Page 19 of Bordeaux Bombshell
With a hiss, Nate bent forward and bit the side of my neck, pinching my nipples through the thin fabric of my romper. I gasped, my mouth running away with me as he continued to nibble on my skin, his fingers working their way under the hem of my loose shorts.
“Don’t…ahh…don’t tell me what…Jesus Christ, do that again…” I panted. All the flirting tonight, knowing he’d been watching, knowing it was pissing him off, had me halfway to an orgasm before he ever touched me.
Now it was like he knew the exact places I’d been aching to be touched.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I finally managed to get out.
His thumb grazed beneath my lace thong, and the bulge in my palm grew harder. “Stop being a brat, and I won’t have to. Now come for me.”
I sucked in a breath to argue my point, but instead of letting me have the last word, Nate gently covered my mouth with one hand, while the other slid beneath my clothes. A calloused finger brushed my clit, sending electric shocks through me, buckling my knees.
Without stopping, he stepped even closer, holding me up with his body and the door at my back. His finger slipped inside my already wet and aching core, his thumb still working my clit andhis tongue licking up the sweat behind my ear. Releasing his cock, I scrabbled at his back, pulling his shirt up to get my hands on his hot skin.
His groan rumbled against my chest, then he rolled his hips hard against me, pressing his dick to my belly. But it didn’t stop his fingers from curling inside me, finding the spot that set me off like the fireworks outside.
I rode his hand, milking the sensation. A tiny voice in the back of my mind faintly chanted “more, more, more,” but I ignored it, focusing on the tingles running down my spine and the thumb still working my clit.
Five years of silence. Months of giving each other the cold shoulder. And all it took was one mindless fingerfuck in a bar bathroom to know deep in my soul that my body still craved Nate’s touch as fiercely as ever.
“I fucking hate you,” I panted once he withdrew his fingers. For a second, they glistened, and then he sucked them into his mouth with a smirk.
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not.”
In the dim light, I thought I saw a damp spot on the front of his jeans when I stepped back, but he moved too quickly for me to know for sure. One second, I was pressed against the door; the next, I was standing in the middle of the bathroom, alone, the door swinging shut behind him, the booming of fireworks outside still going.
Happy fucking Fourth of July.
Sydney
Ishouldbeworking,not sitting in the Sunshine tasting room with a billionaire’s wife and her daughter, staring out the picture windows at my nemesis’s ass.
It all sounds like the start of a terrible joke. Which I suppose it is, since my whole life has become one.
When I stopped by Maggie and Kel’s house this morning to take Olive to school after their late night at urgent care with Jordan, I hadn’t planned to end up here. But between Kel’s frantic description of the frost—I vaguely remember the panic that ensued when a similar frost happened back when I was in middle school—and Maggie’s whispered plea for me to please drive because Kel had only slept for an hour the night before, I ended up exactly where I should not have.
At Sunshine.
“What kind of writing do you do?” Sophie asks me.
I pull my thoughts away from the shapely curve at the back of Nate’s jeans so I can string the appropriate words together. “Whatever my clients ask me to. Blogs, web page copy, social media posts. Whatever they need.”
Sophie nods, her blond hair swinging with the motion. “You must be talented. What made you decide to go the freelance route and not work with an agency or in-house?”
I wanted to be able to pack up and move to France if a certain someone ever got his head out of his assis the real answer. But I give Sophie the standard one I’ve perfected. “I like the variety of having clients in different industries.”
After I’d graduated from college with my marketing degree, I worked for an agency for a few years. The constant rush, the lack of pride in what we crafted, and the shit pay had worn me down until I found myself debating the merits of quitting and working at the sandwich shop across the road. And the only reason the agency won out was because of the health insurance.
But when the agency downsized and laid me off, a former client reached out to me and offered me some freelance work. That client introduced me to another, and by the time my severance was about to run out, I had enough clients to almost replace my salary. I never looked back. Being able to pack up and move at a moment’s notice was an unexpected and welcome benefit.
Sometimes I miss the stability of working at a single place, and I definitely miss the benefits, but for now, being my own boss and having the ability to not work with assholes if I don’t want to make it worth it.
Sophie takes a sip from her water bottle, nodding in understanding. Part of me wants to be impressed that she and her husband dragged themselves here so early on a weekday morning, but that feels like giving them too much credit.
They own the place. Billionaires or not, theyshouldbe invested in its success. And that means showing up at an ungodly early hour after an unexpected frost in April. I can’t count the number of times my mom and I brought my brother and the Ridgefields breakfast or lunch after they’d been out here working their asses off from before the sun was up. It’s part of the job.
“I can understand that. When I was still working at the magazine, I enjoyed the variety of topics I was given to write about. Even when some of them were ridiculous.” Sophie pats her daughter’s arm. “You remember the blog I was assigned about broccoli?”
Emma shakes her head, then grins at me. “Fifteen Times Broccoli Was Cooler Than Cauliflower. I’ve never eaten so much broccoli in my life.” She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially in my direction. “If you thought cauliflower pizza was bad…” She shivers and makes a gagging noise.
