Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,76
pressed his kiss deeper, his fingers going lower, brushing against my flesh, my breasts, my abdomen.
He wouldn’t. Not here, of all places. Would he?
The situation seemed innocent enough at first, at least from the outside looking in. Then his hand went between my legs and up my skirt.
He looked around to make sure no one was coming then kissed me hard.
“We can’t do this here!” I protested softly.
Jonathan ignored me, continuing to kiss me.
I knew I should push him off, but my body ached for a repeat of the Jonathan Frost experience. “This is a bad idea,” I finally gasped out.
Jonathan frowned. “We’re just having a professional conversation. Nothing wrong with that.”
He pressed his hand against my clit through the fabric, causing me to gasp. His touch was always so potent, and he was so very quickly learning how to turn my lustfulness against me.
I tipped my head back.
“Eyes forward,” he murmured.
I moaned, worried about someone looking my way and seeing my face for what was really happening. As much as I tried to stay stoic and unchanging, there was only so much I could resist. Jonathan was just that good.
He even casually stopped kissing me to take a drink, all while his finger continued to weasel in beneath my panties, rubbing against my flesh. I shuddered as he pressed on my clit and then started to fuck me with his fingers good and properly. Merely seconds later, he escalated his campaign to make me come on the desk, his fingers sliding in and out of me, faster and faster, never truly letting up on my clit.
The pressure building inside me was intense, coming at me so damn fast. I nibbled on my lip to endure it, hoping to ride it out just a little longer. I braced myself against the desktop, the little vibrations inside of me trying to make me collapse into a pile of orgasmic goo.
His two fingers pistoning in and out of me, so delicately nudging my clit all the while, were too much to take. I was writhing, about to scream and embarrass myself.
Only he pulled me closer and kissed me again, muffling my moans and letting the orgasm wash over me. My heart pounded as I looked around, wondering if anyone had seen me in one of my most intimate moments. I’d be struggling to look any of Jonathan’s employees straight in the eye for a while.
Not only that, but I still did not have the pictures I needed for my art project.
42
Jonathan
I kissed Morticia again. She pushed me off, though she was breathing hard.
A few moments later, my assistant knocked on the door.
“You have a visitor,” she told me. “It’s your father.”
“I better go,” Morticia said in that raspy voice that made me want to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she screamed. “I’ll take Cindy Lou back for you if you want.”
I nodded absently and handed Morticia the cat and her bag. The assistant walked her out.
My heart pounded, and I tried to calm down. When I was a kid, my parents had rarely wanted anything to do with me. As the middle son, I had been lost in the shuffle. It didn’t help that whenever they did want to pay attention to me, I would freak out under the pressure.
I am a billionaire. I run a successful alcohol company, I manage a hedge fund, and I’m about to have a major real estate development, I told myself. I have a cat and a girlfriend, though she is fake, and that’s probably going to blow up in my face.
My father walked in moments later. He and I were the same height and had the same platinum hair and blue eyes. I had idolized him when I was a child.
He barely seemed to remember I existed.
Once you have a ten-figure net worth and Hamilton Yards up and running, everything will change, I reassured myself.
“Drink?” I offered.
He scowled at me. “For goodness sake, Jonathan, it’s ten in the morning. No wonder you haven’t managed to make anything of yourself if that’s how you carry on.”
I tried to pivot. “Just the perks of being in the alcohol business.”
“So I hear,” my father said, nose wrinkled as if he had smelled something disgusting.
“So how can I help you?” I asked, gesturing to the chair in front of my desk, the desk on which I had just gotten Morticia off.
“I didn’t come to see you, obviously,” my father replied.