you have to be home?â he asks.
âNoon,â I say, idly running my fingertips over his upper chest and shoulders.
In one quick move, he flips me onto my back, pinning my wrists above my head and caging my body with his, his legs straddling my hips. He nips my ear playfully.
âIf you keep touching me like that, I canât be responsible for what I do,â he says warningly. âAlthough I do love making you come, so feel free to keep trying my patience.â
I laugh. âI have had more orgasms in the last twelve hours than I think Iâve had the entire rest of my life. I donât think I could come again if my life depended on it.â
His eyes narrow and I squirm slightly under him. Iâm starting to recognize that look. In one lithe move, heâs out of bed and on his feet, his back to me. I enjoy the view of his bare ass as he walks across the room to a small refrigerator cleverly concealed inside an armoire and takes out two cold water bottles.
He walks back over to where Iâm still lying on the bed and hands me one.
âDrink that,â he commands. He nods toward the door of the adjacent bathroom. âThe bathroom is right there. Be in the shower in five minutes.â
Then he strides out of the bedroom. I open the bottle of water and take a few deep gulps, trying to process what just happened, how he went from sweet and sexy to hard and domineering in less than a minute. I think back. Did I do something wrong? His mercurial mood confuses me. He wants me in the shower in five minutes? What the hell? I have never, in my wildest fantasies, imagined sex as incredible as the sex weâve had over the last twelve hours. And apparently not only can I have orgasms, I can have mind-blowing, multiple orgasms. But given the way he has just commanded me into the shower, itâs apparent heâs used to having women eagerly obey his every whim and do whatever he says. Iâm pretty sure I donât want to be another conquest who gives in to whatever he wants.
I donât like that Iâm starting to feel like some sort of challenge to be mastered, and I donât want to be any manâs project, even one as drop dead gorgeous and erotic as Beckett Black. With a sinking feeling, I realize Iâm the over thirty equivalent of the high school virgin the boys all wanted to score with at my high school. Why else would a man as gorgeous and sexually skilled as Beckett want to be with me, an uptight, divorced mom who can barely have orgasms? I should have known it was too good to be true.
I finish my water, find my clothes that are scattered across the floor, and walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Iâm tender between my legs, probably because itâs been a while since a man has been there, much less one the size of Beckett Black. I put on my thong, trying not to remember the erotic way he removed it last night, and then slip the dress over my head, fighting back tears. How could I have been so monumentally stupid? Beckett is undoubtedly patting himself on the back right now for his awesome prowess in bed and the knowledge that he could do what other men hadnâtâgive me mind-blowing orgasms. And while our lovemaking, if I can even call it that, was nothing short of earth shattering to me, Iâm probably just another lay, and not even a very good one, to him. I want to be the reckless, carefree ingénue, I really do, but in the light of day I just canât pull it off.
To make matters worse, I have probably just committed professional suicide, as least as far as writing the memoir for his dad. But I refuse to sacrifice my integrity for a job. I can get another job, but Iâll never get my pride back if I donât leave right now with my head held high.
I look at my reflection in the oval, gilt framed mirror over his sink, frowning. I look, quite simply, like a woman who has been fucked well and enjoyed it. My lips are
âNoon,â I say, idly running my fingertips over his upper chest and shoulders.
In one quick move, he flips me onto my back, pinning my wrists above my head and caging my body with his, his legs straddling my hips. He nips my ear playfully.
âIf you keep touching me like that, I canât be responsible for what I do,â he says warningly. âAlthough I do love making you come, so feel free to keep trying my patience.â
I laugh. âI have had more orgasms in the last twelve hours than I think Iâve had the entire rest of my life. I donât think I could come again if my life depended on it.â
His eyes narrow and I squirm slightly under him. Iâm starting to recognize that look. In one lithe move, heâs out of bed and on his feet, his back to me. I enjoy the view of his bare ass as he walks across the room to a small refrigerator cleverly concealed inside an armoire and takes out two cold water bottles.
He walks back over to where Iâm still lying on the bed and hands me one.
âDrink that,â he commands. He nods toward the door of the adjacent bathroom. âThe bathroom is right there. Be in the shower in five minutes.â
Then he strides out of the bedroom. I open the bottle of water and take a few deep gulps, trying to process what just happened, how he went from sweet and sexy to hard and domineering in less than a minute. I think back. Did I do something wrong? His mercurial mood confuses me. He wants me in the shower in five minutes? What the hell? I have never, in my wildest fantasies, imagined sex as incredible as the sex weâve had over the last twelve hours. And apparently not only can I have orgasms, I can have mind-blowing, multiple orgasms. But given the way he has just commanded me into the shower, itâs apparent heâs used to having women eagerly obey his every whim and do whatever he says. Iâm pretty sure I donât want to be another conquest who gives in to whatever he wants.
I donât like that Iâm starting to feel like some sort of challenge to be mastered, and I donât want to be any manâs project, even one as drop dead gorgeous and erotic as Beckett Black. With a sinking feeling, I realize Iâm the over thirty equivalent of the high school virgin the boys all wanted to score with at my high school. Why else would a man as gorgeous and sexually skilled as Beckett want to be with me, an uptight, divorced mom who can barely have orgasms? I should have known it was too good to be true.
I finish my water, find my clothes that are scattered across the floor, and walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Iâm tender between my legs, probably because itâs been a while since a man has been there, much less one the size of Beckett Black. I put on my thong, trying not to remember the erotic way he removed it last night, and then slip the dress over my head, fighting back tears. How could I have been so monumentally stupid? Beckett is undoubtedly patting himself on the back right now for his awesome prowess in bed and the knowledge that he could do what other men hadnâtâgive me mind-blowing orgasms. And while our lovemaking, if I can even call it that, was nothing short of earth shattering to me, Iâm probably just another lay, and not even a very good one, to him. I want to be the reckless, carefree ingénue, I really do, but in the light of day I just canât pull it off.
To make matters worse, I have probably just committed professional suicide, as least as far as writing the memoir for his dad. But I refuse to sacrifice my integrity for a job. I can get another job, but Iâll never get my pride back if I donât leave right now with my head held high.
I look at my reflection in the oval, gilt framed mirror over his sink, frowning. I look, quite simply, like a woman who has been fucked well and enjoyed it. My lips are
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