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I pull away from her and suck my fingers clean.
She stares at me with hunger in her eyes and if it weren’t for the meetup at my house, I would have taken her right here, right now.
“You’re absolutely breathtaking when you shake and moan.” I spin her toward me, cup her cheeks, and kiss her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
I hope she doesn’t regret this.
Me.
“High.” Her big bright smile crosses her face. “It’s better than drugs.”
“Are you doing drugs?” Now I feel like a dad interrogating and scolding his child on the matter.
“No!” she shoves my shoulder playfully, “I tried a joint twice but that’s it.”
“It better be.” I let the calm yet authoritative tone set the mood as I lift my eyebrow. Not because I intend to lecture or control her life. She’s a grown woman and she can decide for herself what’s good for her.
I’m not developing a possessive dick attitude because I hate those assholes who think they can tell a woman what to do. Unless it’s sexually oriented and consensual then yes. This is strictly work-related. I can’t have someone who’s high show up to work and ink our clients.
“Dean, I’ll never do that on the job or generally. I wouldn’t jeopardize my position or our clients and I wouldn’t do that to you and your reputation.” Her palms rub mine as I continue to hold her face.
I calmly reply, “Thank you for being understanding.”
I help her get off the bed, and grab her clothes, kneeling as she shoves her Converse through the loops of her underwear and her pants.
I strap her bag to each shoulder.
She gives me a sweet peck on the lips, “I’ll see you in your house.” But before she goes, she takes my baseball hat and waltzes out the door.
I fix my straining cock.
I can’t fucking believe that just happened.
I’m about to grab the keys from my desk when I notice her notebook is on the small table by the couch. I make a mental note to retrieve it for her when we get to my house.
In the meantime, I browse swiftly through the pages and examine her outstanding sketches. I flip a few blank pages, thinking there’s nothing else but on the last page, there’s a drawing with a dedication.
For Jamey.
I close it, turn the lights off, and lock the shop.
Dean
Sheleftapermanentmark in my backyard.
I run my eyes over the details. Not those of the tree.
My black ball cap is flicked backward on top of her pink hair. She lifts the hem of her pink-powdered hoodie to shove another seashell she collected into the pocket of her jean shorts. But it’s the long white socks with palm trees and a van that knock me down once again.
“How was your shower?” I ask as she enters the house from outside.
“Marvelous.” She jumps me from behind, washing me with her coconut scent while I make a salad—my duty for the evening.
Her hands roam over the dips and cuts of my muscles.
Rolling the hoodie sleeves up to her elbows. “Do you need help?” She immediately offers her service.
I chop the last tomato on the cutting board, “Not really. I’m almost done.”
