Page 40 of Until You're Breathless

My body tells me to act on that statement. But my sensibilities say otherwise. I want him so bad. I want him more than anything else in the world, but I’m so fearful that he’s right. That I’m just using him as a bridge to get over Boston. I know that deep down it can’t be true, but I’m still scared that it is. The only thing I love right now is him and his company, and my work that goes along with all of it. But if he takes one step towards me...if he says one more thing that...that tells me how much he wants me...

“I should go to bed.” I say finally, breaking the silence.

He swallows. His gaze away from me is painful. Like me walking away is killing him. I don’t dare look at him below the belt. If I can see the outline of his hardened cock that will be the death of me. “Good night.” He manages, even though his voice is a mere whisper.

I walk away, not trusting my own voice. Just walking, the vibration from my jeans, is wetting me. I’m already soaked through my panties. The moment I walk away, I hear the water running in the shower, like a cold one is his only solace. It takes everything in me not to turn around and join him in there. Wrap my legs around his waist, while he fucks me up against the shower wall. God, I need a cold shower. But, instead, I do the next best thing. The thing I did a thousand times over when I was with Boston. It seems like it’s almost by rote now. I’ve been masturbating for so long, it’s sad.

Back to old times again, and it pains me to think that, but it’s the lesser of two evils here. My fingers slide inside me easily, gliding along my walls, rubbing my clit. I come so fast, before the shower even finishes. And I can’t help but wonder if he pleasured himself, too. The thought makes me hot again, so I surrender myself a second time, rubbing harder and faster, and my climax is here with little challenge. Fingers wet with my own arousal, I turn over in bed and try to sleep. Thoughts of Jagger come to mind, but with a double orgasm behind me, my hormones have calmed, and I think about him lying next to me, holding me tight to him.

...and when I wake up in the morning, he’s already gone.

“Just one bag?” Jagger queries as we prepare to board the plane headed for Heathrow Airport.

“Just one bag.” I confirm, smiling. “I always travel light. I have dresses that smoosh down to nothing.”

“Wow. Your bag is smaller than mine. I sort of feel like a pussy now.”

“You look like one, too.” I wink, teasing him.

Thankfully, we’ve remained completely professional since that night I stayed at his house. It’s like we’ve moved on. We’re both aware of what happened, but we both respect the fact that until we nail down this European deal, nothing else matters. We don’t use a private jet, and, in fact, we ride coach. Neither of us are too delicate for that, and it’s the best for the business, not to jack up travel expenses. Plus, it’s a great flight, and both of us have a chance to discuss a lot of business, and shockingly, we both sleep. When I wake up and I’m resting on Jagger’s shoulder, I look up, and see that he’s leaning on my head, slumbering like a baby.

I snuggle into him, enjoying the moment, knowing that if he was awake, that none of this would be happening. I love the way that his body molds to mine easily. And how he wraps his arm around me, like they were meant to be there. When we arrive at Drummond Motors, I’m prepared for a lukewarm response, but Wesley shakes my hand and welcomes us both into the building warmly. “How was your flight?”

I keep quiet and let Jagger respond first.

“Good. Lots of rest and brainstorming.”

Wesley addresses me, surprising me. “And you?”

“Same. Yes. It was a lovely flight.”

He takes us on a tour of the facility, impressing the pants off us both. He has cutting edge technology and the finest equipment. Plus, he’s got the smarts that most covet. I can see why his products are so critically acclaimed. And just when I think that Jagger’s eyes couldn’t be more popped out of his head, Wesley brings us into his trophy room, but for a car buff, it’s more like his nursery of previously lived automobiles.

Jagger’s jaw drops to the floor when he sees a nineteen-fifty-seven Chevy Bel Air, shiny and in pristine condition. “Oh…wow.” Jagger says in complete awe.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Wesley says.

“God…damn, that is my all-time favorite car.”

“Mine, too. I bought this one at an auction about ten years ago. I only drive it on special occasions.”

“What would be considered a special occasion?” I ask him.

“It depends.” He answers honestly. “Birthdays…definitely. When my favorite team wins…absolutely.”

“So, basically, any time you damn well can.” I chuckle.

He points at me with a smile. “I like you.”

“Well, thank you, sir. It’s a real honor to be here. I was telling Jagger that I’ve watched every YouTube video circulating about you. You’re sort of…an enigma to me.”

He changes the subject slightly. “If you want the truth, Bowie, I’m glad that you’re no longer with that asshole.”

I’m shocked. “Really, sir?”

He nods once. “Really. I have followed your presence as well. And I looked forward to meeting you, but not with Boston Kruger.”

Jagger interjects. “What didn’t you like about him, sir?”

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