: Chapter 14

I check my watch to see what time it is. A little past one. We ate lunch early today because Kelsey had a meeting with a potential client at one thirty. I’ve been working on the website for the past hour and a half and I need to take a breather.

Leaning back in the uncomfortable dining chair—we’re going to need an office space at some point, rather than Kelsey’s small studio apartment—I pick up my phone and open my text thread with Huxley.

Yesterday was a roller coaster. One minute I’m impressed with the man in how he kept his promise and set up another meeting for Kelsey, not to mention finding out how he cared for his employees, defying the negative image of him I had in my head. Next, he has me going to some creepy pregnancy class that put me far outside of my comfort zone. It didn’t help that he couldn’t just be fun in the moment. That was the worst part of it—if he’d been laughing with me through the awkward encounter, it would’ve been a moment to remember, but he was like a robot, and it made it that much worse. And then we ran into Angela.

God, could she be any worse of a human?

I despise her.

The nerve she had to say, , when she saw I was dating Huxley Cane—fake dating, I know, but still. She’s been showing her true colors lately. But what was even worse than running into her was the way Huxley reacted.

He was protective.

He defended me.

He took hold of the situation.

This man that I’d despised for the past week or so suddenly came through for me, without me even asking. I don’t think I’d ever been more confused.

He was just . . . there. Holding my hand, making sure I was all right.

But while we were in the car, he turned back into a robot.

Stiff set to his shoulders, tight grip on the steering wheel. He shut me out in the blink of an eye.

And I have no idea why.

Now, that robot persona carried over into dinner. I couldn’t take it anymore; I was fed up and almost walked out.

Like the mercurial man he is, he dipped and showed that generous personality again, the one I saw while we were at Chipotle.

And he offered me two questions a day and night, something I wasn’t expecting either. I’m not sure he thought I was serious about asking them, but I am. It’ll make things so much easier if I actually get to know this man. I’ll feel more comfortable and, like Kelsey said, maybe I can make things more believable between us.

I send him a text.

When I see the dots appear next to his name, I’m surprised.

I smile to myself and text him back.

“DID you ask for this on purpose?” I ask when Reign leaves the room.

Huxley, who’s looking particularly handsome in a black button-up shirt, places his napkin on his lap before reaching for the homemade horseradish sauce. “You put me in the mood for steak. Hope you don’t have to send yours back.”

“Cheeky,” I say. He dumps some sauce on his steak and then hands me the dish. Our fingers glide over one another, and for some reason, the warm touch of his finger sends a bolt of lust up my arm and straight to my heart. Where the hell did that come from?

Clearing my throat, I say, “This looks good though. Fingerling potatoes and . . . what’s this green thing, again?” I ask.

“Broccolini.”

He’s answering in clipped, short responses, which only leads me to believe one thing—he needs to be warmed up again if I’m going to get him to engage like earlier. He seemed pretty open through texts, but in person, his guard is up. The good thing is I know it can be torn down with some coaxing.

“Broccolini looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book.”

“It’s good.”

“What’s this stuff on it?” I ask, seeing if he’ll expand on his comments.

“Mustard vinaigrette.” Huxley cuts into his steak.

Oh-kay . . .

I’m wracking my brain for what else I can ask, when he says, “I reached out to Dave today, like I promised. I asked to set up a meeting with him to go over business.”

Oh crap, I forgot he said he was going to do that, even after admitting he’d like more time to work the friendship angle. I feel guilty. I had a moment of weakness last night when I told him I was done. I was frustrated, and deservingly so, given the closed-off individual I’ve been interacting with. But that frustration morphed into something else last night—appreciation.

Appreciation for him loosening up and giving my idea a chance without a disgruntled look or thought.

“You didn’t have to call Dave,” I say. “I was just in a bad state of mind last night. I shouldn’t have told you that I was ready to be done.” I glance up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Business needs to be taken care of,” Huxley says rather coldly. “He’s going to try to make some time for me this week. When he does, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re busy and can’t meet up with Ellie.”

“Huxley, you don’t have to do that. I signed a contract. I can go out with Ellie.”

His eyes land on me and sternly he says, “It’s fine.”

It doesn’t feel But just like that, the conversation is over. Just when I thought he was starting to warm up to me, he turns into this taciturn man again. Not sure I’ll ever understand these mood swings or why he has them, probably because he won’t let me get close enough to figure out why he acts the way he does.

But I guess that’s “business” for you . . . right?

I’m so sick of that. Of that term. When did business become this impersonal? When my mom first owned her cleaning business, before being hired as a senior manager in her current position, she was never cold. She was warm, friendly. It was one of the reasons why her customers loved her so much, because she took great care of them, because she was, in fact . . . not indifferent. Although, to be fair, Mom’s business involved to her clients, whereas Huxley is in the business of acquisitions.

Let’s see if I can loosen him up like I did last night.

“Question time—are you ready?”

His brow raises as he glances up at me. For a nanosecond, I think he’s going to deny me the satisfaction of cracking his exterior once again, but then his eyes return to his steak as he cuts into it. “Ready.”

Man, it is going to be hard to pull him out of his shell tonight. It has to be a good question, something that will get him talking.

Hmm . . .

Something to really get him talking.

Something that will appeal to him.

I got it.

“If you had a boat, where would you go?” A simple question with room to elaborate.

“I do have a boat. A yacht, if you care to be correct about the terminology.”

Oh, huh.

“You do?” I ask, feeling surprised. I mean, of course he’d have a yacht, he’s a billionaire who lives near the ocean. Why wouldn’t he have a ? That would be like . . . uh . . . like a knight without a horse. Sure, that works.

“Yes, my brothers and I actually share it because we thought it would be stupid to all have yachts, especially since we don’t go out on it all that much.”

Common sense.

“Okay . . . so, if you could go anywhere on your yacht, where would you go?”

“Alaska.”

“Alaska?” I ask, feeling even more shocked with that answer. “Why Alaska? I thought you were going to say something like the Mediterranean, you know, because in my head that’s where all the rich people go.”

“Alaska, because it’s breathtaking up there. The cascading mountains capped in snow, the blue waters, the tall pines, and wildlife.” He nods. “I’d spend my time there, exploring.”

“Hold up, are you telling me you’re the kind of man who sheds the suit and puts on a pair of hiking boots?”

“Is that your second question?” he asks.

“Consider it 1a,” I say with a grin.

The smallest of smirks pulls at the left corner of his mouth before he says, “I do enjoy hiking.”

“That wasn’t on the list of things you like to do for fun.”

He shrugs. “Well, it’s one of the things I like to do. There are some decent trails around here, especially up in the hills. The boys and I try to get a few hikes in on the weekends during the month. We haven’t been in a bit because of life. But, yeah, I’d take the yacht to Alaska and go hiking, whale watching, camping.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Time,” he says. “Time is always the factor.”

“But you could retire right now, you have enough money for more than a lifetime, so why keep going?”

He cuts a piece of his steak and pierces it with his fork. When his dark eyes meet mine, I feel my breath catch in my chest. The intensity throws me for a loop. “We can’t just stop what we’re doing. A lot of people depend on us for a living. For livelihood. Until I feel comfortable enough to find someone who could take care of the business while we were gone, I’ll work for the people who work for me.”

An outsider looking in, listening to Huxley and his clipped tones and short-worded answers, would think the man has no heart, but then he gives you an answer like that. He has all the money one person could ever need, he could jet off somewhere and be done with ever working again, but he sees that he owes people his time, because they’ve given him theirs.

That hits me harder than expected.

“That’s a very kind answer, Huxley. You’re making me think there’s a heart under that pressed shirt after all.”

“It’s there when it needs to be.” He takes a drink of his water and asks, “Best place you’ve ever gone on vacation?”

“Ooo, you’re going to be sadly disappointed. We didn’t really go on vacation growing up. My mom didn’t have the money, but when she did save enough on occasion, we used to have a fantastic day at Disneyland. Mom would spoil us. We’d get there early before the park opened, have all the food we ever wanted, ride the rides twice, sometimes three times, and then stay until the park closed. Some of my best memories are of going to Disneyland. The only vacation we’ve ever been on was when we went to the Redwood National Park. We went camping. We aren’t wilderness ladies, but it was fun. We attempted to cook food over a fire, lived off s’mores, and played cards the entire weekend, when we weren’t marveling at the trees. It was a lot of fun.”

“Sounds like it. I’ve always enjoyed camping.”

“Let me guess—with your brothers.”

He nods. “Yeah, we do everything together.”

“I’m sensing that. You know, I’ve never been formally introduced to them, but I’m guessing they know all about me.”

“They do.”

“Well, maybe Friday I can get a proper introduction.”

“I can arrange that.” He bites into his steak and I watch as his firm jaw moves up and down. Okay, for some reason, that seems sexy to me. Yup, I think I might be losing it. “Your turn to ask a question.”

“Right,” I say, turning back to my plate. “Uh . . . who’s your favorite brother?”

He chuckles. “Going there, huh?”

“Might as well. I need to be prepared when I do meet them.”

“If I had to pick, I would say I’m closer to JP. We’re closer in age, we got into more trouble together, and we worked more on building the business together. He’s also the one I’d probably go to if I needed someone to help bail me out of jail.”

“Jail? Why are you going to jail?”

“We did stupid shit growing up.”

“Like what?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “A question for another day. Your quota is up. And don’t try that 2a, 2b bullshit on me, you already used it.”

“Well, aren’t you a killjoy?”

“Just playing the game as it was laid out. My turn.” He lifts his glass of water and takes a sip. When he sets the glass down, he looks uncertain. “I’m not sure how to ask this without it sounding harsh, but what happened to your dad?”

“That’s not being harsh. He left my mom early on. He was a truck driver. Didn’t want to stay in one place. I never had a relationship with the man, but he always sent my mom child support. It’s why she was able to afford the house we live in. I remember hearing my mom talk to my grandma late one night when Dad first left. Mom was saying she didn’t feel right taking the money from him, but my grandma shot down those feelings very quickly. It was the first time I heard my grandma talk in such a strict tone. She said my mom didn’t have her babies on her own. That the money he sent wasn’t charity, it was his duty. And from then on, Mom accepted his checks every month. We sent him homemade cards on holidays and his birthdays, but that was the extent of it. Now, I honestly have no idea what he’s doing or where he is. And we’re okay with that because we have Jeff, and Jeff is all we need.”

Huxley is silent for a moment before he says, “I couldn’t imagine abandoning my family like that, but at least he had it in his heart to be there in some capacity.”

“He helped give us a home Mom wouldn’t otherwise have been able to afford. And it’s such a great home, full of memories.”

“I felt that when I was there. Very homey.” He plops another piece of steak in his mouth and then goes quiet.

He remains that way for the rest of the night. And, of course, being the person that I am, I recount our conversation in my head, trying to pinpoint the moment or the thing I said that shut him down so quickly.

If only I could ask . . .

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Kelsey asks as I bring my feet up into my chair and prop my phone on my knees.

“Getting ready to ask Huxley some questions.”

“About what?”

“About him,” I answer. “It’s part of the deal so I don’t freak out about having to live and act with a robot. I get to ask him questions. Two during the day and two at night. He gets to do the same.”

“Wow, that seems very . . . calculated.”

“That’s Huxley for you. The man needs order.”

Kelsey studies me and then scoots her chair closer so she can reach out and poke me in the arm. “You like him, don’t you?”

“What?” I ask with a pinch in my brow. “Are you nuts? No, I don’t like him. He’s . . . he’s a sociopath. Not the type of guy I’d ever go for. But it’s nice getting to know him a little bit better, because having dinner with someone who either spends his time irritating me or being completely silent isn’t what I’d call fun. This makes the deal easier.”

“Uh-huh,” she says with a smile as she gets out of her chair. “I’m going to walk to the salad shop around the corner. Want me to grab you something?”

“Please.” I smile at her, not giving in to her disbelief. “Chopped salad, no tomatoes. Thanks, sis.”

With that grin of hers, she grabs her purse and heads out the door. When it clicks shut, I open up my text thread with Huxley and ask him the question I wanted to ask him last night. Maybe he’d be more receptive to answering over text, where he doesn’t have to look me in the face.

I smile to myself as the dots appear on the thread.

He’s so much more playful through text. Makes me wonder—does he feel as though he doesn’t have to maintain his façade when texting, like he does when we’re in person? Most likely he feels as though he can be more himself. Hide behind the comfort of his phone like a protective shield.

I stare down at my phone, reading his question over and over again. For such a robotic man, I never thought he’d ask a question like that. When I said hard, I meant something like “Who would you die on a sword for? Team Jacob or Team Edward?”

Side note . . . glitter dick, all day, every day.

But have I ever been in love? Now that’s a heavy question.

And he’s relentless. I guess it’s only fair I answer.

My face heats up as I press . Dear Jesus, why did I say that? That wasn’t flirting, was it? No, I’m not flirting with him. That was just telling the truth, and knowing the kind of man Huxley is, he’ll be proud he’s the only one, because he’s an alpha and he thrives on information like that. It’ll help him open up to me more . . . hopefully.

Ooof . . . okay, things are getting acutely sweaty over here.

The back of my neck feels dewy, my upper lip also seems to have a sheen to it. What an “attractive” reaction to a decently dirty text.

Cue more upper-lip sweat. Because I know precisely, without a doubt, no question in my mind, which moment. But my answer is only going to puff up his chest more.

I set my phone down for a second and take a deep breath. Okay, yes, the man is attractive, he has a way with words, and when he shows it, his personality is actually one I like, but I need to tread carefully here. Even though this is strictly business, a part of me believes if I let him, if I let him into my room, he wouldn’t think twice about it.

Good God, what does that even mean?

Before he can respond to that, I quickly send him another text.

Blinks.

Swallows.

Nearly chokes on own saliva.

Okay, what’s happening? What is actually happening? Is he flirting? Is he just being blunt? What’s going on in that head of his? Inquiring minds want to know, because his answer is blowing my mind right now.

I set my phone down and slowly look up. How the hell am I supposed to have dinner with him now?

“STEAK AND ARUGULA salad with candied pecans, fingerling potatoes, peppers, gorgonzola cheese, and a balsamic glaze. Enjoy,” Reign says before leaving us to our plentiful salads. We had steak last night, but this looks different. Thinly sliced steak and potatoes in a salad . . . I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I’ll be honest, I’m here for it.

When I got back to Huxley’s house, I went straight to the tub, where I took a nice long bath and used one of my vibrators to take the edge off from the text messages. There was no way I’d be coming to dinner all worked up. Nope, I edged myself off and then let the warm water soak into my tense muscles until I was utterly relaxed.

By the time I got out, Huxley was rushing me with a text saying dinner was ready.

I threw on a robe—and a thong, for obvious reasons—and charged down the stairs to where Huxley was sitting at the table wearing a navy-blue button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons undone. Talk about someone who wears business clothes well.

“This looks so good,” I say while moving the food around on my plate, mixing everything together.

When I glance at Huxley, he looks tense once again, stiff as a board.

“Uh, everything okay over there?” I ask. What could he possibly be angry about now? It never ends with this man. I thought we’d made peace, that we were getting along. But with every dinner, it feels like two steps back.

“Why are you wearing that?” Huxley asks, his eyes falling to the robe.

“Uh, I was in the bathtub again when you texted. I got dressed quickly in the nearest thing. Don’t worry, I put on underwear this time.” I wink, as if that’s supposed to help.

Reign comes back into the dining room and says, “The kitchen is cleaned and set. If you just leave your plates in the sink, the morning staff will tend to them. I’m going to catch my daughter’s recital.”

“There are flowers in the pantry fridge for her,” Huxley says. “Enjoy your evening with your family.”

“Thank you,” Reign says with a smile and then takes off.

“He has a daughter? I didn’t know he had a family.”

“He does. It’s why I eat early, so he can get back to them.”

See . . . there he goes again, being thoughtful. Are you annoyed? Because I am.

After a few moments of silence, Huxley asks, “Are you going to ask your questions?”

“Oh, yeah . . . sure,” I say. “Umm, let me see. A question, a question.” I tap my chin as nothing comes to mind. Not a single freaking thing. All I can think about is the way his steely eyes shot to my robe as he asked why I was wearing it. Dark, sinister, as if he was about to rip the damn thing off my body with his teeth.

“We can skip the questions for tonight,” he says with a firm tone.

“No, no, just give me a second. Uh, what . . . uh, what can you cook?”

“Cook?” he asks, brows raised.

“Yeah, are you a cook in any way? Any dishes you lay claim to? Anything you’re super proud of? Like, let’s say JP is having a backyard barbecue and everyone has to bring something homemade—what would you bring?”

“JP would have it catered,” he answers.

“Play along,” I say.

“I don’t really cook, but if I had to make something, I’d grill, because that’s the only thing I’m decent at. So, if I were to bring something, probably burgers Reign prepared for me, and I’d grill them.”

“Wow,” I say with a laugh. “That was a very wealthy response.”

He barely smiles as he says, “I’ve lost touch with some things after being in the business for so long. Cooking is one of them.”

“What’s another thing you’ve lost touch with?” I ask.

“Is that your second question?”

I nod. “Yeah, that’s a good second question.”

He lifts his water glass to his lips and says, “What have I lost touch with? Probably everything a thirty-five-year-old man does. Dating, cooking, hobbies.”

“So, you’re all about work, then?”

“That’s what happens when you’re in a position like mine. It consumes you.” He looks over at me, eyes intrigued. “Have you ever had something consume you?”

I’m assuming that’s one of his questions, so I give it some thought. “Are we talking consume my time, or consume me as a whole, like work has consumed you?”

“Consumed you as a whole.”

“Hmm . . . I hate that I know what my answer is because I wish something else would consume me.”

“What is it?” he asks.

“Angela,” I answer. “She’s consumed me but not in a healthy way. The relationship I’ve had with her has been toxic. At times, she’s made me feel important, special, only to throw me away as if I didn’t matter.” I shake my head. “I’ve allowed her to have too much of my headspace, and I wish I could find something else that would consume me, something that would make me forget everything that happened between me and her.”

“You still think about how she let you go?” he asks.

“Yes, all the time, because that’s the reason I’m here right now. And I don’t mean that to be offensive to you, but this is very unconventional. So, yeah, I just wish I could let it go, not give her any more of my time. Any more thought. I just need to find something that will take over that headspace, you know?”

He slowly nods.

“And even though I love working with Kelsey, I don’t want my headspace to be taken over by work. I want it to be something healthy. Something that brings me joy. I guess I’m still trying to figure that all out.”

Huxley’s tongue drags over his teeth and he pushes his salad to the side. What’s he doing? He pushes his chair out, putting space between him and the table. In a commanding tone, he says, “Come here.”

“Uh . . . what?” I ask.

His laser-sharp eyes meet mine. “I said .”

“Why?”

“I’m going to teach you something, something to help with that consuming feeling you’re trying to fulfill.”

“Oh,” I say. Simple enough. I stand from my chair, but before I can even set my napkin down, he grabs hold of my hand and pulls me over to between his legs and up against the thick wood of the dining room table. “What the hell?” I say as he sits me on the table in front of him. I squeeze my legs shut and adjust my robe so as to not reveal anything. “What are you doing?”

“You want something to consume you? You want those thoughts out of your head? This is how you do it.” His hands go to my thighs, and realization finally kicks in. His eyes stay on mine as he says, “Say it right now that you don’t want this and I’ll go back to eating my salad. If not, I’m going to eat you.”

Oh.

Dear.

God.

Mixing business with pleasure, always a bad idea. Huxley has said it so many times, but how on earth can I deny the satisfaction of having him make me come again? After the texts, the tense conversations, the revealing questions . . . how can I say no?

There’s no chance.

I want to be consumed.

I want to forget.

I want to move on to something that isn’t going to make me feel bad, but rather make me feel completely satisfied.

“Why do you want to do this?” I ask him, wanting to figure out where his head is at.

“I’m a giving man, Lottie, but my offer doesn’t last forever. There’s a time limit. It’s either a yes or a no.”

I bite my bottom lip while staring down at this man. I can practically feel him between my legs already, that coarse five o’clock shadow rubbing on my inner thighs, while his delicious mouth presses against my arousal.

I want it.

I need it.

I don’t want him anywhere else.

I nod, giving him the go-ahead, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he says, “From your mouth. I want to hear you say you want me between your legs.”

I wet my lips, my heart racing a mile a minute.

“I want you, Huxley, between my legs. Your tongue on my clit. I want to come on your mouth.”

His eyes darken and his hands slide up inside my robe and to the waistband of my thong. He drags it down and I lift up to help him pull it all the way off me. He drops it to the side, almost seeming insulted that I’d wear such a thing to dinner.

Exposed, I press my hands behind me, my robe still cinched tight at my waist, and I watch as his hands slowly crawl up my inner thighs. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at me; instead, he’s fixated on my center, slowly pushing my legs farther and farther apart until I’m completely open to him.

I don’t have to smooth my hand over my pussy to know I’m already wet. Just the thought of him being near me, in this position, turns me on.

His hands glide inward until his thumb gently connects with my clit. He passes over the nub a few times, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Wet, just as I expect you to be when around me,” he says as his thumb makes circles. “Were you wet at the pregnancy class when you were pulsing over my thick cock?”

Jesus Christ, no man has ever talked to me like this.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “I was.”

“Did you play with yourself when you got home?”

I suck in a sharp breath as he places a kiss on my inner thigh. “I’ve played with myself every night since I’ve arrived at your house.”

His eyes meet mine. “I don’t hear you at night.”

“I make sure of it,” I say.

“Don’t.” He stops his fingers. “If you play with yourself at night, I want to fucking hear it. I want to hear your moans. I want to know that you’re satisfied.”

“Would you want to watch?”

His mouth presses another kiss, and another. “Yes. I’d watch.”

“Would you masturbate while you watched me?”

“It would be difficult not to, but no.”

“Why not?” I ask. His mouth is so close, I want to scream, but he goes to the other leg, his tongue lightly dragging over my pussy for a brief second before tending to my other thigh. I groan in frustration. He’s worked me up in a matter of seconds. It usually takes me a few minutes, but not with Huxley, not with the way he commands my body. Well, and the text messages from earlier. Just thinking about how I’d caused him to tug on the ties of my robe . . . makes me hot.

“I wouldn’t touch myself because the only way I’d want to come is inside of you.” And then his mouth descends on my clit and my back arches, the tie of my robe dangerously close to coming undone from my abrupt movement.

“Oh God, Huxley . . . yes.”

His tongue moves over my clit, circling it, applying just enough pressure to drive me mad.

“You taste like goddamn honey.” He sucks my clit into his mouth, pulling, teasing, making every bone in my body feel like mush.

“Jesus.” Before I can catch my breath, he slips two fingers inside of me. “Fuck,” I yell, hoping Reign was the last person to leave tonight. Knowing Huxley, he wouldn’t be doing this if someone else was in the house.

Simultaneously, he curls his fingers up inside of me, hitting a spot that makes my vision go black as his tongue rotates over and over my sensitive nub.

There’s rhythm to his movements, a precise synchronization that’s building my orgasm fast and hard.

My legs go numb, and my shaky arms can barely support my weight. Huxley notices and gently pushes me back with his hand until I’m lying down, my pussy at the edge of the table, right in front of his face. And he takes advantage of the position, because he spreads my legs even farther, holds them both in place, and then his mouth laps me up.

Over and over and over.

He takes no breath in between.

He doesn’t attempt to kiss me anywhere else.

Instead, he’s focused on my clit and my clit alone.

It’s my undoing.

The pressure builds at the base of my spine, delicious, swirling pleasure. My vision fades to black, forcing me to shut my eyes and feel what this conceited yet commanding man does to my body. I’m swept away, brought into another world where I can’t feel anything but the distinct pleasure of Huxley between my legs.

“God, yes, Hux. Please don’t stop. Please.”

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t even falter.

Instead, he adds more pressure to my clit before moving his hands to my inner thighs, where he spreads my lips with his thumbs, granting him undisturbed access.

And in this position, he takes advantage.

His tongue swirls.

“Fuck, yes,” I yell, my arm going over my eyes.

His tongue pulses.

“Oh my God.” I grip my hair.

His lips suck.

“Holy fuck, yes, Huxley, yes.”

The pressure builds and builds and builds until . . .

“I’m coming. Oh, fuck, Huxley, I’m coming.”

My body spasms, my clit pulses in his mouth, and my scream of ecstasy bounces off the pristine, white dining room walls as I ride out my orgasm on his tongue.

Delicious. Addicting. Life-altering pleasure.

Feeling out the rest of my orgasm, my hips pulse under him and I slowly come back down to earth as I catch my breath.

“Jesus,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Huxley places one last kiss on my pussy and then sits up in his chair. He takes my hand in his and gently helps me up so I’m sitting in front of him. He adjusts my robe over my legs and says, “Let that consume you tonight, and nothing else.”

With that, he stands from the table and attempts to step to the side, as if he’s leaving. I grab his hand quickly and ask, “Where are you going?”

“I had my dinner.” His alluring eyes pin me. “Now it’s time for bed.”

Eyes trained on mine, he brings my hand to his mouth, places a soft kiss on my knuckles, and then breaks our connection as he backs away. Before he turns and retreats from the dining room, I spy his hard erection, pressing and aching against the zipper of his dress pants.

God, he’s so hot, so tempting.

That’s my initial thought, and then the desire to have him in my mouth grows immensely larger with every breath I take. Should I chase after him? What would I do if I did? Hell, I think we all know what I would do. Pull his pants down and suck him off. I’d revel in the act of having his heavy cock in my mouth.

But if I know one thing about Huxley, it’s if he wanted his cock in my mouth, he would’ve asked for it. That’s the type of man he is.

And from his quick retreat? He doesn’t want it from me.

Yet.