In another one of her random acts of obedience she did it, dropping her towel on the way.
I took my dick out, phone still to my ear.
I helped her straddle me with one hand.
It was the first time she’d ridden me like this, and she did it with the focus only an unrepentant perfectionist could.
She wiggled and positioned herself just right, sinking down onto my cock with singular focus.
“Is this right?” she asked when she’d seated herself properly.
It was more than right, but I couldn’t manage to get a word out, as usual.
Instead I crushed her soft chest against mine, my arm a secure band around her waist and bucked her into an intense, rough ride.
I could last long enough inside of her to get her off these days, but it was pure, adoring effort. The second I knew she was coming, oblivion took me and when I resurfaced, I’d hung up on the interview. Oops.
She was boneless on top of me, her head on my shoulder, her breathing steady. I thought there was a good chance she might actually be asleep.
“It’s okay. Just take a nap on my dick like this,” I said wryly. “When it’s ready to go again it will wake you up, I have no doubt.”
She mumbled something, her lips against my skin, that sounded like, “Promises, promises.”
In L.A., Ro talked me into a day at Disneyland after the signing. I balked, made her bribe me for it, and had a great time.
We were holding hands in public now and not saying a thing about it. Not saying a thing about any of the affectionate little gestures that were becoming a habit for us.
It wasn’t that I didn’t think we needed to talk about the dreaded R word—relationship—it was just that we had all the time in the world, and I wanted her to bring it up.
I wanted her to come to me with the idea so I could surprise the hell out of her by agreeing without a qualm. Ruffled Ro was my happy place.
I made her stand in line for every photo op we passed. We didn’t have nearly enough pictures together.
She made me wait in line for the tiny kid rides that barely jostled you.
I dragged her onto the very lightweight rollercoasters in the park. She tried to resist, but it was too ridiculous that she basically wanted to just come here and walk around.
It didn’t hurt that when she got scared, she buried her face against me like I was the last piece of land she was holding onto at the edge of the world. I honestly couldn’t get enough of her like that.
After Splash Mountain she clung to me, arms wrapped around my waist after we got off the ride and wouldn’t let go. I pulled her to an alcove out of the way of the overwhelming rush of amusement park foot traffic. I held her for a good thirty minutes, her face buried in the center of her chest.
I rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head, over and over. “You poor thing,” I said sympathetically when she finally pulled back to look up at me. “You itty bitty wuss.”
“That’s the last rollercoaster,” she told me sternly.
I laughed. “Oh no, cupcake, we’re doing them all. Cuddle as much as you want to, but brace yourself for it.”
“Sadist,” she said, face back in my chest.
“Baby,” I taunted, stroking her hair tenderly.
In the room that night, I managed to finally get out a word when my dick was busy inside of her.
“Mine,” I grunted out as I came.
When she caught her breath, she said, “Hey! You got a word out during intercourse. Way to go, Thorn!”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m your bro about a subject like that.”
In her phone sex voice she said, “Roger that, tall boy.”
I was on her back and just for that I pulled back, bent down, grabbed a handful of luscious ass cheek, and bit it hard enough her make her yelp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IT ALL WENT to hell in a few short minutes. I only pieced together how it had happened later and so reacted poorly.
I came to regret that in a way that I couldn’t remember feeling regret ever before.
I reconstructed it after as though I could have somehow changed the outcome of it if I had handled it better. It was the sort thing I’d go over in my head again and again, finding better things I could have said.
We were in my office. I was at my desk looking at my computer, and she was on my phone posting something on social media for me. She used my phone all the time. She was my assistant, so that was unavoidable. She was fastidious usually about using it only for the professional things she needed and never snooping. But sometimes timing just sucked.
I was receiving considerably less filth from women by that point. Ignoring them fixed that almost across the board. A few persistent ones however, just kept going. Those I had taken to treating with a few acerbic comments that were meant to discourage them, which apparently I wasn’t that good at.
She was looking at my phone, me at my laptop screen when I received a picture that shocked even me a bit. I was very, very regretful that Ro had to see it.
And I was even more regretful about what happened after she did.
We looked at each other. “I’m deeply sorry you had to see that,” I told her instantly and solemnly.
She just blinked, her gaze sort of blank and distant. She didn’t say a word, just went back to work.
At first I thought that was a good sign, that she wasn’t upset.
It was not a good sign.
Turns out a deeply upset Ro was too much for me just like every iteration of Ro had ever been.
It was maybe a full hour later that I started to see the damage that had been done.
We were working in her office now, me lounging on the couch. She was at her desk and didn’t even look at me as she said quietly, “I think this has run its course.”
I had no notion what she could mean at first. Denial and all that.
“Those media posts?” I asked, trying to remember what she was working on, exactly.
“Us,” she said blandly, still not looking up, her hands not so much as slowing on her keyboard.
I took it as a joke.
Joking was what we did. “Oh yes, we’re totally finished with each other, obviously.” I said it like it was the most ridiculous notion in the world. To me, it was. “I get Machiavelli in the divorce. And exclusive rights to eating your pussy.”
“I’m not quitting, Turner, but the… sex, all of that, whatever it was, I think it’s for the best if we call it quits now.”
My heart felt like it did a full, excruciating turn in my chest. It fucking hurt. “I don’t understand,” I said slowly. What was even happening? And why did it feel like a slow motion nightmare? “You’re joking.” My voice was so weak, I wanted to snatch the words back and say it with new purpose, as though that would make the statement more real, but it wasn’t like that.
It was already well beyond that.
“I’m not joking, for once. I can’t sleep with you anymore. Let’s put all of that behind us; keep this strictly professional.
“You don’t mean it,” I told her reasonably. “You’re upset. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were upset. What can I do to make it right?”
“It’s not like that. Let’s not do this. It’s over. No need to make it a thing. It’s just over. We’ll move on.”