There’s more of it hidden under her tank top. I drag my tongue over to the orchid, then place my lips firmly on her skin. I slowly kiss her upper back and watch as her eyes again roll in the back of her head, then close. Gently, I suck her satin smooth skin between my lips as a soft hum vibrates on her throat. Even as far as her tank top is lowered, I still can’t see the end of her tattoo. I’ve fantasized about playing connect the dots with her freckles on her body. I close my eyes and imagine myself kissing every magnificent freckle and every last drop of ink that covers her entire perfect body.
I open my eyes, then with my other hand, I gently slip the other strap of her tank top and bra down her other shoulder. I push the straps down lower on her arms, exposing the very tips of her pale, supple, pastel pink nipples. My erection swells, and I desperately want to run my tongue up and down her pebbled nipples. Slowly, I move one hand to the front of her chest, then sink downward over her silky smooth, warm breast. Gently firming my grip, I roll her nipple between my finger and thumb. She moans with pleasure and rocks her hips and ass firmly in her seat. She firmly grips her laptop in her hand, pushing a few buttons in the process, changing the picture that’s on the screen. My hand underneath her bra freezes in place when I see it’s one of the pictures I took of her earlier in my office. She looks so happy, so perfect, so beautiful, and so very damned breakable.
You can’t do this to her.
I remove my lips from her skin and stand up. I dig my hand in my pocket and adjust my raging hard on. She turns around and looks at me with lust dripping in her eyes.
You so can’t do this to her
“I should go,” I tell her.
Instantly, her eyes fill with a fraction of the pain I know I can cause her.
“Is it something I did?” she asks, pulling up her shirt.
“No, it’s not you. It’s me,” I tell her the lamest cliché in all of history.
She stands up, then puts her laptop on the coffee table and follows me to the door. I place my hand on the handle, determined to leave before I hurt her, but stop when she places her hand on my shoulder.
How can something that feels so damned right be so wrong?
“Stephen,” she calls.
Don’t turn around. Don’t look in her eyes. Don’t do it. You’ll only hurt her more.
“Maddy, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m not good for you. I’ll only end up hurting you,” I say, telling her the truth.
I turn the handle on the door and leave without another look. I’m pretty sure though that this has hurt me so much more than it hurts her.
Stephen just left and I’m so confused. What did I do? He saw my tattoo. Did it disgust him and turn him off? He saw and touched my side bra chubby rolls. Did that horrify him? When someone gives you the sorry for an excuse, it’s not you, it’s me— it’s most definitely not them and absolutely one hundred percent you. It’s probably for the better in the long run anyway. The punishment of losing Stephen after falling in love with him wouldn’t just hurt—it would totally destroy me.
The problem is . . . I’ve already started to fall for him.
I walk over to the couch and bite my thumb between my teeth as I stare at the happy photo of a woman I don’t identify with. I slam the lid closed, walk down the hallway to my bedroom, and flop on the bed with tears in my eyes.
The next morning, I wake up early and start a pot of coffee. I take my cup outside and sit on the patio to enjoy the warm morning sunrise. As I take a sip from my favorite coffee cup, I glance back inside the house at the backpack sitting on the coffee table. It instantly reminds me of the person who gave it to me, and that he walked out on me last night. It also reminds me that I have my very first paid photo shoot in only a few short hours.
I finish my cup of coffee, then grab some comfortable clothes and walk into the bathroom. I strip naked, with the
I open my eyes, then with my other hand, I gently slip the other strap of her tank top and bra down her other shoulder. I push the straps down lower on her arms, exposing the very tips of her pale, supple, pastel pink nipples. My erection swells, and I desperately want to run my tongue up and down her pebbled nipples. Slowly, I move one hand to the front of her chest, then sink downward over her silky smooth, warm breast. Gently firming my grip, I roll her nipple between my finger and thumb. She moans with pleasure and rocks her hips and ass firmly in her seat. She firmly grips her laptop in her hand, pushing a few buttons in the process, changing the picture that’s on the screen. My hand underneath her bra freezes in place when I see it’s one of the pictures I took of her earlier in my office. She looks so happy, so perfect, so beautiful, and so very damned breakable.
You can’t do this to her.
I remove my lips from her skin and stand up. I dig my hand in my pocket and adjust my raging hard on. She turns around and looks at me with lust dripping in her eyes.
You so can’t do this to her
“I should go,” I tell her.
Instantly, her eyes fill with a fraction of the pain I know I can cause her.
“Is it something I did?” she asks, pulling up her shirt.
“No, it’s not you. It’s me,” I tell her the lamest cliché in all of history.
She stands up, then puts her laptop on the coffee table and follows me to the door. I place my hand on the handle, determined to leave before I hurt her, but stop when she places her hand on my shoulder.
How can something that feels so damned right be so wrong?
“Stephen,” she calls.
Don’t turn around. Don’t look in her eyes. Don’t do it. You’ll only hurt her more.
“Maddy, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m not good for you. I’ll only end up hurting you,” I say, telling her the truth.
I turn the handle on the door and leave without another look. I’m pretty sure though that this has hurt me so much more than it hurts her.
Stephen just left and I’m so confused. What did I do? He saw my tattoo. Did it disgust him and turn him off? He saw and touched my side bra chubby rolls. Did that horrify him? When someone gives you the sorry for an excuse, it’s not you, it’s me— it’s most definitely not them and absolutely one hundred percent you. It’s probably for the better in the long run anyway. The punishment of losing Stephen after falling in love with him wouldn’t just hurt—it would totally destroy me.
The problem is . . . I’ve already started to fall for him.
I walk over to the couch and bite my thumb between my teeth as I stare at the happy photo of a woman I don’t identify with. I slam the lid closed, walk down the hallway to my bedroom, and flop on the bed with tears in my eyes.
The next morning, I wake up early and start a pot of coffee. I take my cup outside and sit on the patio to enjoy the warm morning sunrise. As I take a sip from my favorite coffee cup, I glance back inside the house at the backpack sitting on the coffee table. It instantly reminds me of the person who gave it to me, and that he walked out on me last night. It also reminds me that I have my very first paid photo shoot in only a few short hours.
I finish my cup of coffee, then grab some comfortable clothes and walk into the bathroom. I strip naked, with the
Similar Books
