Page 25 of Conflagration
This, gorging on homemade lasagna and laughing at the utterly ridiculous antics of perpetual fourth graders in a fictional cartoon town in South Park, is exactly what I need. I can just picture Victoria’s face if she could see me know, and a jolt of glee shoots through me. I’m pleased to know that, even with his high-up position at his father’s company, he’s not pompous or stiff and has no problem sitting back, relaxing, and lounging around. It’s refreshing, and all it does is make me want him—this—more.
A week ago, if you’d have told me I’d be leaving one man to shack up with another, I’d have called you crazy. But now that I’m here, I can’t imagine being anywhere else, and I hope this bubble doesn’t burst any time soon.
With a full belly, a warm shoulder to cuddle on, and the sleep-inducing pain medications, I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open. My head nods a couple of times, and even though my anxiety about sharing a bed with Branson has grown increasingly stronger over the last few hours, I know that it’s time to get it over with. Not that I think it’s going to be a hardship. Quite the opposite in fact.
I’ve been curled up with him all night, enjoying every single second of it. He’s possessively held me close, almost as if he were afraid to let me go. The warmth makes me feel like I’m in the most sheltered cocoon, shielded from the outside world. From my parents. From my ex. From everything I’ve been running from. And the idea of sleeping with him? Eager doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. It’s the other things that can be done in a bed that have me anxious.
Even though we’ve both admitted that we want it, it still feels too soon. Not to mention his broken patella and the fact that Dr. Webber told me I needed to wait a few weeks to participate in any strenuous activities due to my splenectomy. And I have a feeling that being with Branson will be anything but slow and sweet.
The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through me, and I sigh, not sure I’m going to be able to resist this man for long—not sure I even want to try. I guess that’s where hands and mouths get involved. We’ll just have to use our imaginations. The talk of sexual deviancy and kink comes to mind, and the room temperature increases. A cold shower sounds really good right about now. That and bed.
With a yawn, I sit up from the couch and look down on him, unable to help the smile the crosses my lips when I see that he’s already fast asleep. I’m not shocked considering that his last round of pain medication was taken within the last hour. This, however, leaves me with a dilemma. As I glance from him to the wheelchair, I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to move this six foot one, 195-pound man by myself. Sure, I exercise on a semi-regular basis, but he outweighs me easily by sixty pounds, and if I try to lift him, I fear we might both end up on the floor with him on top of me. If the circumstances were different, I’d be completely okay with that scenario, but with his injured knee, the last thing I want to do is complicate things or cause him to injure himself even further.
Leaning into him, I gently shake his shoulder. “Branson…” I whisper and wait a moment before saying his name again. It’s no use. He’s completely down for the count, and I know I won’t be able to wake him.
With a heavy sigh, I decide that my best option is to leave him where he is. Surprisingly, he looks comfortable enough. I recline the back of his side of the couch so it’s lying flat then place a blanket over him, tucking it under his chin. As I stand up straight, I take a moment to study him. His lip has healed almost completely—thank goodness, because the memory of those lips on mine causes my skin to tingle and I can’t wait to feel them again. The bruising is still dark, only slightly yellow in spots, but he looks so much less vulnerable than he did lying in that hospital bed. The color’s come back to his face, though his cheekbones are slightly hollow, something I know I can remedy now that we’re home.
Home.
I don’t know if it’s just a natural reaction to call this home, but it feels more like home than anywhere else has for a really long time. Possibly even ever.
With one last look at him, I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, whispering, “Goodnight.” He doesn’t even stir, so I turn off the television, leaving one small lamp on in the corner just in case he wakes up in the middle of the night.
As I walk towards the master bedroom, I can’t help but laugh at the thought that I’m going to bed by myself. I told him that I wouldn’t sleep with him tonight, and I guess that’s coming true, even if I don’t want it to.
When I enter the room, I take the time to study it, not having been able to do so earlier with his mom talking my ear off as she showed me where she put my things. The room is masculine, and there is no sign that a female ever lived here. I wonder if it’s always been this way or if he redecorated after his divorce.
In the middle of the room, there’s a huge king-sized bed that rests on a dark cherry wood frame. The matching nightstands and dresser indicate that it came in a set, and unsurprisingly, a large, flat-panel television rests on the wall directly across from the bed. The room is meticulously clean and organized, as is the closet. I’m not surprised. A man like Branson loves order, control, and I don’t think he could live amongst chaos.
The massive master bathroom is the same way. There’s nothing on the counter other than hand soap and an electric toothbrush. After searching through the drawers, I see that everything has its place. I can’t even find a single strand of hair on the counter, and I make a mental note to ask Branson if he has a cleaning lady because I’ve never seen a man keep a bathroom this clean, or organized.
The bathroom drawer his mom set aside for me is full of expensive face washes and moisturizers. I smile when I see that nearly every scented lotion is coconut, and I know that Branson must’ve given his mom specific instructions when it came to the bathroom products. With an unexpected warmth in my heart, I spend the next few minutes pampering myself, and it feels heavenly. When I see bubble bath, I set it on the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub, glancing longingly for a moment, wishing I could soak in one. Under doctor’s orders, I’m stuck with showers for now, thanks to the stitches from my surgery, but the minute I get the okay, I’m getting in that bad boy.
After I’m done in the bathroom, I find the clothes Amelia bought for me, hoping she remembered pajamas. As I go through the contents of the drawer, my cheeks flush when I pull out what I presume is a nightgown. It’s silky and thin, and when I hold it up to the light, I see that it’s practically see-through. It comes to mid-thigh and has tiny spaghetti straps. Basically, this nightie leaves little to the imagination, and I wonder what Amelia’s angle is here. I guess she really is happy that Branson’s with someone. It’s amusing, but there’s no way in hell I’m wearing it. As I search through the rest of the clothes, I don’t find anything that could be considered nightwear. Even the T-shirts she bought barely cover my ass.
Even though I don’t want to invade his privacy, I open a few of Branson’s drawers until I find one that has his underwear. And I’m pleased to report that he wears boxer briefs—my absolute favorite. After taking out a black pair, I hope he doesn’t mind as I slip them on. They hang off my ass, but with the elastic, they at least stay up around my waist. The next drawer down has T-shirts, and I take out the first one and slide it on over my head. Beside the dresser is a full-length mirror, and I can’t help but grin at the reflection staring back at me.
I’m standing in Branson’s room, with my long, dark hair up in a messy bun, my face clear and makeup free, in nothing but his boxer briefs and a Wellington Enterprises shirt. I didn’t pick out this shirt on purpose, but I kind of like that I’m wearing it. Almost as if I’m his.
Property of Wellington.I groan as soon as the thought crosses my mind.
I know. I know. It’s a completely conflicting thought from what I’ve been thinking about Benjamin, not wanting to be someone’s trophy wife. But Branson doesn’t treat me like that. I’m not a means to an end. If he wants me, it’s because he wantsme, not what I can do or be for him. And the thought sends dizzying sensations throughout my body. Jesus, you’d think I’m some sex-starved woman the way I’m salivating over him already, and I know I need to get a grip. And not just grip of him. At least not yet.
The bed sits up high, and I have to stretch to get up into it. As I pull back the plush comforter, I slide into incredibly soft, cool sheets that feel amazing on my legs. Then again, anything probably would after a week’s worth of sleeping in a hospital bed. But as I turn off the bedside lamp and rest my head back against a fluffy, luxurious pillow, I sigh in delight. A girl could definitely get used to this.
And as I drift off to sleep, I have one final disconcerting thought.
I kind of already am.
SOFT, WARM lips trail across my bare skin as she kisses, licks, and nibbles her way down my chest. Her tongue darts out of her mouth to graze each nipple before she bites down deliberately, bringing on full-body shivers that cause my legs to clench. She must feel it—her head comes up ever so slightly as she greets me with a wicked grin that lets me know there’s more where that came from.
I shift and try to capture her to lift her up to me, but it’s no use. Before I can get ahold of her, she shifts out of reach then pushes me back against the couch, shaking her head at me. I’m not used to this, not having control. The look of burning desire in her dark-brown eyes has me under her spell, and I’m stock-still as her lips return to mine and she gives me a quick kiss.
As she moves down my body, her perky tits press against my skin, her hard nipples making her arousal apparent. It takes everything in me not to reach my hand out to stroke them.
All in due time, Branson. All in due time.
I inhale sharply as she passes over my belly button, outlining each one of my abs before her tongue traces the thick lines of the V that leads down to my dick. As her lips kiss the base of my erection, she looks up at me, making eye contact. The devilish gleam in her eye turns me on, causing it to twitch, and she grins wickedly. She pulls up slightly, wrapping her lips around the tip, giving me just a small tease before she slowly draws me into her mouth, her tongue running along the underside of my cock. She groans at the taste of me, and the vibrations of her throat have me harder than ever. My breathing quickens, and as she moves farther down my shaft, my hands ball into fists at my side as I try to refrain from making fists in her hair and pushing her down until all of me is in her mouth.
