“I’m all ready,” he says meeting me in his bedroom where I’ve been packing his clothes.
I drink him in. He looks devastating. Sexy as sin. All fresh and showered, he’s wearing perfectly ripped jeans and his vintage leather bomber jacket along with a cashmere scarf that matches the color of his eyes. The faded jeans and jacket are sexy enough, but there’s something about the way his luxurious scarf is looped around his neck that makes him even more swoon-worthy. He looks like he’s just stepped out of GQ. My heart pounds madly.
With a heavy sigh, I zip up his bag. Gucci, dressed in a spanking new blue sweater with a new red collar and leash, is on the bed curled up beside it. The truth is I don’t want either of them to leave, especially Brandon. Aside from the Donatelli incident, the last week and a half has been the best one of my life.
While I was well enough to move back into my guesthouse by the end of last week, Brandon demanded I stay with him. That night I spent with him in his bed, though fully clothed, was amazing. He held me in his strong arms and blanketed me with his manliness, his warm breath dusting the nape of my neck and his hardness pressed against me. I fell asleep to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the lull of his soft snoring. Gucci slept like a baby and so did I. Brandon made me feel safe and protected. Terrifying dreams of Frank Donatelli didn’t stand a chance.
Gucci’s wet kisses all over our faces woke us up early the next morning. And we giggled. Then, a phone call from Katrina checking up on her “baby boy” brought me back to reality. While he seemed aloof with her, I told Brandon I couldn’t sleep with him again and that Gucci biting off his balls was no excuse. The real excuse: I didn’t think I’d be able to keep my pajama bottoms on.
I cannot deny my intense physical attraction to my boss Brandon Taylor, People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” Just one look at him sends my body into a tailspin. And the fact that I’ve gotten to know him this week has complicated things. It’s brought me closer to him in ways I never imagined. I genuinely like him. He’s smart, funny, and caring. And we seem to have so much in common even beyond Donatelli. My heart constantly thuds at the sight of him while my sex pulses with hot desire. Plain and simple, Pops is right. I’m head over heels in love with him. I’m just not sure if the feeling is mutual. He could have easily had me the other night, but except for holding me, he was totally hands off. Sleeping with him again, even platonically, will only taunt me.
Brandon protested my refusal to sleep in his bed, but I quickly played the boyfriend card. My one and only defense mechanism. It worked again like a charm, silencing him with a grim expression that bordered on a frown. And then I reminded him he’s engaged to Katrina. The mere mention of her name on my tongue was like a taste of atomic sour candy. It made my mouth pucker and I wanted to barf.
This morning, he’s wearing the same dour expression on his face as he nears me. With each step, my heartbeat speeds up and my knees grow weak. A shiver vibrates through me, down my spine to my toes. And there’s a palpable ache between my thighs. Part of me wishes that he’d stop with whatever Mr. Nice game he’s been playing with me. That he’d treat me again like his slave girl at his beck and call. The sadistic slave driver. It was easier that way.
“I’ve packed everything you need including your wool cap, Timberlake boots, and leather gloves.” I pause, reflecting on how abnormally long it took me to pack a weekend’s worth of clothes. “I’ve also packed Katrina’s birthday present.” Brandon had a PA from the show pick up my car from The Farmer’s Market. Unfortunately, everything was intact. It pained me to pack the diamond necklace; I almost didn’t.
“Thanks,” he replies without an ounce of enthusiasm.
“I also packed the stuff you asked me to pick up at the Pleasure Chest.”
Brandon flushes. “Oh, I forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.” I still don’t know why he needs a cock ring. Maybe he and Katrina are into kinky sex. The thought of that possibility kindles a flame beneath my feet like gas in a burner. I’m simmering with a mix of jealousy and lust. Even the remote possibility that there’s a sexual problem between the Hollywood “It Couple” doesn’t tame my agitated state.
“Oh, and I’ve also packed Gucci’s bag. It’s next to the bed.”
A faint smile plays on Brandon’s kissable lips. “I like the new outfit you bought him.”
“Thanks. I picked it up at Petco while running some errands. I thought he should look more manly.”
While the happy little dog wags his tail as if in agreement, a buzzer sounds. Brandon’s intercom. My breath hitches. Gucci barks and runs in circles. The precious pup doesn’t cheer me up.