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He pauses at that, like it never even occurred to him. Maybe it didn’t. “If it’s entirely of your volition. It’s not something I would ever ask of you.”
“But you’d tell me if I did something wrong, right? It’s not like…” I swallow hard and feel that dreadful blush creeping up my cheeks.
“I won’t let either of us suffer any serious injuries. Is that what you’re asking?” He’s back to sounding amused.
I shrug. “I guess. Alright, I don’t need to make this any more awkward, so I’ll leave you to your exploring, Mr. Savage.” I smirk at him, knowing that I’ve surprised him by departing the conversation before he expected. His eyes follow me as I head up the stairs to the main level. I know because I can feel them tracking my every movement.
I’ve always thought I might have been born into the wrong generation. That maybe I’d be more successful at relationships if there were a few more rules and social cues. People my age are supposed to go after whatever they want, sleep with anyone that consents, and know that there’s a pill of some sort for any of a number of unfortunate consequences. All that freezes me in my tracks. Even the thought of seducing Nick, who I want desperately, leaves me panicked with uncertainty at the gap between the present moment and then. Am I supposed to just dive in and grab his crotch? That seems unbearably crude. I wish there was a way to watch men like Nick in their natural habitat. TV isn’t realistic enough and Nick is… unique, anyway.
Soothing myself with tiny tomato seeds and the rich scent of loamy soil, I decide my only real option is to be me. And just be extra brave about it. Preferably before dinner. Which, given that it’s not even quite lunch, gives me quite a bit of leeway. When I can stare down the tables at a thousand newly planted seeds, I swipe my hands with satisfaction and stumble to the small sink in the corner to wash off the dirt.
When I head into the house, I find Nick cooking something on the stove. A dishtowel is tucked into the front of his pants acting like an apron. It’s in complete contrast to the sophisticated New York billionaire that I feel myself physically relax. I can seduce a man wearing a dishtowel. Handsewn Italian suits, maybe not this week. I tiptoe up to him and wrap my arms around his waist from behind. He stiffens. A big paw brushes against my hand.
“Candace?”
“Were you expecting anyone else to hug you in my kitchen?” I query in disbelief.
“It was a question of why, not who,” he responds dryly.
“What are you making?”
“Spaghetti. It will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Perfect. You’ve time to give me my next orgasm, then.” I have to admit I’ve shocked myself with the way those words flow off my tongue. But not Nick, or at least he’s not showing it.
“Then hop up on the counter. I can’t leave this sauce.”
I gape at him as he lifts me up. It’s only the twinkle buried deep beneath his furrowed brow that clues me in. This is a battle of wills. He really thinks I’ll get bored or distracted in the next day or two and abandon this challenge altogether. So he’s planning to treat it like it’s an everyday thing so I’ll get shocked and retreat. Ha!
“Here,” he spreads another dishtowel on the counter away from the stove, “I’m going to need you out of those shorts — and your panties — completely.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I lift my hips. He’s trying to scare me. I don’t know if it’s with the sex or consigning my green dishtowel to be forever ‘that’ dishtowel, but I’m not giving in. He plops me down on the moss-green cotton. Before I have a chance to get used to it, he’s spreading my knees and bending over.
Oh. I’d read about this in some book or other and didn’t understand the appeal at all. But now… ah. Oh, I get it. Nick’s tongue dives into my pussy, pushing insistently before darting out again. It’s a deeply erotic tease, no touch landing long enough to be truly satisfying but each one building on the other. My spine goes weak and I sink back on my elbows.
Nick gives a hum of satisfaction as my change in posture allows him to go that much deeper. He doesn’t even hesitate, rolling his tongue over my swollen clit and making me gasp with need. The mid-day growth of bristles on his chin scrapes against my inner thighs, making my back arch.
“Nick, please!”
“What is it, little mouse?” he takes a brief pause to ask (and stir the sauce).
“I need… I needyou,” I pant in anguish.
“Taste yourself then, sweet Candace, and take what you need.” He curls his fingers into a fist, fitting his thick knuckle against my channel and his thumb against my clit. I clench down just as his mouth claims mine, hot and insistent. Everything explodes. My body shudders as his tongue plunders my mouth and my pussy rides his hand, seeking his hardness and demanding more.
His kiss gentles when my thighs unclench, my muscles now languid. When he pulls back slightly, I glance down and realize I’m wantonly spread all over the kitchen counter. I sit up guiltily. This doesn’t seem proper, particularly in Kansas.
Nick scrapes his finger gently down my jaw. “You are my joy, little mouse. Stop the guilt. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“It’s the kitchen, Nick! In the middle of the day!”
He laughs outright at that and turns the heat off under the sputtering tomato sauce. “Then go clean up and get ready for lunch.”
I roll my eyes at his paternal tone, deciding it’s high time I turned the tables. I’m just reaching for his belt when there’s a knock on the front door. With a quizzical expression, Nick picks me up and plops me on my feet before patting my rear-end. “Scoot. I’ll answer the door.” He gives me a long fierce look that takes me in from head to toe, still bare from the waist down, and gives a nod of satisfaction before turning away.
9
I have to linger in the bathroom after cleaning up and putting my shorts back on. Mostly because my face is flushed and I would think anyone who knows what sex looks like in a woman’s expression would recognize it in mine. And unless the visitor is my neighbor or her son (possibly more embarrassing!), whoever is at the door is also a stranger. So yeah, no thanks.
