Page 17 of By His Side

“What?”

“What time do you usually knock off for the day? It’s not that complicated a question.”

“Five.”

Felix deliberately turned his head to the side. I followed his gaze to an ornate clock on the mantelpiece. “That’s alright then. It’s a quarter past.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t be that stupid, could he? “You don’t stop being my client after five. That’s a very simplified way of looking at the world.”

“I’m a very simple man.” His thumb stroked over my nipple, deliberately this time, a shudder running through me. “You’re not on call twenty-four hours a day. You can’t be.”

“No, but…” Why was thinking so hard? Why were my fingers still splayed over his chest, his heart thudding against my palm? Why? Why? Why? So many damn questions, and only a brain like spaghetti to answer them with.

Felix’s smile this time was knowing. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. It can be our little secret.”

Chapter Seven

Felix

Prior to Darien’s arrival today, I’d convinced myself that my plans for him were ridiculous. Ridiculous, selfish, and about a hundred other negative adjectives that all reflected on me badly. I’d been all set to answer his questions and then let him go on his merry way. And then he’d had to make that crack about me being lucky.

Lucky! There were a thousand things you could say about me I might have admitted to. Arrogance. Selfishness. A chip on my shoulder a mile wide. But I wasn’t accepting being lucky as one of them. Lucky people didn’t go to prison for something they’d hadn’t done, and him not even entertaining the idea that I could be telling the truth burned like someone had dangled me in the pits of hell.

The minute I’d got in his face, base instincts had taken over. Even then, I hadn’t known how far I’d push it. Any sign of fear, of him not being into it, and I would have backed off. I was many things, but I wasn’t a rapist. But all I was getting from Darien was arousal, his barechest rising and falling rapidly, and a hardness that made my mouth water tenting the front of his suit trousers. Yeah, Mr. I prefer women really wasn’t doing a good job of convincing me of that fact.

As for his plea that he could lose his job, it didn’t concern me. Because I wouldn’t be reporting him, and he presumably wouldn’t be telling anyone, so how would they know? Which left nothing but pleasure to be gained from this encounter.

Yeah, whether it was a good idea or the worst idea in the world, this was happening. I was past caring, my arousal demanding I do something about it. Extracting my hands from Darien’s shirt, I pushed his thighs apart so I could fit myself between them, the change in position meaning I could get closer. With that obstacle out of the way, I lowered my lips to Darien’s neck, his sharp intake of breath as I tasted him making me smile.

“Salt,” I said. “Salt, musk, and a hint of cologne.”

“Don’t.” The word was meaningless when Darien had arched his neck to give me easier access. He wanted this. I wanted this. And I was going to take it. I followed the line of his neck until it met his jaw, a slight stubble meeting my lips as I mouthed my way along it. Would he let me kiss him? Or is that where he’d draw the line? There was a simple way to find out, my lips moving those last few inches to meet his.

A moment of hesitation, and then he was kissing me back. That was the point at which Darien gave up, any hint of him not being on board with what we were doing, melting away. Our kisses were chaste at first—close-mouthed and exploratory. I needed more, grabbing his hair and tilting his head until he conceded access, everything becoming hotter and wetter and far more satisfying as our tongues did a tango.

There might have been an element of sexual activity in prison. A snatched hand job. A hasty blow job. The odd fuck if you were reallylucky, but there’d been no kissing. So I made the most of it, luxuriating in it and celebrating all the possibilities of what it could lead to. I’d always enjoyed kissing. It had never been a prelude to what came next for me. Back in the early days of our relationship, Julian had teased me about it. In later years, his comments had been more cutting, more designed to wound—like calling me a girl. Darien didn’t seem to mind, though.

The position we were in was awkward—for me, at least—with me still bent over him. Did I dare risk breaking the spell to change it? If I didn’t want to end up needing a chiropractor, I had little choice.

Still kissing him, I pulled him from the armchair. If I was clever enough about it, he wouldn’t even realize what was happening. The sofa was only a few steps away, but with my mouth glued to his, it was an expedition. Circumstances forced me to stop kissing him as I fell back on the sofa and pulled him down to straddle me. It gave him a lot of power. The power to bring a stop to this, to climb off me, and walk to the front door.

I stared up at him while his expression said he’d reached the same conclusion. With his shirt hanging open, his hair mussed, and his lips swollen from kissing, he looked nothing like the man who’d sat so primly asking me questions only a few minutes ago. I liked this Darien more. A lot more. And if he tried to leave, I wasn’t altogether sure I wouldn’t rugby tackle him to the carpet and take that decision away. Hoping it wouldn’t come to that, I tried for an entreaty instead. “Kiss me.”

“I…” Nothing more, his pulse fluttering rapidly in his neck.

“Kiss me,” I said, demanding this time rather than asking nicely. “I’m so fucking hard. You’d have to be a monster to leave me like this.”

That seemed to do the trick, Darien dropping forward and the kissing beginning again in earnest. My hands weren’t idle this time,pushing his jacket off his shoulders and then untucking his shirt from the waistband of his trousers so I could trace the bumps of his spine. I ground against his arse while we kissed, my cock hard enough that I worried that if I kept doing it, I risked coming in my jeans and embarrassing myself.

When Darien’s hands delved beneath my T-shirt, I assisted him in pulling it over my head and discarding it. Darien’s heated gaze as it roved over my chest made every single pull-up, every single press-up, every single sit-up I’d done in prison more than worth it.

I moved my hand to his crotch to palm him through his trousers. Darien’s moaned response had me rubbing him harder through the fabric to elicit more from him, like I was a twisted conductor and he was my orchestra. When that was no longer enough, I unfastened the button of his trousers and undid his zipper, slipping my hand into his underwear to pull his cock out. And what an impressive cock it was. Not in size, but in beauty. Darien’s cock in my hand had him panting. “Please,” he said, with his forehead pushed against mine.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to make you come. I’m going to make both of us come.” My jeans were a little harder to unzip, especially with Darien’s weight pinning me down, but there was no way I wouldn’t succeed. Darien finally got with the program, lifting so I could push my jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh. With no lube to hand, and zero intentions of bringing this to a temporary halt to find some, I settled for spit. Finally, though, I had my fist wrapped around both our cocks, Darien’s head resting on my shoulder as I found a rhythm that worked for both of us.

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