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My breasts smash against his chest.
Zach groans and it’s so rough and needy. It’s… erotic.
So erotic that I’m not even ashamed to shift and drag my breasts across his hard chest.
Turning his face to the side and staring at my hair, he asks, “So what shade is it? It’s different than what it was back in school.”
It is.
Three years ago, I had a gentler shade of blue. This one is louder, pops out more. Suits me more, too.
“Bad Boy Blue.”
His fingers stop sifting and he glances at me. “No shit.”
I shake my head. “No.”
I changed colors just after he went away. I went to the store and as soon as I saw the label, I bought it.
“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself. “Bad boy blue, huh? You’re obsessed with me.”
“In your dreams.”
“What was the other one called?”
I narrow my eyes at him because I don’t trust where this is going. “Voodoo Blue.”
He laughs.
And the sound of it is unpracticed but so free and light that I have to bite my lip. I will not laugh or smile.
“Don’t tell me you bought that after the whole emo shit went down.”
So, yeah. In ninth grade, there was this rumor that went on strong for about a month or so that I was a devil worshiper. I was the only – as they say, ‘emo’ or ‘goth’ chick – at St. Patrick’s.
Of course, his minions had fun with that.
I elbow his side hard and he jerks, grimacing. “Fine. I won’t tell you. And neither will I tell you that I had a voodoo doll with your name on it. I used to stick pins in it.”
His smile goes back to being lazy. “Oh yeah, you’re definitely obsessed with me.”
I elbow him again and jerk up from his body and he’s loose enough to not be able to stop me. But apparently, he still goes after me.
Even drunk, his reflexes are better than my clumsy retreat and he winds his arm around my waist and rolls us on the ground, until he’s hovering over me and his body is settled between my spread thighs.
“Told you I’d snatch you up and get you on your back,” he muses, slurs actually, the syllables thick and bleeding together, and I shudder under him.
“What? We had a deal.” I fist the grass. “I didn’t throw myself on you. You pulled me down.”
“Eh. Whatever.”
Now that the positions are changed, it’s like the spell has broken somehow. I remember where I am. I remember what I am. A maid, and he is for all intents and purposes, my boss.
I glance around. The cottages are still dark. Mrs. S’s cottage is directly opposite to where we are lying on the ground, all entwined with each other. If she happened to look out the window, she’d see us.
“Zach, I’m serious. Let me go. What if someone sees us?”
“Everyone’s sleeping.”
“What if they wake up?”
“What then?”
I frown at him. “They’ll see us. Mrs. S has very strict rules about that, okay?”
“What rules?”
“The staff can’t… fraternize with the family or their guests.”
Zach shifts in between my legs and settles his lower body over mine, his pelvis locking where the juncture of my thighs is. His hard stomach is pushing into my soft belly.
“And this looks like fraternizing?”
“Yes.” I’m breathing hard. “I can’t lose my job. I need this job. I need my house back.”
He studies me. Studies my panted breaths, my flushed face. The sweat on my upper lip, my frown. I’m freaking out right now, I know.
If I lose my house, I’ll lose everything.
But at the same time, I don’t want this to end. Whatever this is.
It’s so fucking confusing.
Over me, Zach moves. Somehow, he makes himself bigger, broader. He spreads his arms on either side of me and stretches his back. He shifts up my body and aligns his torso with mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask, fisting his shirt.
“Hiding you.”
“What?”
He looks down at me with serious, intense eyes. “No one would be able to see who’s under me. If they look, all they’ll see is my back and nothing else. So you won’t lose your job or your house.”
I want to laugh at his asinine logic. He’s drunk. Clearly.
But he’s also so… sweet to do this for me. And that just makes me want to grab onto him and never let go.
It makes me want to hide under his body forever.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His eyes go down to my parted lips, and I do the same. I watch as he licks his own lips. God, they are so soft looking, so dusky and thick.
Without a thought, I stretch under him, rubbing our torsos together, and his eyes jerk up to mine.
“You’re not, are you?” I ask.
“I’m not what?”
“A-a virgin, I mean.”
He shoots me a scorching look at that and my back arches skyward. Toward him.
