Page 83 of The Temporary Fiancée
“Reed, we can’t?—”
“Olivia.” His hand slides up my stomach, his thumb stroking against my ribs as his voice drops. “There’s nothing happening in that restaurant in an hour that’s more important than this. Nothing.”
My heart skips, then takes off at a gallop. He’s choosing this. He’s choosingme, even knowing what his family is going to say about us being late, even knowing his father is going to make some pointed comment about it across the table. And the easy way he says it, like there isn’t a single question in his mind about which he’d pick, makes a little rush of emotion burst in my chest.
I don’t trust myself to say anything. I just reach down and find his hand on my stomach, lacing my fingers through his for a second before he releases me.
He moves fast, shoving his pants down and pulling his shirt off over his head, then I hear the tear of a condom wrapper behind me. A groan reverberates in his chest as his hands come back to my hips, his bare skin warm against mine as he steps in close.
“Brace yourself on the wall, baby.”
I plant my palms against the wall again. He drags the head of his cock slowly through the wetness between my legs, teasing once, twice, before he lines himself up and pushes into me in one long, slow stroke. The angle of him standing behind me makes him feel impossibly deep. I drop my head forward and let out a low, shaky moan, and he stills for a second, his forehead pressed against the back of my shoulder.
Then he starts to thrust.
He bends his knees slightly to get the angle he wants, one hand sliding up my body to cup my breast, his thumb draggingslowly across my nipple. His other hand stays on my hip, gripping tight, his fingers digging in just enough to help me brace against his strokes. He’s groaning against the back of my neck with every thrust, a primal sound, his lips brushing my skin.
“You feel so good. So fucking wet, baby. You take me so well.”
I can barely respond. If I thought my body was too tired to come again, I was obviously mistaken. My hips rock back to meet every thrust as, and I’m practically on my tiptoes as my fingers dig into the wall.
“Olivia,” Reed grunts. “Look at me.”
I turn my head, and his hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward him. He kisses me deep, his tongue sliding into my mouth. I moan softly in response, and he groans back, his rhythm picking up.
His hand drops from my jaw and slides down between my legs. His fingers find my clit once more, and I fall apart almost instantly. The orgasm builds like a tsunami, and when it hits, I make a needy, desperate sound into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Jesus, you get so tight when you’re coming all over my cock.”
His rhythm breaks, his hand tightens on my hip hard enough to bruise, and he kisses me even harder, biting at my lower lip as his shaft pulses inside me, filling the condom.
When the last ripples of pleasure finally fade, he doesn’t let me go right away. He rests his forehead against the side of my head, his arms still wrapped around me, his half hard cock inside me, and we stay like that for a long moment. I can feel his heart pounding against my back, and my legs are shaking even harder now. I’m pretty sure if he let go, I’d slide down the wall in a puddle.
“I have a feeling we’re going to be late,” he comments, amusement in his voice.
I let out a breathless laugh. “I have a feeling you don’t actually mind.”
“Not even a little.”
He kisses my shoulder one more time before he eases out of me and steps back. I’m wobbly on my feet, and I have to brace myself against the wall to stay upright. He heads to the bathroom to deal with the condom, and when he comes back, he chuckles at the way I’m walking like a baby deer.
“Come on,” he says, offering me his arm in a way that’s much more gentlemanly than the way he just ate my ass. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
I head straight for the shower. Now that the heat of the moment is fading, I really don’t want to bethatlate. Reed leans against the doorway and watches me with a lazy, satisfied smile for a while, then steps away to clean up and put himself back together too.
After I’ve showered, dried my hair, and slipped into a simple but polished outfit, I find Reed waiting in the foyer. He’s dressed a few levels above casual, in a tidy sport coat that fits him perfectly. I cross to him and reach up to straighten his lapels, then push up on my toes to smooth a cowlick at the back of his hair.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” he says gently.
“I’m not nervous,” I reply. “I just want to make a good impression.”
At that, a shadow seems to pass over his face. I try not to let that add to the tense knot in my stomach; maybe Iamnervous, after all. Or, more likely, he is, and it’s rubbing off on me.
I remember Reed’s parents from our shared childhood. They were aloof from their children, their family disconnected. They were severe people, with different priorities than my own parents; they tended to ignore me, even more than they ignored their own sons.
I don’t know if they’ll even remember me. So I’m not sure what has Reed so worked up about this dinner.
His driver takes us to a restaurant in Midtown, a place with a line that snakes halfway down the block. Of course, as usual, Reed takes me by the hand and brings me straight to the front. As we pass by a group of people, I hear a few of them whispering to each other.
