Page 11 of Baby Proposal
“Now?” she says tentatively.
“Adrianne, we have to be able to touch.” Am I really that intimidating? I don’t give a fuck if the rest of London is terrified of me, but not her.
She hesitates. “You’re worried about someone realising that ours is a marriage of convenience?”
“Now, Adi.” I deepen my voice into the one I use with goons who think they can get away with dumb shit, and ignore her question.
It gets a response. She moves across the sofa, crawling into my lap.
I settle her there and reach up to smooth that stray tendril of hair that has been tempting me behind her ear, brushing her face. So very soft.
“You’re going to have an orgasm.” I’ve waited half a year for this moment, for the opportunity to pleasure my girl. “And I’m going to give it to you.”
4
ADI
“I’m going to kiss you.” His voice is rough and gravelly and sends a shock of desire through me.
“Just that?” I reply to distract myself as he gathers me to him, angling his face, his gaze flicking between my eyes and my mouth.
“No. That’s stage one. Afterwards I’ll lick your pussy until you scream. When you’re ready to progress to stage three—without shaking like a leaf in my presence—and are dripping wet, I’ll slip into you and give you all the come you need for a baby.”
Unf. Okay, that’s extremely hot. Like, straight from my daydreams, hot.
I did not have this on my bingo card for today. My boss is casually talking about taking my virginity and impregnating me in neat steps, as though it’s a work project.
And he wants to get to know me and give me an orgasm.
My stomach is made of a thousand butterflies.
Mostly the words people want their bosses to say are, “Take the day off” or “I’m giving you a pay raise”. I’ve been dreaming of Rhys saying things like “Take your clothes off” or “I’m giving you a kiss, my dick, and a baby, in that order”.
Rhys for the last half year has been ordering me to stay late, and I’ve been secretly happy to spend more time with my giant handsome grump. All those months I didn’t think I’d want to play hooky from work. How wrong I was. When we’re playing hooky together and he’s saying in that rumbling voice that I’m beautiful, I’ll do anything he wants.
I have about a millisecond to worry that I’ve never come with another person, never done any of this while he is older and experienced and probably expects that I know what to do when his lips touch mine.
It’s a brush, so soft and sweet it makes me gasp.
“Okay?” he whispers as he slips his fingers into my hair and kisses me with all the languid slowness of honey dripping from a spoon. Our lips don’t even crush together. It’s warm breaths, teasing licks—he tastes of the earl grey tea he was drinking, sharp, earthy, and rich with an overtone of bergamot—wet slides and gentle tugs. He’s kissing me like this is everything.
But it’s not. When he feathers kisses down my jaw and reaches my neck, the graze of his stubble contrasted with the sweep of his lips sends hot shivers all the way across my collarbone. He must know, hear my breathing change or—oh for crying out loud I’m whimpering. This is a full-body sensual assault from kisses to my neck. Just my neck, and his hand in my hair and on my waist.
Who even knew that necks were super-sensitive? Not me, obviously. There was me assuming the purpose of my neck was so I didn’t lose my head. But no. All this time it was just waiting for the rasp of a man’s stubble and the press of his lips to ignite me from my toes to my fingernails.
And the bits in between. I’m liquid and achy between my legs. My clit is a physical presence that it isn’t usually. Before I met Rhys in person, I went for days on end without thinking about my clit. It was just folded away within my—wait what is the right name—labia? It was a map waiting on the shelf. Rhys has opened me up with some kisses and unshaven facial hair and now I suspect he has that map, and is going to use it to drive me out of my mind.
“You’re so sensitive,” he says into my skin as I arch into him. “That’s it. My good girl.”
Good girl. My brain stutters.
Rhys does not compliment anyone. He’s the sort of boss who scowls and says, “That’s fine,” when you’ve spent a week making the perfect report to present to him. When you checked for typos three times, he’ll always nod and be like, “It’stherenottheiron page seven.”
And now he says,good girl? Twice!
I’m melting.
I must really be dead. All that embarrassment has snuffed me out and I’m… In heaven? Implausible, but probably less farfetched than my boss paying me not only attention, but compliments.
