Page 54 of Business or Pleasure

“Good?” he asks when he grazes my clit and draws out a shudder. I nod and rasp out a yes, rocking my hips to encourage him. He does it again and again, the briefest taunts of pleasure. Then he reaches for the warming lube, rubbing it between his fingertips before slipping them between my thighs. I cry out when he makes contact with my skin, all that heat nudging me closer and closer.

“You feel amazing,” he murmurs against my chest, capturing a nipple with his tongue. Sucking lightly, and then harder as he fills me with a finger. After a few pumps, he slides upward again, stroking and rubbing and tracing and Jesus. Christ. I clutch him tighter because it’s all so good, even when he stumbles. Especially when he hears my breath catch and starts moving faster.

Especially when he reaches over to the nightstand for the vibrator.

But he doesn’t place it between my thighs right away. Instead, he flicks the ON switch and gives me a wicked smile. He leans in, lowering it to my mouth, holding it there for a few moments. The vibrations humming through me are a pleasant sensation, if a little ticklish. Then he sweeps it down to my neck. The silicone pulses across my skin in slow, increasingly satisfying bursts.

“That’s—that’s really nice,” I say, and he grins like he knew just how nice it would feel.

When he reaches my breasts, he teases them for a few moments before pressing the vibrator hard against one nipple, and then the other. My back arches, every muscle in my core clenching. Lower. Please.

There’s a slight tickle as he moves the vibrator along my stomach, but it’s not nearly as strong as the anticipation. My body wants pleasure from him so badly, wants to shiver and tighten against him before exploding.

My hips thrust forward, trying my best to urge him a little farther south. He sees exactly what I’m doing but doesn’t take the bait.

“You said to go slow,” he whispers, drawing it upward, away from the one place I want it.

A whine slips from my throat. “Fuck slow. Don’t make me beg you.”

He just laughs, continuing his teasing. My stomach. Back up to my breasts. Down to my navel. I love it. I hate it. I want to throttle him and push his head between my thighs at the same time.

“I might like to hear you beg,” he says.

Finally, finally, he takes a break only to slick the vibe with lube, and when he settles it between my legs, I let out a sigh of relief. Followed immediately by a gasp.

He kicks the speed up a notch.

A stream of obscenities falls from my mouth as he alternates speed, pressure, location. All of it incredible.

“Don’t stop,” I say when he finds exactly the right spot. “God— please—”

“No way in hell,” he’s quick to reassure me, his own breaths coming faster. Shallower.

I feel it, the heat building at the base of my spine. It’s going to happen this time, with him—I’m certain of it. I bury a fist in the sheets. He seems to read my mind and ups the speed once more, until nothing exists except my body and this feeling and the way his brow furrows with determination as he adjusts his weight so he can lean into me harder. Faster. Yes.

Something rips open inside me, a moan tearing from my chest. It’s an exquisite release, one that makes me shake and whimper and clutch his hair. He loosens his grip on the vibrator, riding out the aftershocks with me.

I’m utterly spent. Speechless. And maybe he’s not sure what to say, either, because his mouth tips upward into this lazy smile and he reaches for my face again, just like he did before. This time, there’s almost a reverence in the way he cradles my jaw, something I’m certain I must be imagining. It’s natural to feel closer after orgasm. He may have just made a woman come for the first time—with a little help from the Memphis Erotic Boutique.

“Chandler,” he says quietly. Only, I never get to hear what’s on the other side of my name. He blinks a few times and I’m close enough to see the pattern of freckles on his eyelids. After weeks of watching Oliver Huxley, I find that Finnegan Walsh still has some expressions I can’t read.

He crooks a finger under my chin, bringing me closer. When our mouths meet, I’m surprised by the sudden softness in the way he kisses me. The gentleness in the way he brushes his lips against mine, so slowly before he draws away.

And then, from somewhere beneath our mountain of clothes, a phone rings.

Finn’s.

He doesn’t make a move to answer it. “They’ll leave a message,” he says. Still, it’s jolted us apart, my lips still tingling with the memory of his.

The phone stops—only for mine to start buzzing immediately afterward.

“I should—” I say, and he nods his agreement. I stumble out of bed, riffling through our shirts and belts and underwear. Did I really have to wedge it into my pocket that tightly, and it’s a crime that women’s jeans are made with pockets that can feasibly fit only one-third of a cell phone and—

“It’s our editor,” I say. Finn scurries to the edge of the bed, racing to tug on his boxers while I put the phone on speaker, pulling my shirt on backward. I cannot have a business call in the nude, and if they called both of us, then it must be important.

“Hi, Nina,” I say when I answer, and Finn calls out a hello in the background.

“Oh good—you’re together!”

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