She’s upset, has been crying.
On instinct, I reach for her, and for a fraction of a second, I think she’s going to let me comfort her, but then her eyes dart down to my hand—the one with that fucking ring on it, and it’s like I’ve slapped her in the face a second time with it.
She takes a step back, more disgust on her face than she had last night at the sight of it. Leighton looks like she has swallowed glass and I’m trying to hand her a cup of battery acid to wash it down. I needed the barrier, the protection for myself.
Post-nut clarity is a very real thing. I can get all wrapped up in a woman, my head going all sorts of crazy places while I’m in the moment. Last night inside of her, feeling what I felt when she came on my cock the way she did, I would’ve given this woman every damn penny in my bank account. I would’ve robbed for her, murdered for her. I would’ve given trade secrets for her. I would’ve promised her the world. I’ve gotten close to feeling those things before, and maybe even touched on one or two of those, but never had I scored all of them at the same time. The only difference is, last night after I came, it didn’t fade quick enough. Once I orgasm, that shit is supposed to just dwindle away to nothing. It’s supposed to be gone by the time I toss the condom in the trash.
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t gone when I walked out of the bathroom.
It sure as fuck wasn’t gone when I walked back into the room and saw her fucking panties still pulled to the side, her creamy fucking pussy just begging to be filled again.
And that’s why I had to do what I did. I can blame the look in her eye, the way she looked clingy all damn day, but I’m the one with a problem here, not her. I wanted to shower with her. Get her clean, then get her dirty again. Fuck, I want to do it now. Was her blouse unbuttoned this much when she came to the office?
“Stop it,” she hisses.
I realize my eyes have been roving over the length of her for who knows how long. I’m slow to lift them to her face because fuck, she’s tantalizing as hell. My tongue skates over my bottom lip, unbidden and desperate.
I clear my throat, wondering if she isn’t some type of succubus on a serious level because I feel wholly entranced right now, and I never feel this way. It’s to the point that I’m growing angry about it, almost unable to control myself, another thing to be irritated with.
“I’m here to take you back to BBS.”
“I’m not going back to Blackbridge,” she says, moving for the first time since she ended her call with whomever Chelsea is.
She rummages around in her suitcase before sliding past me to grab the sexy red dress from the floor, and despite knowing what it’s going to do to me, I watch her ass in that fucking pencil skirt as she bends down to pick it up. Without care for the thing, she tosses it on top of the other items.
“It’s imperative that you come again.”
She freezes as if the words carry the innuendo I didn’t intend.
I watch her throat work on a swallow.
“I’m going back to New York.” She zips up her suitcase as if to prove her point.
“I’m a professional,” I say, stepping out of the way as she drags the case from the bed to the floor. “You’re a professional. We shouldn’t let a night of consensual sex get in the way of doing our respective jobs.”
“And John, what exactly is your job with Blackbridge Security?”
She stands in front of me, all prim and proper, with her hands clasped in front of her like she didn’t come on my cock twice last night.
Fuck, I hate that I didn’t tell her my real name. It would’ve been a real pleasure to hear her calling it out when we hit that high together.
“I’m an acquisitions expert. You’re a headhunter.”
“I’m an executive recruiter,” she corrects, and it seems like a little of a sore spot for her. “And I’m not something for you to acquire.”
“I already got you, babe.” As if that wasn’t the worst thing to fucking say right now, my fucking ego gets the best of me, and I top that shit off with a damn wink.
Her mouth hangs open, her pink tongue just sitting right there, and instead of apologizing, I picture her on her damn knees catching my cum. I’m in desperate need of therapy. Seriously, why did my head go in that direction? Deacon needs her, and I’m thinking of painting her damn face with jizz.