Beautiful Boss
Page 14
When I groaned in response, she closed her eyes, moving back to take me in her mouth again, deep and up and down, working her lips over me. She’d learned, knew my body so well it was like breathing, being with her like this.
The conversation we needed to have was in the background, waiting.
But it was easy enough to push that worry aside when she was there, warm and wet sliding over me, little growls vibrating down my cock. I told her what I would do to her when she was done there, how I would wreck her with my mouth and teeth, how I would take her tonight and leave her boneless with pleasure.
Desperation clawed like a beast beneath my skin.
It scared me, a little, to not feel like I was getting used to this, to instead feel like I was growing more desperate for her every day. I had her. I lived with her. I married her. But my feelings for Hanna were foreign to me in their intensity, and the sheer unknown of our future left me feeling unsteady.
Closing my eyes, I gripped her hair, feeling the solid presence of her over me, needing something deeper and larger than anything she could give me tonight.
Four
Hanna
Still half asleep, I winced against the light. It was morning—barely—late enough for a hint of brightening sky to start seeping along the edge of the shades, but way, way too early to get up.
I threw the blanket over my head, buried my face in the pillow, and squeezed my eyes tight. The streets outside were relatively quiet and Will slept silently beside me, but I could practically hear my headache.
Giving up, I rolled over, fingers searching along the sheets for Will and warm skin and—
Oof. That might have been a mistake. I counted to ten, breathing in through my nose while I waited for the room to stop spinning. My stomach was definitely not on board with the change in position.
I groaned, squeezing my eyes closed as I managed to sit up. My mouth felt like cotton and I was probably two seconds from losing everything I drank last night, but this . . . okay . . . vertical was definitely the better choice.
Will mumbled something and rolled onto his side, and I looked back at him over my shoulder. He was breathing softly, pillow clutched in his arms, sleeping quietly again. His wedding band glinted against the tan of his skin and I reached out, brushing a finger across the cool metal. A week—he’d been wearing that ring for a week, and I was pretty sure I could handle a million more just like this one.
Pushing off the bed, I shuffled to the bathroom.
I used the toilet and washed my hands, brushed my teeth—thank God—and drank at least a gallon of water straight from the tap. I never wanted to see tequila again.
Feeling marginally better, I walked back into the room and looked around, my eyes following the trail of discarded clothing that led from the doorway to the bed. Last night had been crazy . . . I thought. I remembered alcohol—lots of alcohol—our friends, some vague recollection of Will kissing George and my being totally turned on by it?—I would definitely need to get the scoop on that from sober Sara—and Will’s suggestion that I take a teaching job.
And like that, my head cleared. I felt my skin start to prickle as I remembered his comments about me living my life in the lab, as if he was so sure that’s what would happen. Why was it okay for him to work long hours? To give his career everything he could? Will had always been supportive and proud of all that I’d accomplished . . . Where had this complaint come from? We got married, yes, but I never signed on to be Susie Homemaker or change who I was. I’d sacrificed my entire life for my career, and I was damn proud of the balance I’d managed to find since meeting and falling in love with and marrying him. Did he have so little faith in my ability to handle both?
Annoyed all over again, I walked to the dresser, pulling out clothes and slipping into them as quietly as I could manage. I found my shoes under the bed, and my phone, keys, and ID littered around the apartment and strewn throughout the remnants of last night’s debauchery. I slipped them all into the zippered pocket of my jacket, walked back into the room, and shut off his alarm clock.
I was going for a run; Will could stay home.
Just like before that first run with Will more than a year ago—if you can call what I did that day running—I paced back and forth, waiting. Over the year we’d adjusted our route, starting at different points to hit the hills at the beginning of the run on some days, the end on others. Instead of the Engineers Gate at Fifth and Ninetieth, I walked back and forth on the edge of the trail near Columbus Circle.
I’m a natural pacer. I did it at home whenever I was stressed about something, and was almost positive I’d worn a path that stretched from the front door of the lab to the opposite wall. When I was little my dad used to say he was going to hook me up to the lawn mower so at least that way he’d get the grass cut, instead of the kitchen rug being trampled to death.
Knowing it was possible he’d already be up with Annabel, I’d texted Max as soon as I left the apartment. Thankfully, he was, and had no problem starting our run a little earlier. Though “little” might have been an understatement.
It was still mostly dark out—especially here, in the park—the sky smoky and plum colored, the edges glowing brighter and brighter as the sun slowly rose behind the trees.
I loved it here this time of morning, when the air was still cool and crisp and there were hardly any people to navigate, nothing to do but shut off my brain and move my body. Will and I had jogged these trails almost every day since that first morning, and were joined by Max and Annabel soon after the little girl was born. He claimed she slept soundly on days when he took her out for a jog, but we all knew better. Max loved these moments with his daughter and Sara loved the baby-free time she got in the morning.
The conversation we needed to have was in the background, waiting.
But it was easy enough to push that worry aside when she was there, warm and wet sliding over me, little growls vibrating down my cock. I told her what I would do to her when she was done there, how I would wreck her with my mouth and teeth, how I would take her tonight and leave her boneless with pleasure.
Desperation clawed like a beast beneath my skin.
It scared me, a little, to not feel like I was getting used to this, to instead feel like I was growing more desperate for her every day. I had her. I lived with her. I married her. But my feelings for Hanna were foreign to me in their intensity, and the sheer unknown of our future left me feeling unsteady.
Closing my eyes, I gripped her hair, feeling the solid presence of her over me, needing something deeper and larger than anything she could give me tonight.
Four
Hanna
Still half asleep, I winced against the light. It was morning—barely—late enough for a hint of brightening sky to start seeping along the edge of the shades, but way, way too early to get up.
I threw the blanket over my head, buried my face in the pillow, and squeezed my eyes tight. The streets outside were relatively quiet and Will slept silently beside me, but I could practically hear my headache.
Giving up, I rolled over, fingers searching along the sheets for Will and warm skin and—
Oof. That might have been a mistake. I counted to ten, breathing in through my nose while I waited for the room to stop spinning. My stomach was definitely not on board with the change in position.
I groaned, squeezing my eyes closed as I managed to sit up. My mouth felt like cotton and I was probably two seconds from losing everything I drank last night, but this . . . okay . . . vertical was definitely the better choice.
Will mumbled something and rolled onto his side, and I looked back at him over my shoulder. He was breathing softly, pillow clutched in his arms, sleeping quietly again. His wedding band glinted against the tan of his skin and I reached out, brushing a finger across the cool metal. A week—he’d been wearing that ring for a week, and I was pretty sure I could handle a million more just like this one.
Pushing off the bed, I shuffled to the bathroom.
I used the toilet and washed my hands, brushed my teeth—thank God—and drank at least a gallon of water straight from the tap. I never wanted to see tequila again.
Feeling marginally better, I walked back into the room and looked around, my eyes following the trail of discarded clothing that led from the doorway to the bed. Last night had been crazy . . . I thought. I remembered alcohol—lots of alcohol—our friends, some vague recollection of Will kissing George and my being totally turned on by it?—I would definitely need to get the scoop on that from sober Sara—and Will’s suggestion that I take a teaching job.
And like that, my head cleared. I felt my skin start to prickle as I remembered his comments about me living my life in the lab, as if he was so sure that’s what would happen. Why was it okay for him to work long hours? To give his career everything he could? Will had always been supportive and proud of all that I’d accomplished . . . Where had this complaint come from? We got married, yes, but I never signed on to be Susie Homemaker or change who I was. I’d sacrificed my entire life for my career, and I was damn proud of the balance I’d managed to find since meeting and falling in love with and marrying him. Did he have so little faith in my ability to handle both?
Annoyed all over again, I walked to the dresser, pulling out clothes and slipping into them as quietly as I could manage. I found my shoes under the bed, and my phone, keys, and ID littered around the apartment and strewn throughout the remnants of last night’s debauchery. I slipped them all into the zippered pocket of my jacket, walked back into the room, and shut off his alarm clock.
I was going for a run; Will could stay home.
Just like before that first run with Will more than a year ago—if you can call what I did that day running—I paced back and forth, waiting. Over the year we’d adjusted our route, starting at different points to hit the hills at the beginning of the run on some days, the end on others. Instead of the Engineers Gate at Fifth and Ninetieth, I walked back and forth on the edge of the trail near Columbus Circle.
I’m a natural pacer. I did it at home whenever I was stressed about something, and was almost positive I’d worn a path that stretched from the front door of the lab to the opposite wall. When I was little my dad used to say he was going to hook me up to the lawn mower so at least that way he’d get the grass cut, instead of the kitchen rug being trampled to death.
Knowing it was possible he’d already be up with Annabel, I’d texted Max as soon as I left the apartment. Thankfully, he was, and had no problem starting our run a little earlier. Though “little” might have been an understatement.
It was still mostly dark out—especially here, in the park—the sky smoky and plum colored, the edges glowing brighter and brighter as the sun slowly rose behind the trees.
I loved it here this time of morning, when the air was still cool and crisp and there were hardly any people to navigate, nothing to do but shut off my brain and move my body. Will and I had jogged these trails almost every day since that first morning, and were joined by Max and Annabel soon after the little girl was born. He claimed she slept soundly on days when he took her out for a jog, but we all knew better. Max loved these moments with his daughter and Sara loved the baby-free time she got in the morning.
