35. Drew

No, I've never said that to anyone. Yes, it's way too soon, and most of what we do together is sexual. Nevertheless, I'm ready to lock this in. To commit myself to this. The jealousy and possessiveness that's been gnawing at me has to do with one thing and one thing only—I want to be the person he turns to when he needs anything. If I can't give it to him, I'll figure it out. I want his laughter and his tears.

I want his fear and his sense of adventure. I want him to be mine. Only mine.

That's love in my book. He can trust me or not. I know everything I need to know, and I'll stay as long he'll have me. I've never felt anything like this before. He's special. We are special. I know this deep in my marrow.

I kiss my way down his neck, taking a long draw on the already bruised flesh and making him hiss. Meanwhile, my hands are on his belt, moving slowly and deliberately, letting him know that we don't have to do any more than make out if he doesn't want to, but that he's got options.

"Should we go up?" he asks.

"No," I tell him as I slide his belt off and fling it to the kitchen floor. His fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, but I put a hand on his wrist to stop him. "Let me…"

He pants against my mouth as I undo his pants and pull out his cock, stroking it in my fist a few times before patting his hip. "Get on the counter."

His marble island is about six feet by three feet and the only things on it are a vase of fresh flowers the maid leaves once a week, mail, and dishes that haven't made it to the sink. In other words, it's the perfect place to lay him down and suck his dick.

"What?" he asks, sounding dazed.

"Hop up."

Olivier isn't big enough to beat me in a wrestling match, but he is tall and well-built enough that I can't gracefully manhandle him either. If he worked out with heavier weights, we'd probably be more or less the same size except for the one and a half inches of height I have on him. Long story short, I'm not lifting him up like I would a woman. He leverages himself onto the counter with his hands gripping the edge. I'm looking up at him now, and I love the view from here.

He runs a hand through my hair, studying me as I stare at him. A vague smile puts his straight dimples into his cheeks. "Why are you so good-looking?" he asks.

"Why is that a problem?"

"It's not. I just get so angry with you about it."

"At least I got your attention."

"Every night," he says softly.

That does something to my heart. Feels like a yank forward. Like he pulled a rope he's got tied around it. I lean in and grab his face, bringing his mouth back for another long, delicious taste of it.

"Lie back for me, baby."

He whimpers against my mouth. "What happened to Peach?"

"It was always supposed to be baby."

"Fuck…" he breathes, rubbing his forehead against mine, like he can't quite get a handle on what's happening between us, because it is happening to both of us.

He would have never let me see him cry a week ago. But the second he parted his legs for me tonight, it was like we'd finally made it to the center of a maze we've both been on separate paths through. But we're together now. And I have no intention of getting lost again.

It's not a calling, but it is a purpose. I am what he needs.

I take hold of his cock again, softly kissing his chin, his jaw. "You want my mouth on you?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

"I don't want to let go of you."

"You don't have to."

I hold his hand as he lies down on the island, his head past the back edge. His abs flex as he strains his neck to watch me, and he moves to hold my hand in both of his until he manages to prop himself up on his elbows.

I wrap my lips around his cock. It pulses on my tongue, rigid, engorged.

"Mmm… Shit…"

My mouth likes this so much, it's hard to remember why I hadn't wanted to do it before. How I once considered any part of his body "too far" or off-limits. Because every aspect of it fascinates me now. I want to taste it all.

He has an immaculate set of genitals. Waxed, I'm guessing, which is probably how all the rich playboys do it. I wet him with a few long strokes of my tongue and pull off to jerk him slowly in my hand. "Be honest," I say. "Do you wish I groomed better?"

I get the dimples again. "No. Do you wish I groomed less?"

"Absolutely not."

I lower my mouth onto him again, and he inhales sharply. I explore the taste and feel of him. I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'll go for depth in a minute, but right now I just want to suck and lick and imprint myself on this dick. I memorize every ridge with my tongue. I suckle the crown, savoring the tang of his arousal.

I meet his eyes, and they're half-lidded, half-there. Like half his consciousness is in my mouth. I play with him a few more minutes, grazing my teeth along his slit, twisting my fist around his shaft, and tickling the sensitive divot beneath his tip with my tongue. But when I go to engulf him, he collapses back, his head disappearing from view.

With a firm grip on his waist, I move up and down his length, drawing the loose skin with me using deep suction and firm lips. I move quickly, changing the angle after every few sucks and enjoying the restless twitching of his thighs, especially when they clench around my sides.

I'm destroying my own pants with a soaking amount of precum that my boxer briefs have zero chance of containing, but I trust his dry cleaner. I have to, because I'm not stopping.

Whether I'm any good at this or not, he doesn't seem to mind, or he's really good at faking it. He's an endless string of moans, prayers and curses, rapid breaths and tightening muscles. And he's wet as fuck.

He tastes so good—expensive and a little like me, I guess. If I'm not careful, I could get hooked on this, make myself the most annoying mistress ever.

I attempt to do the thing he does to me—swallow on him—and I nearly choke the first two times, but determination makes the third time the charm. It also makes his hips rise off the counter.

"Drew?" He sounds like he's losing his mind. "I'm gonna come—fuck—I'm gonna come in your fucking mouth—fuck?—"

I play it safe, returning my fist to his base and tugging, moving my lips up his shaft to get his crown out of my throat. He shouts nonsense as he soaks my mouth in short, powerful bursts. His hands slam down on the marble as his back bends off it.

His ejaculate turns from a blast to a gush. As I continue to drink it down, it becomes a trickle I can't stop licking because I want more.

He yanks at my hair and begs me to stop. "Please—Jesus…"

With a final, lingering kiss, I release him and stand up straight. I grab his hands and pull him to sitting. His face is red from hanging upside down, and he looks wasted.

"God, you're fucking beautiful," I say before smashing my lips to his and giving him another taste of himself.

My mouth wants to keep working, keep moving, keep feeling and sucking, but he's flagging, so I pull away, licking my lips and pressing a hand to his chest. "You good?"

"Yeah," he says, but it's barely a breath.

"I need to let you sleep."

He grips my wrist faster than I thought he was capable of moving right now. "You're not leaving."

"No…" I frown. "No, but I slept half the day."

"Then I'll stay up with you."

"I'll lie down with you," I argue.

"You don't have to be so nice to me just because you're falling in love with me, you know? I won't recognize you."

"Yeah…well…everyone's going to need to make some adjustments around here. You'll get used to it."

"Can I call you baby, too?"

"Does baby work for me?" I ask with a wary frown.

"I won't know until it doesn't."

"I feel like I'm more of a babe."

He grins. "Maybe."

"Come on," I say. "Let's get you into bed."

"Don't make it sound so sexy. You literally wore me out. I'll be lucky if I don't fall asleep on the stairs."

I make room for him to slide himself off the counter and put his dick back in his pants. He reaches over and palms my still raging erection. "What are we gonna do about this?"

"Ignore it," I say.

He gives it a firm rub and hums. "Okay, I'll make you a deal."

According to Olivier's logic,if I called out sick yesterday, I should call out sick tonight as well because no one recovers that fast, even from a cold, and I wouldn't want to infect any of the building's precious tenants or their dogs.

Which is why, instead of downstairs at the lobby desk, I'm lying on his leather sectional at nine p.m. watching Parasite with Olivier's ass snuggled up to my crotch and my hand moving up and down his leg.

We weren't expecting company, so when the knock comes, Olivier curses.

"Who is it?" I ask.

I know the habits of his evening visitors better than anyone else on the planet, and ever since the DUI, he doesn't get any. There was the mafia wannabe, the obnoxious frat dude, and the blonde who was hitting on me last night at the engagement party. His parents never showed up on my shift, and Elodie always comes in with him. "Did you order something?"

"No," he says grumpily and stands, glaring down at the tent in his shorts.

I chuckle. "You should've said something. I would have done something about that."

"I was about to."

The knock comes again, but this time with the voice. "Olivier, please!"

He and I look at each other, twin frowns on our faces. Elodie?

Olivier smoothly traps his cock behind his waistband, adjusts his shirt to cover the exposed head and hurries to get around the couch. "Coming!" he calls out.

I sit up, adjusting my own semi and watch to see what's going on. She sounded urgent, and it's the first time to my knowledge she's shown up unannounced.

"Jesus—what happened?" Olivier's voice.

A sob and then another worse sob, and the door closes.

"Who the fuck did this to you?"

I'm up at that, charging around the couch to see what's happening.

I find them in an embrace in the foyer. She's sobbing, and he's running a worried hand up and down her back.

"What's going on?" I ask, my voice deeper than usual.

Elodie startles at the sound of it, and then I see why she's here.

The right side of her face is a mess. There's a cut on her cheekbone, and she's got a rapidly blackening eye. We both stare at each other in shock for a moment before I say, "Answer his question."

"My…" She hiccups and sniffs. "My father. Last night. After everyone was gone."

My limbs go cold, blood turning to ice. Olivier immediately has her against his chest again, and I stalk over to them. "Has this happened before?"

She nods, her forehead grinding against Olivier's t-shirt.

"Does he know you're here?" Olivier asks, and he sounds much less scary than I feel.

This. This is why I should have been on the desk tonight.

"Call downstairs," I tell Olivier. "Tell whoever's there you're not accepting any more visitors. Let them know it's a security issue. They'll lock down the floor."

He just blinks at me.

"Make the call," I say.

He lets Elodie go, and I take his place, but instead of hugging her, I walk her into the living room and sit with her on the couch. She finds my hand and holds it, her sobs now quieting to silent tears and the occasional sniff. She leans her head on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

"It's not your fault."

My hickey, my fault, I figure, but the truth is, I don't know what actually happened. I can only assume unless she wants to talk about, which I won't make her do.

Olivier has no issues with talking, though.

He sits down in front of us on the coffee table and asks the question. "Tell me exactly what happened."