Текст книги "The Good Assistant"

Автор книги: Cynthia Sax

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Chapter Eight

I’m dreaming. I must be. I’m in John’s bedroom with him, not in my small apartment alone. He drags his hot mouth over my shoulder, cups my breasts with his rough palms. I cover his hands with my fingers, forcing him to squeeze harder, pleasure shooting over my form.

He nudges his hard cock between my thighs, pressing his hips against my ass. I wiggle against him, needing more, needing him inside me.

“John,” I moan.

“Give me a second.” He rolls away from me and cool air sweeps over my back. I huff. This isn’t what I need. A package rustles and he returns, wrapping his arms around me, pressing his latex-covered cock against me.

I frown. Why is he wearing a condom in my dream? I want to feel him inside me.

“Open for me, Trella.” He pinches my nipples, the sweet pain punctuating his command, erotic bliss flowing down my spine.

I obey him, spreading my thighs, and he pushes inside my slick pussy, stretching me open. This is what I need, this fullness, this connection. When he’s inside me, I’m not alone. I’m needed.

I tilt my hips and John buries himself to his base. A rumble of satisfaction rolls up his chest. His skin rubs against mine.

He rocks against me, his pace slow and steady, as though my always busy boss has the entire night to please me. I’m not as patient as he is. I grip his hands, closing his fingers around my aching nipples, clutching my breasts to the same rhythm.

“That’s it,” he murmurs into my ear. “Show me what you like, love, what you need.”

He called me love. I smile sleepily. This is the best dream ever. We move together as one, our tempo gradually building, the bed rocking. John nuzzles, nips, sucks on my neck, the stubble on his cheeks grazing my skin, sending tremors over my shoulders, down my back.

“Yes.” I undulate against him, caressing him with my entire body, loving him with everything I have. A wet sheen covers his chest, his arms. I turn my head and lick the moisture off his bulging left bicep, tasting his salt. If all of my fantasies feel this real, this right, I’ll survive our separation, living for the nights when I’ll see, touch, taste, smell him again.

“Yes,” John agrees, his lips humming against my earlobe. He pumps in and out of my tight pussy, and I savor all of him, the bloom of his cock head, the raised veins on his shaft, the coarse curls on his base.

I clench around him and he groans. “I won’t last long, not when you grip me like that,” he warns. I laugh and clench him again. “You’re a bad, bad assistant.” He thrusts harder, smacking his hips against my ass.

“Be bad with me, John.” I transfer one of his hands to my pussy, pressing the tip of his index finger against my clit. He circles the sensitive spot, winding my passion tighter and tighter around me.

“I won’t last long either,” I confess, my voice husky with need. “Not when you touch me like that.” I push back on him, his fingers making me crazed. “You feel so good.” He owns me with each hard stroke of his cock, dominating my body, my heart, my soul.

I pant, John grunts and the headboard thumps against the wall, the sounds of our joining intensifying my desire. There is no thought of the morning, of goodbye. There’s only the two of us. In this moment, he’s not a billionaire or my boss. He’s a man and I’m his woman. We’re two beings striving, struggling, fighting for our satisfaction.

I shake, each pleasure-laden tremor shredding more of my control. John takes me harder and harder, smacking his balls against my skin, and my form heats at all points of contact. He taps one of his fingertips against my clit, his touch causing my inner walls to close around his shaft, pushing us both toward the sweet edge of release.

“Please.” I reach back and grip his thighs, digging my nails into his skin.

“Come for me, Trella.” John teases my shoulder with his teeth. “Come now.” He thrusts hard and nips my skin, the pain propelling me over the vortex.

I scream, bucking against him. He tightens his hold on me, capturing my writhing body, as he drives one, two, three more times into me. It’s too much, too good, the ecstasy exquisite. I twist as John shudders with fulfillment. He doesn’t release me, folding my curves into his muscle, and I surrender to his power, quieting, my eyelids fluttering closed.

“I love you, John,” I whisper. This is a dream. I can tell him anything I want. “I’ve always loved you and I will always love you.” I’ve dated enough men to know John is special, the only man for me.

“I love you too, Trella,” John rumbles. “And I need you. I’ll always need you.” He says the words I want him to say.

I snuggle deeper into his body and smile, wishing I never had to wake up.

* * *

“Double the security detail and clear the area. I won’t be alone.” John’s deep voice rolls over me, a soothing sound I can listen to forever. I lie face down on soft white sheets. The sun’s rays stream in the window, warming my bare back.

“I’m well aware of the risks,” he says. “We won’t stay long.”

I turn my head toward him. John sits by the bed, dressed casually in blue jeans and a chest-hugging black T-shirt, his phone pressed to one ear. Although a baseball cap with a tattered bill shades his eyes, I know he’s watching me.

“We’ll be ready to leave in half an hour.” He lowers the phone.

“Are you taking me home?” As he promised to take me home last night.

“You are home.” John shakes his head as though I’m talking nonsense. “I canceled my meetings for the day. We’re going to a site so wear the usual, nothing designer, nothing flashy.”

I can’t visit a site smelling of sex and him. “I need a shower, sir.” I push myself upright, my body naked and sore. There’s no time to think about the mess he’s made of his schedule, the zillions of meetings I’ll have to rearrange, his confusing comment about me being home. “My clothes–”

“They’re in the dresser by the window.” John watches me as I walk toward the ensuite bathroom. “You have thirty minutes, Trella.”

I shower quickly, pull my hair back into a ponytail and don minimal makeup. All of my things have been placed in the bathroom, my hairbrush resting on the vanity’s black marble countertop, my bottle of vitamins hidden in the medicine cabinet.

When I emerge, John is no longer in the bedroom. The black velvet box is set on one of the nightstands, my earrings, the gift from John, having been removed while I slept. A pair of jeans, a navy blue T-shirt, and thick gray socks are folded on the foot of the neatly made bed, John having made my clothing decisions for me. My clunky work boots are placed on the hardwood floor.

I dress and rush downstairs with two minutes to spare. John stands by the double doors, a smaller baseball cap in one of his hands. His eyes light up as I descend the stairs. “This should fit you.” He tugs the cap on my head. The fabric smells of engine grease and dust.

“Whom did you steal this from?” I pull my ponytail through the back closure.

“I won it fair and square from Ian Smith in the third grade.” John grins, opening the door. We step into the bright sunlight.

This was his baseball cap, part of his childhood, and he wants me to wear it. I touch the warped bill, my chest warming with love.

Dave, John’s driver, is seated in a battered four-door sedan. He’s dressed as casually as we are. Another large man sits in the passenger seat. More sedans idle in front of and behind our vehicle. This isn’t abnormal for John. Billionaires are targets for desperate people and he doesn’t take any chances with his people’s safety, traveling in convoys whenever he visits high risk neighborhoods.

I slide into the backseat. John claims the spot beside me, his arm placed protectively around my shoulders, his thigh pressing against mine. The windows are rolled up, the glass bullet proof.

“What do you need, sir?” I extract my phone from my back pocket.

“I don’t need anything.” John takes the device from me and tosses it into the vehicle’s side compartment. “This isn’t a business outing for us and I’m not your boss today.”

“I thought everything is business for you.” I frown. “And if you’re not my boss today, why do you need me?”

“I’ll always need you,” he echoes the words in my dream. I gaze at him. Was it a dream? “And I certainly need you today.” John raps his knuckles on the glass dividing the front and back seats. The partition opens and a cup is transferred through the exposure. “Take this.” He presses the cup into my palm. “You’re a mess without your coffee.”

I sip the delectable java and moan with appreciation. “I do love you.” I’ve said it once. It won’t hurt our relationship if I say it again.

His lips lift into a small smile, his eyes gleaming. “I know.”

I grin. My boss is an arrogant bastard. “Why do you certainly need me today?” I pass the cup to John.

He places his mouth where mine had been and he drinks. “That young fool wasn’t the first person to approach me about developing the neighborhood I grew up in. I said no to all of the other offers, better offers, from more experienced partners.”

“Then why are you considering the partnership with Bass?” I ask, not expecting an answer. My boss doesn’t explain his decisions. He makes them and moves on.

“I’m developing the neighborhood now because it’s time.” John shifts in the seat, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. “Because it should be done. Because you can help me.”

I’ve never heard him admit he needs help, have never seen him this vulnerable. “How can I help you?”

“You can help me deal.” John turns his head and gazes out the window. School-aged boys in black hoodies and low hanging pants stand on corners. Graffiti decorates every vertical surface. A plastic bag blows along the cracked sidewalk. An alarm sounds. “You can help me face this.” He waves his hand.

I can help him face his past. “Do you need me to be your assistant, to take on the tasks you’d rather not complete?” I have to be certain, to know exactly what he needs from me.

“You’re not my assistant today, Trella. I need your support, not more spreadsheets.” His smile holds sadness. “Stand by my side and manage my emotions as only you can. Distract me when it becomes too tough. Slap me when I’m being an irrational ass.”

“That’s a regular day for me, sir.” I force a joke

John’s eyes glimmer. “Exactly.”

He needs me as no one else has ever needed me. He also cares for me. Hearing the words is unnecessary. I feel our connection. “Is the neighborhood much different now?” I take the cup from him and finish the coffee, wishing to be wide awake when we arrive, when he requires my assistance.

“Nothing has changed in the neighborhood, nothing substantial.” John presses his lips together. “No one has invested here. No one cares.”

He cares. I hear the passion in his voice.

“People believe what they see, Trella,” John explains. “If they don’t see change, they won’t believe they can change. If people don’t invest in them, they won’t invest in themselves.”

This is why he constructs buildings, erecting giant symbols of change, of improvement. I slip my palm into his, silently showing my support, my understanding. John folds his fingers around mine, securing me to him. We sit, holding hands, our souls linked, my thoughts focused on the future, his thoughts revisiting the past.

His mood becomes more and more grim as the neighborhoods deteriorate. Tension radiates from him in dark and heavy waves. I can’t bear to see him like this.

I search for a distraction. “Was I supposed to wear panties?” I wiggle, brushing my thigh against his. “You didn’t set out a pair for me.”

John turns his head toward me and blinks. “Are you bare under your jeans?”

“I am.” I nod. “And the zipper is rubbing against an interesting spot.” I squirm.

“I didn’t set out a bra either.” John runs one of his palms over my back. He should be feeling smooth cotton. “Trella,” he groans. “What are you doing to me?” His mind isn’t on his challenging childhood now.

I tilt my head back and meet his gaze. “I’m managing you, sir.” I laugh.

John chuckles. “Actions have consequences.” He tugs on the bill of my baseball cap. “Remember that, love.”

Love. My smile wavers. Does he love me? Before I can ask, the vehicle slows and all of the mirth fades from John’s face.

“You won’t leave my side today,” he commands. “If the situation becomes unsafe, we’re leaving, no questions asked.”

“I understand.” I understand everything. He’s showing me a slice of himself, a part he doesn’t share with many people, a rare vulnerability. He needs me by his side, to help him through this.

John exits the sedan first, scanning our surroundings, and he reaches for me. His men are positioned casually around us, not so close as to draw attention but near enough to secure the area.

The building looming in front of us is old and depressingly institutional, the address listed on John’s comprehensive online biography. Two of the giant gray numbers are missing, their outlines permanently etched in the red brick. Windows are cracked, covered with silver duct tape or clear fixative.

There are no balconies, no flowers, no green space. Every surrounding inch is paved, the patches of black asphalt forming a continual industrial quilt. Squealing children fight over one dirty basketball, playing in the streets around the parked cars. Broken bottles litter the space, the jagged pieces of glass crunching under my boots.

John would have played in these streets also, risked being cut by the glass and hit by passing vehicles. I could have lost him decades ago. I glance at the silver scars around his neck. I came very close to losing him. If he hadn’t survived his childhood, I would have remained alone, not knowing love, not knowing him.

I squeeze John’s hand, overcome with gratitude. He squeezes back, his gaze on the building, on his childhood home, his lips flat and his expression grim. He doesn’t have to say anything. I feel his dread as though it was my own, the feeling growing with each passing second.

“Are you ready?” I whisper, my words meant for his ears only.

“No,” John admits. He wraps one of his arms protectively around my waist and takes a deep ragged breath, his chest pushing against my back. “But this has to be done.” He surges forward, taking me with him.

 

Chapter Nine

Two and a half hours later, I trudge up the stairs. John follows me closely, his right palm resting on the small of my back. One of his men walks in front of us. We don’t speak, John having explained to me how voices carry, drawing unwanted attention. Small talk can be dangerous in this neighborhood and my billionaire isn’t taking any chances.

The stairwell is disgustingly dirty, smelling of urine and vomit. Liquor bottles are scattered on every landing. Taking the elevator isn’t an option. John claims it has been broken since he lived here.

I can’t believe this was once his home. This building is so different from Powers Corporation’s modern, immaculately clean head office. It hurts my heart to think of him spending his formative childhood years amidst the crime and grime.

The hired muscle opens the door to the roof and a blast of fresh air sweeps over the space. I hasten my pace, my calves burning, my lungs tight.

More men are positioned around the rooftop. Two lounge chairs are placed by a small table. A cooler holds bottles of water. A pizza box is set on the table.

I pace along the perimeter of the roof. Although the surface is as shabby as the rest of the building, the sky is a gorgeous shade of blue and the view is breathtaking.

“This is amazing.” I link my fingers with John’s and gaze out at the city.

“This place kept me sane,” he confesses. “I came here to escape everything else.”

I’ve seen some of his everything else, the tiny, damp apartment with the thin walls, the frighteningly dark hallways, the even more scary common areas. I heard the yelling and screaming, the rustling of rodents running between the drywall. I smelled the oil herb scent of marijuana, felt the grease on the hand railings. I faced this hardship today with John, buffered by his presence. He faced it for years alone, his childhood making him tough and strong.

I lean into the wind. “Up here, everything is possible.”

“Yes,” John agrees. We stand side by side, not speaking, the quiet comfortable.

My stomach growls and my face heats. “I hope that pizza box isn’t merely for show.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” My boss chuckles, leading me to the makeshift dining area. He extracts a bottle of water out of the cooler and splashes some of the liquid over his fingers. “Hold out your hands.”

The cool water flows over my fingers. “I see this is a fancy joint,” I tease, rubbing my palms together.

“Only the best for my girl.” John’s brown eyes glitter. I am his girl. Today has proven this. “Thank you.” His voice is soft, sincere.

“Thank me with pizza.” I flip the lid open, lightening the mood. The scent of tomato and oregano fills my nostrils, drawing another embarrassing rumble from my stomach.

“Do you need a plate?” John offers me a paper plate.

“For thin-crust pizza? Nah,” I scoff. “I’ll risk the anger of my fellow Torontonians and eat it New York style.” I fold the slice in two and nibble on a corner. “Oh my God.” I moan, the cheese melting in my mouth. “This is so good.”

“Give me a taste.” John bites into my slice.

“Hey, get your own slice.” I tug the pizza away from him.

“I want your slice.” He lunges forward and grabs my wrists. “And what I want, I get.” He forces me to feed him, his eyes sparkling with humor.

“You get what you want with my assistance.” I twist out of his grip. “Who has the slice now?” I crow, waving the crust under his nose. He pounces on me and we roll around on my lounge chair, taking bites out of the slice until there’s nothing left.

Our skirmish ends with me lying on top of John, his muscles under my curves, his palms resting on my denim-clad ass, both of us breathing heavily. I brace myself upward and gaze down at him. “You like to share meals.” It doesn’t matter what I’m eating for lunch, my boss wants half of it.

“My mom and I would share slices of pizza, ice cream cones, and any other treats we had.” John’s face softens. He doesn’t say it but I know, having seen his childhood apartment, they shared food because they couldn’t afford more.

“And now you share these treats with me.” I reach over and grab another slice of pizza.

“I only share them with you.” John meets my gaze.

He shares food with me because he loves me. A hard lump of emotion forms in my throat. “Here.” I shove the slice into his mouth, covering up my reaction.

My hungry man devours my clumsy offering and I happily feed him another slice. We eat and cuddle and talk, stretching out on the lounge chair, the blue sky above us, the sun’s rays warming our bodies.

A companionable silence falls upon us. John strokes my back, drifting his fingertips up and down, up and down. His gaze is unfocused, his brown eyes sad and soulful. He’s thinking of his past again.

I touch his face, capturing his attention. “Today took tremendous strength. Your mom would have been proud of you,” I assure my billionaire. “I’m proud of you.” I cover his lips with mine.

He opens to me, allowing me to control our kiss. I explore his mouth, tasting all of him. Our tongues touch and I retreat. He follows, pursuing me, and we play, finding joy in the middle of a stressful day, sanctuary in an urban war zone.

This is why I happily work fourteen-hour days. When I’m with John, a site visit becomes a date, a slice of pizza tastes better than any gourmet meal, and work becomes a delight.

I wiggle, brushing my denim-covered mons over the hard ridge in his jeans, rubbing my hips over his. John grips me tighter, growling softly into my mouth, the sound flowing down my throat, curling my fingers. We forget about everything, the painful past and the uncertain future, moments passing in a blur of bliss.

A throat clears. John tears his lips from mine, his muscles flexing under my body. We turn our heads toward the sound.

One of his men looms over us, his legs braced apart and his massive arms folded in front of his big barrel of a chest. His expression is deathly serious. “There’s been some gang activity in the area, sir.”

“Shit.” John pushes me to the side and leaps to his feet, his movements fast and fluid. “Call for the cars.” He draws me upward and pushes me toward the door, the cooler and patio furniture discarded. “We’re leaving.”

Another burly employee waits at the entrance to the stairwell. His right hand rests on his gun holster, his biceps bulging. I gulp. This is serious business.

John pivots me around to face him. “Follow Tiny,” he instructs. I blink up at him. The bodyguard’s name is Tiny? “I don’t care what you hear or see. You stay behind him. He’ll protect you.”

Who will protect him? Before I can ask this, John pulls me into a fervent embrace, pressing his lips against my forehead. This feels like good-bye. My heart pounds.

“Now, go.” John flattens his palm between my shoulder blades and propels me forward.

I focus on his touch as I pelt down the stairs. As long as John’s palm rests on my back, I know he’s behind me, he’s safe.

I’m not worried about my own life. My body is sandwiched between the two larger men’s physiques, shielded by broad shoulders and hard muscle.

I’m concerned about John’s safety. He’d protect me with his own body, die for me, if this was necessary. I realize this now.

And I couldn’t live without him. The men descend silently and I try to mimic their light treads, the smack of my boot heels against the concrete obscenely loud.

My thighs burn. A trickle of perspiration drips down my spine. My lungs ache, my breathing ragged. I fix my gaze on Tiny’s shoulders and concentrate on moving my legs, on not falling.

A shot fires and I flinch, my left boot connecting with a beer bottle on the landing. As I watch, horrified, unable to do anything, it rolls off the edge, falls, shatters against the concrete. Tiny exhales, this soft sound expressing his disgust, and he draws his gun.

John grips my hip and squeezes. We move even faster, a feat I didn’t think possible. His hold steadies me, reminding me of my goal. We must move my billionaire to safety.

We reach the bottom of the stairwell and Tiny motions for us to stop. He opens the door, gazes to the left and to the right, flicks his fingers forward. I exit the building, John following me. Children no longer play in the streets, our surroundings eerily empty, freakishly still.

Tiny ushers us into the waiting car, the second of three vehicles. I enter first. John slides into the seat beside me and pushes my face into his lap, bowing his body over mine, covering me. The floor rumbles under my boots. We must be moving. All I can see is denim-covered thighs.

Shots were fired. We could have died. I shake uncontrollably.

“You’re safe, love,” John murmurs, straightening. “I have you.” He rubs one of his hands over my back, his touch soothing me. He’s alive, unharmed. I’m alive, unharmed. I breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. The tremors ease and I slowly relax.

“Is everyone okay?” I whisper.

“Everyone is okay.” John removes my baseball cap and releases my hair, threading his fingers through the curls. “I can’t promise you that everyone will always be okay.”

I turn my head and gaze up at him. His eyes are hard. Grooves are etched around his lips. “No one can make that promise.” I caress his chest, seeking to distract him from his concerns. “I’ve read that the most dangerous place in the world is the bathroom.”

John lifts one of his eyebrows. “Are you handling me, Grant?”

For the entire day, I’ve been Trella. Now, I’m Grant. He’s retreating once more into business. Although I’m disappointed, I understand why. Today has been an emotionally challenging day for both of us. Business is easier on the heart.

“I wouldn’t presume to handle you, sir.” I return to my own seat.

John doesn’t allow me to move this far away from him. He hooks his right arm around my waist and pulls me to his side, tucking my curves into his muscle.

I sigh with contentment, savoring his heat, his musky scent. This is where I’m meant to be, with John. He rests his chin on the top of my head and gazes out the window. The neighborhoods become brighter, cleaner, wealthier.

There are plenty of opportunities for development in these less volatile communities. Some of these opportunities are more lucrative, allowing John to easily expand his empire without risking his personal safety.

But that isn’t the goal of the man I love. The man I love invests in areas, in people other businessmen won’t. He gives hope to the hopeless.

“I love you, John.” I press my lips to the silver scars around his neck.

“I know,” my arrogant man replies, a hint of humor in his voice. “Enough small talk.” He reaches into the side compartment and hands me my phone.

“Are we working, sir?” I ask, knowing the answer. There are two thousand and forty-four new messages in my mailbox, countless more voicemails. I swallow my groan.

“We’re always working, Grant.” John squeezes my hip, his touch softening his blunt words. “Ask Bass what type of temporary low-cost housing is available for the existing tenants. He should have also researched government grants.”

My boss’ voice rumbles, his list of must-knows long, almost never ending, as though he has been storing these requests in his overactive brain all day.

He likely has. He could have easily asked others for the answers. Instead, he waited to funnel the questions through me. I smile, feeling included, needed, loved.

* * *

We return to the house and work all afternoon. I reschedule John’s cancelled meetings. John makes call after call, driving his management team relentlessly, throwing himself into a frenzy of activity. I recognize it for what it is – an attempt to control his emotions, to distract himself from the trials of his stressful day.

I also realize it isn’t working. He doesn’t need to be the boss right now. I set my phone aside and slip onto his lap. He needs the release only I can give him. I untuck my T-shirt and slide one of his hands underneath the faded cotton. He needs me.

I arch as his calloused palm covers my left breast, my nipples tightening, aching for him, for this. John hardens, the ridge in his jeans pressing against my ass.

“Send the information to Grant by the end of the day.” My boss tosses his phone against the brown leather couch cushion. “We’re taking a break.” He pulls my shirt over my head, my crazy curls tumbling down my back, and he cups my breasts, pinching my nipples.

I wiggle, grinding my ass against him. “Can I assist you, sir?” My voice is husky with desire.

“I have the matter well in hand, Grant.” John pinches my nipples and pulls, elongating my sensitive flesh. I cry out, clenching his thighs, the pain delectable, the pleasure exquisite.

He sucks on my neck, his mouth as wet and hot as my pussy, his lips firm. I undulate against him, brushing my ass over his groin, tormenting him as he’s tormenting me.

There are too many barriers between us. Huffing with frustration, I unfasten my jeans, fold the denim back, and slip my fingers inside, skimming my fingertips over my private curls, dipping them into my wetness.

“Are you slick for me?” John asks, his breath wafting over my neck. He tightens his grip on my small breasts, molding my curves with his massive palms.

I reach deeper inside me, working my pussy. “I’m slick for you, sir.”

“Show me.”

His command sends a tremor down my spine. I hook my fingers and remove them, drawing moisture from my core. My scent fills my nostrils. I lift my hand, showing him the evidence of my arousal.

John closes his grim lips around my fingers and sucks, the tug of his mouth exciting me. He growls his approval, taking more of me into his heat, his tongue darting over my skin, my billionaire boss savoring every drop of my pussy juices.

“Oh my God.” I turn my head. He kisses me and I taste myself on his lips. “You know how to drive me crazy.”

“You showed me how to drive you crazy.” John slides one of his palms over my stomach, my mons, cupping me. I allow my head to loll back, submitting to his sure handling of my body. He holds me to him, not allowing me to move, as he taps my clit with his index finger, his slow, steady tempo making me wild. “I paid attention.”

“You paid too close attention,” I moan, my legs trembling.

“Don’t come until I’m inside you,” he orders, pushing me to my feet.

I turn around. His eyes are black with passion, the ridge in his faded jeans pronounced. My boss wants me. Badly.

“Then I suggest you come inside me quickly, sir.” I slide the denim over my hips and shimmy until my jeans fall to the Persian rug.

“Soon, I’ll come inside you.” John’s eyes glimmer. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing golden skin and silver scars. “I’ll feel you, fill you, put our baby inside you.”

I inhale sharply. “You want to have a child with me?” I rub my hands over my breasts, between my thighs, waiting for him to touch me, to claim me completely.

“Baby making isn’t on the agenda for today.” He plucks at his button-fly. “We’ll do this properly, getting married first.”

“Doing this properly means asking me to marry you.” My lips twitch. My arrogant man assumes I’ll marry him, assumes I’ll wish to have his children.

“Asking a question is unnecessary if I already know the answer.” John scowls. “You love me. I love you. We’ll get married. Have those three kids you want.”

My hands still. “I mentioned that once, over two years ago.”

“You could have mentioned it a hundred years ago and I’d remember.” John shrugs. The muscles over his stomach ripple, distracting me. He is one hot man.

“Enough talking.” He lowers his jeans and briefs with one hard yank, freeing his cock. My nipples tighten to the point of pain. He’s also one generously endowed man. “I have to fuck you, Trella.”

“Where do you need me, sir?” I sway.

“On the couch.” His eyes gleam. He does enjoy being in control and I enjoy allowing him this illusion. “On your back with your legs spread.”

I recline on the soft leather couch cushion and open to him, giving him a clear view of my glistening pink folds, my empty entrance. As he sheathes himself, I roll my nipples between my thumbs and fingers, my body humming with anticipation, with desire. He gazes down at me, stroking his cock, sliding his hands up and down his shaft.