Page 2 of Hired Help

I ease onto my knees, shoving my arse up, and Harrison withdraws his fingers while I whimper, earning a soft laugh that turns into a groan as he inserts his cock inside me, the angle creating more of that delicious friction as he slowly withdraws, then shoves it hard into me again.

“Like that,” I gasp. “Just like that.”

My lower back bows as I chase the sensation, moving until he hits inside me at an angle that gets my libido roaring.

The change in position grants him deeper access while the unexpected roughness of his stroke causes a building rush of pleasure and I counter his force, moving back against him so he slams into me even harder, until I clench my teeth and let loose a rapturous cry.

“So good, Harrison. That feels so good.”

His hands are on me, reaching under me, grabbing greedy palmfuls of my swinging tits, mashing them and moulding them, the pressure of his touch increasing and decreasing in tandem with each thrust.

He leans back, letting them go, sitting while he cups my hips, pulling me back onto him so the passage becomes smoother, the friction eases, and did I get the confirmation back from the dressmaker performing the alterations on my gown?

I can’t remember. She was meant to have it back soon, but I don’t recall seeing any texts from her. Perhaps an email?

The alterations better be done in time, otherwise that tentative order I placed for a fancy graduation dress won’t come to anything. I’d rather try someone new than give repeat business to someone who’s failed.

Especially since there’s a chance graduation will be attended by my dad.

My body stiffens at the thought, back arching, and Harrison stops mid-thrust. “Are you okay? Did I get you at the wrong angle?”

“No. No, I’m good,” I reassure him, and he starts back up, right where he left me, harder, faster, the slurping sounds as his cock moves inside me making me shudder in the wrong way, filling me with low-level despair.

It’s not my partner. I adore Harrison.

I love his quick wit and ability to laugh at anything and everything. Not because he doesn’t take things seriously, but because he feels things so deeply, he needs the humour as an emotional vent. I crave his adaptability, how he can move into any new situation and immediately make it his home.

And he’s stable. He’s steadfast. The year-long pursuit before I agreed to a first date taught me everything I needed about his character and his appetite for commitment.

I held him off for so long through fear, unprepared to handle the thought of falling for someone, of opening myself emotionally. A year was enough to see his fixation wasn’t a passing fancy.

When I finally said yes, I fell for him hard, tumbling from a tentative friendship straight through to love with barely a pause, all in the space of a few weeks.

The freefall was exhilarating and terrifying.

Scary enough to make me press pause on escalating our physical relationship. We discussed our expectations and deepest fears for long months before moving to this level. I shared how my heart had been broken a thousand times by my parents and their constant rejection. The fear I have of getting close to people, the expectation they’ll leave.

In turn, he whispered about his father cheating on his mother. How she’d taken years to recover. How infidelity was as bad as assault, except it was your emotions beaten to a pulp, insecurities pummelling your confidence until it lay in the gutter, bleeding.

We shared and grew closer than I ever thought possible.

Except for when we’re in bed, our bodies literally joined while my mind drifts apart.

“Are you close?”

I thump back into my body, straddling Harrison, having changed to me riding him while my head was a thousand miles away.

I wish I could fake it, just so he’d have positive feedback for a change. But it’s been too long; Harrison knows me too well for the ruse to succeed.

It would be another slap in his face.

“You go ahead,” I say, clenching around him while I increase my pace, feeling the satisfying tremor as he comes, pumping inside me while his cock twitches, his face contorts beyond control, and any hope of me achieving the same gallops into the distance.

“You want me to go down on you again?” he mumbles in the sleepy voice he gets every time he reaches orgasm. “I could try it with the toy.”

“And eat your own spunk out of me?” I wrinkle my nose. “Gross.”

“It can’t be that gross,” he says with a contented smile, rolling onto his side and pinching his nipples as a reward for a job well done. “You’ve had your fair share and never complained.”

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