his tongue, drinking in every last spasm of my orgasm.
He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, but he only pauses to roll on a condom before positioning his thick erection at my entrance and guiding himself inside me in one long thrust. His eyes drift closed, and he groans with a combination of satisfaction and need that sets me fluttering around him again. He moves inside me with a smooth, leashed grace, and I can see that it takes every ounce of his considerable self-control to take it slow.
I want it slow, like this – I want it to last forever. And I want it fast – I want to see his poise crumble and his perfect features contort into an expression of pleasure-pain as he drives wildly inside me, unable to stop. I want it rough, and tender, and silly. I want a risky quickie and a drawn-out night of lovemaking, and a giggly romp that leaves us breathless with laughter as well as passion. I want it any way I can get it.
So I let him know. I tell him with my body how badly I want him, wrapping my legs around his hips to urge him on, playing my fingers over his back, grabbing his shoulders as his thrusts become deeper and harder and his breath comes on a low, trembling moan.
That strain of helpless pleasure in his voice sparks something inside me, and I feel my orgasm start to build again. Quickly this time, overwhelming me with bliss like a blow, that seems to stop my breath in my throat, my heart in my chest. Seems to stop time.
I hang there in a frozen moment, my whole being flooded with pleasure as I hear his cry of release and he pushes hard inside me.
He collapses to one side, pulling me with him so I’m nestled against him, hearing his heart hammering wildly as he tries the catch his breath. He wraps his arm around me, and I melt against him, feeling warm and sleepy as I idly play my fingers over the pale stripe of skin on his wrist.
Not much time passes before I’m awakened by the heated white warmth of the sun beaming through the leaded glass windows. My head is fuzzy. I’m tangled in silky sheets, wrapped in Blake’s arms, aching sweetly with the afterglow of lovemaking. Nothing in the world could pry me from this bed.
And yet…there’s something…
Xena! I have to get home to Xena. Isabella worked an overnight and she’s going to be dead tired. I didn’t ask any of the Kitchen Krew to dogsit this morning because I didn’t think I’d need it. If I don’t get home soon she’ll eat the sofa. Hell’s bells, she’s probably already done that and is moving on to the kitchen chair. Yes, chair, singular.
Blake’s arms are wrapped around me. Reluctantly, I move to sit up. He tightens his arms around me.
“I have to go,” I groan, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“Why?” he mumbles into my hair. “What’s the rush?”
“I have to go home to walk Xena.”
He utters a muffled curse into his pillow. “That’s why you shouldn’t have dogs.”
I shrug his arms off and sit up, and bury my face in my hands. Damn my middle school bookmark requirements!
No, no, that’s not fair. I knew what I wanted, then and now.
He heaves a sigh and sits up. “Sorry. You can have dogs. I’m tired, I’m just not thinking.” He trails his fingers down my back. “Stay for breakfast. That’s an order. I’m your boss, you have to obey me.”
That summons a giggle. “I’d love to stay around and role-play that fantasy, but seriously. Xena’s bladder will explode. All over my kitchen-living room-bedroom floor.” I slide out of bed.
Clothes. Where are my clothes? In the parlor.
“You’re going to talk about sex role-play and then leave me?” Blake flashes big sad puppy-dog eyes at me. “Fine. Whatever. Wait, come back!” he calls as I head to the door. “Henry might come in; he shows up without warning. He’s like a butler ninja. I’ll get your clothes for me.”
He pulls his boxer shorts on and hurries out. I admire the view as he leaves. I admire it again as he returns a minute later.
“So, about our sexy secretary fantasy…” he prods me as I quickly pull on my panties. “As you know, I have a very big…desk.”
The thought of him bending me over his desk nearly undoes me.