He draws in a sharp breath. "Fuck. I'm almost there. You do it. You kneel under my desk and suck while the rest of the office walks by and has no idea what's happening. Meg, I'm gonna…" He's fighting to keep his eyes open, body tensing, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. "I'm gonna come," he manages, finally, groaning around the word. "You ready for me, baby?"
Fuck if that isn't the sexiest thing I've ever heard.
I answer him in the only way I know how, by grabbing his ass and pulling him deeper.
He floods my mouth, and his knees buckle slightly, and for a second I think I might actually take him down. That would be a fucking sight to behold. But he recovers, grabbing into my shoulder for balance.
When his eyes open, he licks his lips, and smiles.
I release him slowly, and he shudders as my tongue slides along the over-sensitized head. "Next time I'll have you sit down, so you don't hurt yourself," I tell him, smiling cheekily.
"Hmm. Keep on looking so smug. You've got my come on the side of your mouth." He takes my hand and hoists me to my feet, then catches the spill with his thumb and pushes it between my lips. My teeth have dug into them and left little raw spots, and my tongue is tired, but I suck happily nonetheless, letting my eyes fall closed as a soft, pleased sound vibrates in my throat.
"Christ," he mutters. "You love this, don't you?"
I nod. No point in denying it. "Now you know," I say softly, when he withdraws his thumb.
"You know, I think I'm going to take full advantage of this." He strokes my hair back from my face. "Every day, I'm going to call you into my office first thing. But not to bring me coffee - to get on your knees under my desk. Start the morning right."
"Okay." I know it's just a fantasy, or at least, I'm pretty sure it is. But hell, I'd do it. That's the effect he has on me. "But my technique's only mediocre at best when I haven't just had a great orgasm. It's not intentional, but I'm afraid you'll notice the difference."
"Oh, so I've got to hoist you up on my desk and devour you first? What a hardship." He smirks. "That might get tricky, though. I'll have to find something to gag you with."
I laugh at him. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
***
I walk into Adrian's bathroom, stopping at the sink and staring. When I was in here earlier, my eyes were still blurry with sleep and I must have missed an important detail: namely, that there are now two toothbrushes sitting on the counter.
And one of them looks decidedly familiar.
I stand there, stock-still, for a few moments.
"Adrian?"
He walks over, pausing a few feet from the doorway. "What?"
"Did you bring my toothbrush in here?"
I can see his reflection in the mirror, fighting back a smile. "I want you to know it's physically paining me not to give you a sarcastic response to that question."
Whirling around, I glare at him. My gut reaction is irrational, there's no doubt about that, but then again, this is Adrian Risinger we're talking about. Give him an inch, or, you know, about eight inches or so, and he'll take a fucking mile.
"Don't touch my stuff."
His eyebrows go up, a fraction of an inch. "You didn't mind me touching your stuff earlier."
"Wait. The connecting door was locked." I stare at him. "I distinctly remember that."
"Was," he agrees. "But you also had your key in your pocket." He gestures at my pile of discarded clothes.
I blink a few times. "Wow. Okay. I know this is going to be tough for you, because you're so rich nobody's ever called you on this shit, but down here in the real world, that is extremely fucking creepy."
He shoves his hands in his pockets, taking a step back. "You know, you're so beautiful when you're angry."
"Oh, my God." Rolling my eyes, I grab the toothbrush and make my way to the connecting door. "I'll see you at the afternoon sessions, Adrian."
He follows me to the doorway, sliding his foot in when I open it, so that I can't just slam it behind me. I do consider it, but I'm not that cruel.
Yet.
"I just thought it would be more convenient, that's all," he says. "Also, don't you want your clothes?"
He's got to be fucking kidding. But, nope, my bags aren't where I left them either.
"Kindly put all of my belongings back where you found them, Mr. Risinger." I stalk into my bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. The nerve.
I mean, I was going to spend the night with him. And every night for the rest of the conference.
But that's not the point.
When I get out of the shower, there's a room service tray sitting on my bed. A little note's scrawled on the hotel stationery, tucked under the plate.
Mea culpa, darling. Mea maxima culpa.
- Mr. R
My bags are exactly where I left them, to the point where I wonder if he took Polaroids for reference. I lift up the metal lid on the plate, and my nose twitches.
It's a massive helping of biscuits and gravy, and I know I shouldn't, but my mouth's watering before I even take a bite.
I pick up the bedside phone and punch in the room number adjacent to mine.
"What are you wearing?" Adrian asks, in that low, dulcet tone.
"How'd you know?" My mouth is full of biscuit, but it hardly matters. "It's my favorite."
"You're a southern girl. I took a wild guess. They don't serve anything with grits, believe it or not, so there weren't a lot of options."
I swallow a mouthful, and smile. "I am not."
"Sure you are. But that drawl only comes out when you're very angry."
I laugh, because of course he's right. I tried to leave as much of my old life behind as I could, coming to New York. And not just because I hated the way people talked about my accent, how it was cute, and adorable, and very much not the kind of accent that you take seriously.
"Of course, what really betrayed you was the first time I told you my coffee had too much sugar in it, and to go and get another cup." He's smirking at the memory, the asshole.
"Told," I echo. "More like ordered. Like a drill sergeant."
"Uh huh," he says. "Potato, potahto. Point is, you set that coffee down on my desk and managed to get in a bless your heart before you walked out the door. That's when I really knew." There's real warmth in his voice, and it goes straight to my chest. Or maybe that's the gravy. "You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl."
"Bless your heart." I take a sip of my orange juice. "I'm going to gain thirty pounds on this trip, and it's going to be your fault."