Owen chuckled then grabbed my hips, pulling me up toward his head. I was practically sitting on his face.
“This is an awkward angle.”
“Mmm,” he said. His tongue flicked out and touched my clit. “This is perfect.”
I gripped the armrest of the sofa as Owen's large hands dug into my hips and ass. He took his time, tracing every fold, every line of my pussy.
“I thought you wanted to fuck me,” I whimpered.
“I want to make you come first,” he whispered, going back to sucking my clit, making little circles around it with his tongue. My chest was tight, and I was panting, my hips trying to grind against his face.
“I really want your cock,” I moaned, back arching and arms trembling as I tried to keep myself from collapsing.
“You also said you didn't want to mess up my suit,” he said, pressing his thumb into my opening as he continued to work my clit with his tongue.
My thighs trembled, and my hips made needy little circles. I whimpered, clutching the fabric of the sofa as I came with a cry.
The timer buzzed.
“Shit,” I panted, half sprawled over the edge of the couch. “The food.”
“Told you,” Owen said, scooting me off him. He stood up and didn't look at all rumpled.
I swiped the hair out of my face. “Show-off.”
He smirked and went to pull the breakfast pie out of the oven. I stumbled over after taking a few moments to catch my breath.
“Looks good,” I said, inspecting the pan. “Still slightly jiggly.”
Owen bent down to kiss my tits through the shirt. I was immediately wet. I wondered if he was going to bend me over the counter and fuck me. It would be good. But I'd just had an orgasm, and better judgment was trying to prevail. This thing with Owen had all the ingredients for a perfect disaster.
I sliced the quiche and plated the pieces, taking them to the couch. It sure had seen a lot of action.
“So this is your morning routine?” Owen asked, turning the question back on me as I blew on a bite of the quiche.
“What, sex with a hot guy? Hardly. Lots of cheesy, carby foods? Totally. Though this is a little early for me. Usually I'm up all night and sleep late unless I have to go in and cook brunch.” I shuddered.
“You don't like brunch?” Owen asked. “I thought all girls liked brunch.”
“I liked brunch until I had to cook it for a thousand hungover, entitled Beckys and their shallow friends. But yes, if I don’t have to cook it or have to listen to people constantly complaining that their eggs are undercooked—spoiler, scrambled eggs should not be little rubber pellets—then yeah, I'm down, especially if there are mimosas involved.” I finished my quiche and looked at the clock. “I need to prep for the holiday festival.”
“Oh, about that.” Owen looked sheepishly at me. “You didn't tell me how much you needed to be paid for it.”
“You gave me free rein with your credit card and three of the most amazingly big Os I've ever had,” I said lightly. “I don't even know what to charge you. I'm not like a real decorator. I just love Christmas, and I did some event planning in my days with the restaurants.”
“I'll have Beck send you a proposal, and you can see what you think,” he said firmly.
*
Especially since now thatOwen wanted to pay me, I didn't know where we stood. I had been thinking maybe I was doing a favor for a guy I liked. Now he was like, “Oh, you're an employee.” And he’d suggested it right after we—well I guess just I—had sex. Was this a roundabout way of him paying me for it? Was that just how billionaires operated? They assumed that if they wanted something, they had to pay for it? No problem, just pressing a button. Was there going to be some sort of weird nondisclosure clause about his super-special tongue-on-clit technique?
But it wasn’t as if I didn't need the money. I had been ignoring the notices from the credit card company about late payments, and there was a new email from the storage company reminding me I needed to pay up.
All my subscription baking boxes and weird outfits had not yet netted me any sponsorship deals. Unless I wonThe Great Christmas Bake-Off, I was going to have nothing for Christmas. Actually no, not nothing; I'd have all my debt to keep me company.
I was a wreck when I went back upstairs.
Morticia was waiting for me in annoyance in the kitchen. “Did you complete a successful sexorcism?”
