Page 41 of Work: Strictly Professional

“Yes,” I say, suddenly wedded to the number to the point I’m prepared to call the whole thing off if he doesn’t agree to it.

“Hmm…” He keeps walking slowly, ambling really, as if we’re discussing nothing more than the weather. “Is there anything I should know or anywhere you don’t want to be touched?”

Now, between you and me, there’s nowhere,nowhere, I don’t want Derek MacAvoy to touch me. In fact, if he looked suitably stern when he asked, I’d probably pull my pants down right where I’m standing, drop to my knees, and let him rail me sohard there’d be a Wyn-shaped dent in the cobbled pathway from now till eternity. I’d let him use spit as lube, and you wouldn’t hear a word of complaint from me. I’d let him fuck me so hard he might even manage to fuck some sense into me, and believe me, he’d have to pound my ass to get any sense in or out of me now.

Since I feel I should say something, and my hole seems to be the part of me most likely to cause immediate trouble, I look down demurely and say, “My asshole.”

“Ah.” He nods as if he understands completely. “The asshole’s extra, huh?”

Ooof

“That’s right.”

He turns to face me, scalding me with a look so hot I swear I can feel individual strands of hair start to frizz. He lowers his chin and smiles. I’ve seen this look too. At work. It’s a smile that has nothing to do with friendliness or even happiness and everything to do with closing a deal and winning.

I watch his lips closely as they part. I see his tongue rest briefly on his pallet, right behind his front teeth, and release as he expels the same word he says at the end of all of his negotiations.

“Done.”

I’m in the shower after a quick but mortifying experience where I think I said something about sweating like a pig and smelling disgusting, but I can’t be completely sure. I’m currently using all my power to block out whatever happened. When I think I’ve managed to repress the memory deep enough, I get started on an emergency pep talk. The main themes areyou can do this,get it together,anddon’t blow your load prematurely. It’s a pretty basic pep talk. Usually, I prefer them layered and meaningfulwith a nice inspirational punch at the end, but there’s no time for that.

I rinse the suds off my front and turn around to do my back. As I do, I levitate for three or four full seconds. Derek is standing in the bathroom, leaning against the vanity unit, eyes dark and filled with heat, thumb flicking slowly across his bottom lip.

“Are you watching me?” I ask dumbly.

“Yes.”

“Why?” I’m dimly aware that’s an even stupider question, but my filter seems to have left me.

“It’s what people do.” He smiles. “They buy things ‘cause they’re pretty, then they look at them.”

I should feel deeply insulted about the reference to being bought, and I do on some distant level. It’s just that Derek MacAvoy called me pretty and, sweet Jesus, I have a huge thing for that.

He tosses me a towel, obviously unaware of his strength because it all but hits me in the face and bowls me over. I burrow my way out of it and pat myself dry with what I hope is a normal, not overly keen, speed.

“Lie back on the bed,” says the Dark Lord, voice low and laced with such command that I all but crumple onto the mattress, barely able to find the strength required to be ashamed of my nudity.

He undresses unhurriedly. Unbuttoning his shirt slowly and sliding it off his shoulders as if he’s completely unaware I’m flat on my back, trying my best not to choke on my own saliva. He unbuttons and unzips his shorts and pushes them down, letting them drop in a heap next to his shirt. He steps over them and closes the space between him and the bed as my heart beats so loudly, all I can do is pray he can’t hear it.

The mattress dips as he raises a knee and climbs on, crawling like a leopard stalking its prey until he’s stretched out beside me.He’s on his side, and I’m staring at the ceiling. There’s a large colonial-style ceiling fan rotating above me. It’s moving slowly, so I try to time my breathing with the light breeze on my neck. It takes me longer than it should to work out that it’s not the fan I feel on my skin. The disturbance of air isn’t cool. It’s warm. Hot. I look up into a river of dark, molten chocolate, and thank God I’m already on my back.

Derek holds eye contact and smiles like he did yesterday right before he kissed me. Slow and seductive. A sultry bow of lips curling up.

He circles my wrist nearest his body and lifts it over my head. I watch, removed, as he lifts my other arm too. He covers them both with one hand, thick fingers pinning me down, applying just enough pressure that I feel the exact moment every ounce of resistance leaves my body. It’s a real, visceral thing. A stream. No, a flood that rushes out of me via my fingers and toes.

My eyes track lazily as the back of a big hand runs down my arm. My skin tingles at the light touch, a sensation that rushes down to my dick, making it throb. I’ve been hard on and off since this morning. Scratch that. I’ve been hard on and off since I met Derek MacAvoy. What I am now isn’t hard. It’s solid steel, swollen and hot, and goddamn uncomfortable.

Derek’s hand moves slowly, dancing up and down the soft skin of my underarm. Forearm first. Upper arm next. One arm, then the other. He inches toward my armpits, and if I still had use of my vocabulary, I might consider telling him I’m ticklish. I don’t though, so instead, I say something that sounds like “Glngg.”

He murmurs his reply. A soft, sympathetic “Mmm” vibrates through me as he dips his head down. His nose disturbs my hair, making me squirm as he inhales one pit and then the other. He does it loudly, proudly, with no shame whatsoever, and, Christ, if that isn’t a brutal turn-on.

When he looks up, flames flicker in his eyes, glowing with unmistakable hunger. My torso arches up violently as my spine contracts at the sight. I watch his hand track down my body, palm flat over my chest, doubling back to circle my nipples until I say, “Glngg,” again.

His hand travels lower, this time accompanied by his mouth. He leans over me, pressing my wrists hard into the mattress, stamping them, binding them, making it so I’m completely unable to move even when he releases them and cages me with his arms and legs as he moves down my body. Hot lips graze my belly, stubble scouring my skin. Hard, but not hard enough. Fingertips chase sensations up and down my sides, tracing meridians that all lead to my cock. He moves closer with each invisible line he follows, skirting my shaft and balls and working his way up again until I’m on the brink of a breakdown. My hips and torso work together, tensing and bucking off the mattress in slow, rhythmic undulations. Chest first, then hips, then chest again.

The bed dips once more, and I blink hard, realizing I must have closed my eyes at some point when broad daylight sears my retinas. I struggle to find focus, vision hazy, as the man in my bed reaches down and pushes my legs apart.

He bites his bottom lip and gives me a broad shithead grin. A solid stripe of white that lights the room. “Brace yourself, baby. I’m about to blow your mind.”

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