“Thank you,” I blush. The way he cares for me after ravishing my pussy is almost more intimate than the sex itself.
“I’ll always take care of you, love,” he says sternly, looking through me in the way that makes me a bit uneasy.
“And I’ll always take care of you,” I smile. And I mean it. I do care about him, and don’t go giving me that look. I don’t know what it means yet, but he’s not out on a limb alone. I’m there with him in some way, I’m just not sure what that way is just yet.
“I believe you.” He assures me and it does actually put me at rest a bit.
“Can we get lunch?” I ask.
“We can do whatever you want,” his eyes look heavy, but not in a tired way. There’s something more but I can’t be sure what it is.
Delicately removing bits of bark from my hair, he straightens my dress, smoothing out the part he’s rumbled by grabbing my breast. Tucking my ripped lace panties into his suit pocket, he winks at me and I know I blush.
Lifting on my toes, I straighten his collar, and smooth down his shirt before running my hands through his tousled hair. Checking each other out, we glance up and down before nodding our approval.
“Ready?” He asks, extending his hand, and I smile, interlocking our fingers before continuing our walk through the park. Knowing how crazy we just were together while no one in the park except us knows is the most erotic and sexy thing ever. I keep glancing up at him as we walk in silence, and I’m quite sure he’s thinking the same thing.
I’m trying to finish my article for the Abigail Adams page tomorrow. The mind numbing orgasm in Central Park was yesterday and I’ve spent all day today trying to finish up the Abigail Adams piece that I need to turn in before 6 pm.
I never thought I’d have trouble writing Abby, you know? I mean, it’s only something I’ve always imagined about once I started at News of the Times. You can’t get any higher as a journalist at that newspaper than the Abby section. And even as much as I want to one day write my own column for The New York Times, I’m so happy to be given this many feature stories on Abigail Adams.
The only problem is that I’ve gone through ten drafts. And thrown all of them away.
I sigh and slump back on my seat. I’ve been trying to put together an article since I woke up. It’s already noon, and I’m still wearing the robe I slipped on my naked body when I woke up next to Derrick. I’m in my room. I refuse to see Derrick because I’ll feel really bad looking at him as I write about him.
Especially since he doesn’t even know. He still thinks he’s reforming a stripper. He doesn’t even know my real name.
I know. I know.
Stop looking at me like that. Please.
I feel terrible. Every day I’m worried that he’s going to find out. That something is going to happen. That I’m going to lose him once he finds out.
Because for the first time, a man is more important to me than my career.
I mean, at least not hurting a man is more important. I think it would be for most people.
Which makes me, like, a terrible human being doesn't it?
I think back to Central Park and the sex we had there - anyone could have discovered us! It’s a wonder that no one walked by.
How did we even start?
Oh right. It was me.
I mean, I’m not normally like that, am I? Everything you’ve seen since I met Derrick should tell you I’m not that kind of girl.
Only I’m becoming one. For him.
And all it took was him talking about his dad. I scrunch my face. His dad sounded really horrible.
I get distracted and start Googling King Leopold I of St. Livy.
I also pull up a database search on the database for The News of the Times.
I begin to compile as many articles and data and decide to go get some coffee.
Derrick is going out to the gym. He looks at me. “Still working?” he asks.