In a series of flame-fresh images, I picture myself licking him, running my nose along his biceps, his chest, under his arms, his nape. I imagine touching all that skin and the body hair I’ve only guessed at from my few glimpses at his corded forearms. I’d taste him with my lips and tongue, test him with my teeth. I’d get to hear the sounds he makes when he loses control. And, now, since he whispered those things into my ear on Friday, I can’t stop thinking about how his face will look when he comes.
Decided not to let myself come until I’m deep inside you, Kit.
Two full days of reliving those words in my ear. Over and over.
None of this was part of the bargain.
Which is why I wrote up a contract with clear, concise parameters. Rules.
“We’ll do it when you’re ovulating?”
“Yep.” I nod, working hard to keep eye contact until he starts reading again. “A one-time deal.”
“No petting,” he goes on, glancing up at me with brows raised. “No licking?” He leans his head back and keeps reading from the papers he’s holding out of my reach. “No unnecessary foreplay. Unnecessary, huh? Well, sheeyit. I had my heart set on suckin’ those cute little toes and now you’ve gone and?—”
“Nokissing.” I’m breathing hard again. God, why can’t I catch my breath around him?
“No?” His eyes glisten under the light of two dozen vintage crystal chandeliers. “We talkin’ lips or other places, too?” Like the steady stroke of a hand, his gaze slides over my face, my mouth, my neck, and shoulders, to my breasts, where it lingers.
“No. Kissing. Anywhere.” At least I sound firm. A true feat, given that he’s turned my insides to jelly with just that look. Which is exactly why I’ve got to set up firm boundaries right here, right now.
For a handful of seconds, he watches me, a muscle ticking in his jaw, those tendons in his neck standing out with stark tension. Though there’s no discernible expression on his face, I’d say that flexing jaw, along with the way his eyes are narrowed means he’s pissed.
Slowly, he loosens up, the tension eases, and then, with absolute seriousness, he nods. “All right. All right.” I don’t know if I trust his easy tone. “You’re in charge.” His perusal of me continues, over my belly, my hips, to that hot, aching place between my legs.
The way he’s eyeing me—like I’m a steak he’s about to eat or, worse, some kind of prey he’ll tear apart with this teeth—pushes me to add, “It happens once. One time.”
His only reaction is a sardonic lift of his brows. “Yeah?”
Why does this non-response make me think I’m the one who’ll be begging him for seconds when the time comes?
No. No, I am resolute on this matter. Once. If it doesn’t stick, well…that’s it.
I nod. “Once.”
“All right. Anything else, boss?”
“Don’t call me boss.”
His momentary smirk tells me he’s needling me. “Fair enough.”
“And don’t mention this. To anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“My brother never finds out.”
He snorts, clearly stunned that I’d suggest it. “That I’m the father?”
“Thedonor,” I correct, sounding prissy. But I realized over these last couple of days, that I need these guidelines. Without them, I’m just a woman screwing an employee. With the contract, I can think of this as glorified IVF, with limits andstructure and enough fine print to drive him out of his mind. That, I can make work.
We’ll both get our way. He can get his rocks off and I’ll get the child I want more than anything in this world.
It’s simple. A good plan.
He drops the contract, flips to the last page and signs it, stands up, then steps back from the bar. “I’ll let you know when the results come in.” There’s no expression on his face, no inflection in his voice as he says, “Night, Kit,” grabs his coat, and leaves.
It’s a relief when he steps outside. Or, it should be. He signed my contract, which I am absolutely certain has no legal value whatsoever, but which at least makes me feel like I’m heading into this thing with rules I can abide by. And with a plan. Plans are important.
