we’re old and grey I will make you ask me to do dirty things to you.”
That’s what he said, but he can’t have meant that, can he? If he did that is fucked up after almost a week and if he didn’t mean it then it’s even more fucked up to say it. I told him yesterday that I didn’t trust him, not in the whole sense of the word. Not in the unconditional, unfaltering way, like she did, my mother, with him. Look where that got me.
“Olivia, I’m just running down to the shop to pick something up for breakfast, well lunch now and then I’ll be back, okay?”
“Yes.” I hope I sound upbeat and less erratic than I must have earlier. “Mason,” I call, certain he’s still on the other side of the door. “Thank you.”
I am unsure why my thank you is delivered from the other side of a closed door, but I know it is for everything, but specifically for this, for now, for not pushing me.
“No problem, baby. I’ll be back soon.”
I take a quick shower and brush my teeth once Mason leaves. Still wrapped in a towel I look around for a hairdryer but in the absence of one I run a comb through my hair and pull it up in a clip thinking I shouldn’t rummage too far in my search as this is not my home.
My earlier query over the state of my tender and intimate folds is no longer uncertain. I am definitely swollen, tight and bruised so dress in a loose fitting pair of soft jersey, wide leg trousers in a blue, gold and brown tribal print that I pair with an ochre coloured string strap vest. I consider a pair of flip flops but finally decide on bare feet as Mase’s flat benefits from under floor heating and a constant temperature throughout.
The kitchen, like everything Mason Harding, is state of the art and top of the range but looks as though it is rarely, if ever used, except for the coffee machine that I still can’t figure out. In fact, I am still nervously pressing buttons when Mason returns carrying a brown paper bag and a drinks tray.
