peaks?” She waved one hand vaguely in a peaks-and-valleys-type motion. She was vaguely surprised she had the energy left to lift a hand.
Nate opened one eye. He trailed one hand down her side to the damp cleft between her thighs. “If you don’t hush,” he threatened, “I’ll keep going until you pass out.” To prove his point, one finger slid slowly inside of her.
Oh dear lord…
*
Hannah woke the next morning with sunshine in her eyes. It fell in a shimmering path through the window and across the bed. At some point they’d crawled under the covers and curled together in a warm, sated mass.
Now she stretched, reacting in surprise when she realized Nate was no longer in the bed. His pillow bore an indentation of his head. She rolled over and buried her face in the pillowcase. It smelled like him, warm and intrinsically male. Reluctantly, she eased away from it and crawled out of the bed. Stupid bladder.
With a wry grin, Hannah realized she was still wearing her stockings. She peeled them off and tossed them in the general direction of the rest of her clothing, which was scattered across the hardwood floor. She headed towards the door, then paused. His silk shirt lay at her feet. Biting her lip, she grabbed it and slid it on. It slithered around her, caressing her thighs, reminding her of his touch.
Thankfully, the bathroom was attached to the bedroom; she didn’t have to go stumbling through the house to find it.
She sat on the toilet, head in hands, and thought. Her work here was done. She’d fulfilled the promise she’d made to her seventeen-year-old self nine years ago. She’d had her night of passion with Nate Fox.
And damn , it had been good . It had, in fact, exceeded her expectations. It had been the most mind-blowing, teeth-tingling, toe-curling sex of her life.
Hannah washed her face and peered at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled, her natural curls beginning to spring to life. She found his comb and smoothed her hair the best she could. Hopefully, she would look sexy and not frizzy. She fully intended to put on her wrinkled suit and leave. She’d find Nate, give him a kiss to thank him for a wonderful evening, and ask him to call her a cab. She’d promised herself one night of passion. Now she’d gotten him out of her system, she could be his publicist without all the sexual tension getting in the way.
But then she sniffed the air, and her stomach growled in response to the wafting odor of bacon. Like the enthusiastic dog in a Beggin’ Strips commercial, she followed the scent downstairs. She didn’t even bother removing his shirt.
The house had retained its Victorian flavor, right down to the William Morris acanthus-leaf wallpaper. The traditional furniture added to its warm appeal. But the house didn’t look lived in. Hannah paused in the living room, glancing around for anything that seemed to be uniquely Nate, and found nothing.
Following her nose, she found Nate in the kitchen. Here at last were the modern additions that made life bearable. Appliances and utensils reflected the best in cooking techniques, designed for style and ease of use. She took it all in with a brief glance before her gaze settled on Nate standing at the stove. He was wearing only an apron, and she was treated to a back view of the big bow framing his tight ass.
Buns for breakfast, anyone?
He must have heard her giggle, because he turned his head to look at her sideways. A tiny smile lifted his mouth, and his left eyebrow rose slightly. “Good morning,” he said.
It was a snapshot straight from one of his videos, a moment she had drooled over repeatedly, hitting the VCR’s rewind button over and over again. Now, like a Pavlovian bimbo, her knees went weak in response.
Oh this was not good. He was supposed to be out of her system.
“Good morning,” she managed. “Nice, ah, apron.”
“You think so?” He turned to show her the front view. It was embossed with big red lips and the words
Nate opened one eye. He trailed one hand down her side to the damp cleft between her thighs. “If you don’t hush,” he threatened, “I’ll keep going until you pass out.” To prove his point, one finger slid slowly inside of her.
Oh dear lord…
*
Hannah woke the next morning with sunshine in her eyes. It fell in a shimmering path through the window and across the bed. At some point they’d crawled under the covers and curled together in a warm, sated mass.
Now she stretched, reacting in surprise when she realized Nate was no longer in the bed. His pillow bore an indentation of his head. She rolled over and buried her face in the pillowcase. It smelled like him, warm and intrinsically male. Reluctantly, she eased away from it and crawled out of the bed. Stupid bladder.
With a wry grin, Hannah realized she was still wearing her stockings. She peeled them off and tossed them in the general direction of the rest of her clothing, which was scattered across the hardwood floor. She headed towards the door, then paused. His silk shirt lay at her feet. Biting her lip, she grabbed it and slid it on. It slithered around her, caressing her thighs, reminding her of his touch.
Thankfully, the bathroom was attached to the bedroom; she didn’t have to go stumbling through the house to find it.
She sat on the toilet, head in hands, and thought. Her work here was done. She’d fulfilled the promise she’d made to her seventeen-year-old self nine years ago. She’d had her night of passion with Nate Fox.
And damn , it had been good . It had, in fact, exceeded her expectations. It had been the most mind-blowing, teeth-tingling, toe-curling sex of her life.
Hannah washed her face and peered at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tousled, her natural curls beginning to spring to life. She found his comb and smoothed her hair the best she could. Hopefully, she would look sexy and not frizzy. She fully intended to put on her wrinkled suit and leave. She’d find Nate, give him a kiss to thank him for a wonderful evening, and ask him to call her a cab. She’d promised herself one night of passion. Now she’d gotten him out of her system, she could be his publicist without all the sexual tension getting in the way.
But then she sniffed the air, and her stomach growled in response to the wafting odor of bacon. Like the enthusiastic dog in a Beggin’ Strips commercial, she followed the scent downstairs. She didn’t even bother removing his shirt.
The house had retained its Victorian flavor, right down to the William Morris acanthus-leaf wallpaper. The traditional furniture added to its warm appeal. But the house didn’t look lived in. Hannah paused in the living room, glancing around for anything that seemed to be uniquely Nate, and found nothing.
Following her nose, she found Nate in the kitchen. Here at last were the modern additions that made life bearable. Appliances and utensils reflected the best in cooking techniques, designed for style and ease of use. She took it all in with a brief glance before her gaze settled on Nate standing at the stove. He was wearing only an apron, and she was treated to a back view of the big bow framing his tight ass.
Buns for breakfast, anyone?
He must have heard her giggle, because he turned his head to look at her sideways. A tiny smile lifted his mouth, and his left eyebrow rose slightly. “Good morning,” he said.
It was a snapshot straight from one of his videos, a moment she had drooled over repeatedly, hitting the VCR’s rewind button over and over again. Now, like a Pavlovian bimbo, her knees went weak in response.
Oh this was not good. He was supposed to be out of her system.
“Good morning,” she managed. “Nice, ah, apron.”
“You think so?” He turned to show her the front view. It was embossed with big red lips and the words
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