Page 12 of Get It In Writing
Chapter Eight - Rebecca
Way to exhibit some self-control.
Oh, wait a second. I saw that self-control escape out the window earlier this afternoon.
The kiss is like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s soft and hard, his tongue dances with the care and expertise of an old lover.
Or, at least I think it does. I don’t have anyone I can call an old lover.
I’m eager to analyze everything. I’m trying to keep my head focused and think of this rationally.
But I can’t. My mind is slipping away from me, and all I can do is feel him against me.
My body slips into a pool of pure want, and I’m soaked from just this kiss. All thoughts escape from my mind, and it's all feeling and desire.
As he presses my body into his, I feel his height and power. I’m captured by him, and I let everything go, until I’m surprised by his hardon pressing into me through two layers of clothing and coats.
It shocks me back to reality and I want to reach down to touch it. That’s the first thought I can put together. That I need to touch his cock.
And of course, that’s when I push him away.
“I think we’re grossing out all of Midtown,” I say, self-consciousness and a little bit of embarrassment flooding me.
“You think I give a fuck about that?” he says, cupping my chin in his hands and looking down tenderly into my eyes.
“Apparently not,” I say, my eyes shifting downward to the front of his pants.
“So you felt that?” he whispers into my ear, his breath tingling against me. “You’re not ready for that yet. First I need to get a taste of that pretty little pussy of yours. I need my tongue between your legs before I give you my cock.”
My knees get weak at the thought of his warm, soft tongue against me, and I shift uncomfortably. I was already wet, but now my clit is throbbing and all I want is his fingers and tongue inside my panties.
I make a mental note of what panties I’m wearing. They’re boyshorts, patterned with tiny, lit up Christmas trees. It’s a far cry from the satin and lace numbers I’m sure he usually sees.
At least they match my bra.
“We should get you someplace warm,” he says, taking my hand. My hand fits perfectly inside his, and he squeezes it just right. “We have a date across the street right about now,” he adds, checking his watch.
“Lead the way,” I say, struggling to catch my breath.
We cross Fifth Avenue and make our way into a little pub. It’s not the kind of place I expected the big boss to take me. There aren’t any guys in suits here, and the women have ponytails instead of blowouts. It’s a dive.
“I didn’t even think they had places like this around here. Is there where the hedge-fund managers go when they want to pick up a hipster chick instead of whatever it is they’re used to?” I pull my coat off and follow Harper to a booth in the corner.
He slides into the booth and grabs my hips, guiding me in next to him.
“Don’t judge. It takes all kinds,” he says, grabbing a menu and handing it to me. “But no, probably not. I don’t think many finance guys come here.”
“Ah, I see. Architects, then, like you,” I say, turning the menu over in my hands.
“Maybe. Yeah. I thought you’d like it,” he says, making eye contact with a waitress across the bar. “You’ll tell me at the end of the night whether you like it or not.”
He winks. That’s cheesy. And hot.
I decide on a drink and start to pass the menu over to Harper, but he takes it and just puts it down on the table.
“I already know what I want,” he says. The waitress gets to our table and Harper announces the drink he’ll have. It’s an expensive-sounding liquor, and he wants it straight up.
“And for you?” the waitress says, casting a sidelong glance at me, but never taking her attention away from my boss.
