Page 21 of Service Included

So I did. I let his penis pop out of my mouth and then I heard my voice, calling out nonsense, and then another wave hit, a bigger one. The feeling that rose from my lungs was a roar that I couldn’t stop. My boss was tongue-whipping my pleasure spot while his fingers plunged into my pussy and sent me to another world.

When the fog lifted, his penis was crammed alongside my jaw, still rigid as a steel post. I took it back in my mouth, and this time, I did everything harder. I knew he didn’t want delicate licks. He wanted a big old suck. I knew he wanted to thrust all the way to my throat. Those waves of pleasure had given me bionic strength. I pulled him as deep and hard as I could. Where I grew up, on weekends, boys would get a keg and go out to a barn or field to do a tap suck. A friend told me they’d put the beer tap directly in their mouth and pump until it squirted while they swallowed as fast as they could. Well, Mr. G’s tap was in my mouth and I kept pumping him, hard as I could.

“May I, ahhh—” His words broke off as he plunged in and out.

Power surged through me at discombobulating this man, and I sucked until I felt my cheeks hollow against my jaw. I thought I knew what he wanted to ask, and I wanted to answeryessir, repeat it to every inch of his skin,yessir yessir,but I didn’t want to stop taking his cock down my throat.

“FuckImcomingfuckImcoming.”

These dirty, dirty words spilled out of Mr. Big, but since he was talking to my pussy and that part wasn’t going to tell him to watch his language, all I did was apply my tongue. Mixed in with the noise of skin on skin, the wet sounds and moans, he called my name. Then liquid filled my throat until I knew it was dripping from the corners of my lips. I didn’t want any of it to get away, so I gulped as much as I could while I held his penis to my mouth. The harder I squeezed my fist, the louder he groaned, until he collapsed across me. The weight of his shoulders, as inert as a hay bale, crushed my legs into the couch.

A long moment later, he said, “Mary,” slow and quiet, like a prayer. I wanted to hear him say my name many more times.

Needless to say, we left the dictation until Monday.

Readers, please advise me: Next time I stay late with my boss, how far should I go?

Sincerely, Mary in Spokane

Released from the letter, Megan blinked her surroundings into focus. Instead of humping the garage work bench, she was in the study, on the remaining couch, with a throw pillow clenched between her thighs and her panties clinging to her pussy.

“Megan?” Nico called her name from the direction of the front hall. “We’re back.”

Shit,caughtagain.She stumbled to her feet and stuffed the magazine under a sofa cushion. This was becoming absurd. Who would have thought a woman couldn’t masturbate in an empty house without a smoking-hot man appearing? The Fates must have the stabbies for single mothers to torment her so deliberately.

A quick check didn’t reveal any visible dampness at the crotch of her jean shorts, and her nipples didn’t show through her sports bra and shirt, so Nico shouldn’t know what she’d been doing. She could walk out into the hall—

“Megan? I have your sandwich.” He’d reached the door. “And I brought some cherries.”

Cherries.

Chapter 6

Bag of cherries

Please, not chocolate-covered cherries.If Nico brandished a box of candy, she’d have to assume she’d awoken in an alternate-universe rom-com movie. Not even her mother could conspire that elaborately.

“Megan?”

No more hiding. She tucked stray hair behind her ear and swallowed so that hopefully her answer wouldn’t sound like a croak. “In here.”

The door swung open. Silhouetted by the light from the hall, Nico’s shoulders seemed broader and his hair darker than the image in her memory. Over the lunch break, neither his virility nor her susceptibility had diminished. The Latin word for manhood,virilitas, had become the English term “virility,” meaning the favorable view of masculine characteristics, especially associated with the ability to father children. And thus, with the activity traditionally required to do so. And damn, why was she overthinking?

Nico cradled a white paper bag in the bend of one arm, and a produce bag dangled from his hand. Through the clear plastic, she saw pinkish-gold Rainier cherries, the super-sweet delicate variety that had been created here in the Pacific Northwest. She loved those cherries. Their short season launched summer with days of overindulgence not surpassed until peak August corn. Her attention split down multiple tracks, her vision observing the slight curl in the hair that brushed his face, her mouth watering in anticipation of lunch, her brain cataloging synonyms forclingwhen she considered his thin T-shirt—outline, highlight, delineate, emphasize—but none of those responses compensated for the one thing she couldn’t force herself to do: speak.

She felt very thirsty.

“Busy while we were out?” he asked.

She managed not to glance at the couch to check if its crushed shape revealed howbusyshe’d been. If she answered, even to agree—or especially to agree—she had no idea what would emerge, given that her mental tangents all angled out from the intersection of Nico and sex. But crap, he was waiting for her to reply. “I, ah, got a little distracted.”

“That’s easy if you’re hungry. Here.” He handed her the paper bag. A bottle inside made it heavier than she’d expected. “Croissant sandwich and a drink.”

“Thank you.” The bag was slightly warm and released a buttery, fresh-baked aroma. She wanted to bite into it right now. “Perfect.”

“Turkey and avocado.”

“But—” Good manners and the knowledge that she could scrape off the slimy green chunks that masqueraded as a vegetable stopped her from voicing disappointment.

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