Page 43 of French Martini

“Oh fuck,” he moans, his cock swelling and pulsing down my throat.

My mouth fills with his sweet, mild cum, and I reach down to stroke myself until I’m right on the edge myself. I get to my knees and finish myself off, spraying my release all over his cock and belly, which apparently he likes, based on the loud moan.

“Can I move my arms?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yeah.”

He reaches down and drags his fingers through my cum decorating his cock, then sucks them clean. My cock flinches in response, dribbling another few drops of cum.

“Fuck, kitten. You are so damn hot.”

I collapse next to him, draping an arm over his chest, unsure how much closeness he wants right now. If it were up to me, I’d tangle our bodies until it was hard to tell where one of us ended and the other began.

We lie in silence for several minutes, only the sound of our breaths filling the room. I brace myself for what’s next, aware that Lowen might be guarded after letting himself go like that.

“I could use some water,” he says.

“I’ll get you some.”

“No. We’ll go together.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t make an attempt to move, so I don’t either, but I’m dying to know what’s going on in that pretty, complicated head of his.

“Oak?”

“Yeah?”

He rolls to his side so he’s facing me. His eyes are soft, vulnerable, and there’s a sweet smile on his lips. “Thanks.”

It’s a simple word, but loaded with so much. I nod. “My pleasure, kitten.” I pinch his chin. “Are you hungry? We can order in?”

And there it is—the desire to run. It’s all over his face.

“We don’t have to talk about anything,” I say. “It’s just a meal.”

He nods. “Yeah, um, I could eat. You can show me your plans for the project in New Onyx.”

Good kitten. “I’d love to.”

THIRTEEN

LOWEN

Staring at my own reflection,tracing the numerous bruises on my neck and collarbone, it’s impossible to fight back a smile. It’s been ages since I’ve allowed it, but damn did it feel good. There’s something about Oakley that melts my defenses, at least temporarily. Maybe it’s how he talks to me, or the way his eyes heat every time he touches me. I have no idea what kind of magic he uses, but it sure the hell works.

The urge to cover the marks with concealer is there, but I fight it. When he comes in for lunch today I want him to see them. I want him to know I’m not ashamed of them or what we did. At this point I don’t think I’d mind if they were still visible next week for everyone to see that I have a man in my life who can more than manage me.

That thought makes my brain stutter. I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the vanity. Oakley isn’t my man. Not really. As fun as this is, it’s not long term. It can’t be. Oakley deserves a partner who is emotionally available, and that’s not me. Not even the months of therapy post-divorce convinced me that taking a chance at love again is an option.

I turn my head when I hear a knock on my bedroom door. Wrapping my silk robe around myself, I call out, “Come in.”

When I enter my living area, Ridley is standing there holding a garment bag. “Early delivery.”

“That’s odd. I didn’t order anything.”

I take the bag, drape it over the sofa, and unzip it, stepping back as what’s in it comes into view.

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