Page 16 of Older Hotter Grumpier
“Anymore.”
“I don’t care what kind of school it was,” I interrupt, since this scene is presumably for my benefit. “It’s clearly doing much better for these kids now, and that’s all that matters. I’m not bothered by what happened in the past.” And then, I don’t know where I get the courage to do this from, but I tilt my face up towards my boss’ and smile with all the soft gooey feelings he creates in my tummy. “Only the future.”
“What about your cute little tutoring side-gig—”
Severino is cut off by a middle-aged woman in a suit ringing a bell and announcing that dinner is ready to be served, so please would we all tear ourselves away from viewing the outstanding artistic talent of her students, and make our way to the ballroom. She catches Rafe’s eye and smiles as she disappears, and a lightning rod of jealousy crackles down my spine.
Severino nods and strides off ahead of everyone who funnels through into the next room.
“Who’s she?” I ask as we join the line of exceptionally well-dressed people plus nervously excited students and their parents. I am trying to be casual and missing the mark by quite a way if my boss’ speculative look is any indication.
“That’s the art teacher,” Rafe replies.
“So…” I’ve been absolutely curious about this for a year and a half. “Is this anything to do with Wednesday afternoons?”
Rafe’s shoulders stiffen and his jaw goes taut, all the humour bleeding out of him.
“Come on, you can tell your fiancée.” I aim for light-hearted.
“Yes,” he says tightly.
“Your brother mentioned your tutoring, and all the kids seem to know you…”
It’s like getting blood from a stone. Rafe nods.
“Are you embarrassed by them? Their art is amaze—”
“No.” His head snaps around at that. “No,” he repeats more slowly. “I’m very proud of them. All of them.” There’s something tender in his expression, and while I might be making this up, I think there’s longing. It’s the same bleakness I see in him when he stares out of the window of his office.
“You like kids?”
He softens his voice. “I love kids.”
“Do you want children of your own?” I’m pushing my luck, I know I am. Any moment Rafe is going to tell me to stop talking or I’ll end up in a freezing river.
He looks at me curiously, that steel trap mind of his working. Then before I can react, he’s grabbed my hand and pulled me to the side, out of the stream of people and into a secluded alcove screened by curtains. He crowds me against the wall, pressing his body to mine.
His huge, very male, very aroused body.
Cupping my jaw in both of his big hands, he gives me a scowl that says, don’t scream.
My heart pounds. He’s much larger than me. In this corner, mere feet from where people are filing past us to go for dinner, I’m at his mercy. He could snap my neck before I’d so much as cried out.
“I’d have a dozen.” He scours my face with his eyes, but his touch is delicate, gentle, even as his expression is serious. “As many as my wife would allow.”
I scoff. “For the practice?” My tone is light, but my question is sincere. Because only women with overactive ticking ovaries—I’m trying to tell mine that there’s plenty of time, but they ache with wanting Rafe—and blue male aliens who are at risk of species extinction actually crave children. Human males just want sex, right? The instant gratification.
But as he has all of today, my boss surprises me. “Not the practice, Miss Button. The act. Breeding.” He strokes my hair and his gaze dips to my mouth, lingering. “Filling my wife up with seed until she’s overflowing. Fucking her and making love, giving her orgasm after orgasm before I come inside her again.”
His hands slide down to my neck, his thumbs stroking my skin, and apparently my neck is really sensitive. There’s some sort of direct connection between where he’s touching a relatively uninteresting place on my body, and the throbbing centre of me between my legs. With his words and that slow, deliberate caress, he’s turning me on like I’m his to command. I’m wet. Soaked. Needy and hot.
“Yes, I want that,” he says, voice husky. “Painting my wife’s insides with reams of seed. Getting her bred.”
I gasp, but he ignores me and continues.
“Making her come on my cock and telling her to milk out the seed to make a baby. Watching her get lush and rounded when she’s pregnant. Caring for her while she’s carrying my child, and protecting my family. I want kids with pretty, mixed-coloured eyes and quirky habits to teach about the world. To show art and business and how to survive. To support and cherish. You’re correct that I want baby-making, Ella. That’s part of it. I want the sex that means something and creates life. Sex that wrecks. I wanteverything.”
Oh god, I’m panting. I’m a girl-shaped puddle of desire and hormones.
