Sugar on the Edge(53)

By the time my tongue slips inside, her arms are around my neck and she gives a sleepy moan. My hand goes between her legs, and I know she’s fully awake by the time my first finger is joined by another.

“Gavin,” she pants against my mouth.

It’s all the invitation I need. I pull the bed covers back, sliding my body down hers. Pushing her legs apart, I bring my mouth to her pussy, laving at her like a starved man and she’s the only food that will sustain. After she comes beautifully, I crawl back up her pliantly soft body and enter her with a single thrust, fucking loving the way she calls out my name when I hit her deep.

Then I fuck her slowly, twining my fingers among hers and finally groaning from the bottom of my chest when I come deeply inside of her.





I find Savannah downstairs the next morning, standing at the counter, watching the coffee as it brews. She hears me, turning to give me that shy smile over her shoulder, and says, “Good morning.”

“Would have been better if you were in my bed when I had woken up,” I tell her as I come to stand beside her. Her cheeks fire red over my compliment, so I reward her by threading my fingers through her hair, to the back of her head, and pull her upward for a kiss.

When I release her, she gives a tiny sigh of contentment and pulls away to grab two coffee cups. After she pours for both of us, doctoring hers up with milk and sugar, I take her hand and lead her into the living room. I sit on one end of the couch, and she curls her legs up underneath her on the other end.

She’s so fucking sexy, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and pale blue panties that I can see sticking out from under the hem.

“I have a proposition for you,” I tell her after I take my first sip of coffee.

“If it involves us naked and with you giving me a big, fat orgasm, then I accept,” she says with a grin.

Laughing… laughing, and it feels so good. Foreign, but good.

“Funny girl. I think I can manage that… but later. I want to talk business with you.”

Her eyes go serious, and she takes another sip of coffee. “What’s up?”

“I want to hire you to be my assistant,” I tell her and wait for her reaction.

I have no clue what it will be, but this is an idea I started harboring yesterday as I watched her take photos of the wild horses in the ocean. I thought about it some more, once while I was plunged deep inside of her, and again as I watched her in the moonlight last night. I came to the realization that I wanted more of her, and seeing her a few times a week after she cleaned my house wasn’t enough. It wasn’t going to be enough, even if she stayed over with me every night.

No, I wanted her in my house… while I worked, knowing she was nothing but a flight of stairs away from me, so I could have her whenever I wanted.

Simply put… she had become an obsession for me, and while I wondered about the lunacy of my thoughts, I really decided that I didn’t give a flying fuck if I was going crazy. In the short time I’d known her, I had become addicted to her brand of sweet.

“Your assistant?” she asked in confusion. “What do you need an assistant for?”

Indeed… what do I need one for?

“Lots of things,” I blurt out, my mind racing to come up with ideas. “Errands… I have errands to run. I have fan mail to go through, correspondence to answer. I have a schedule I need to maintain. I have a book signing in Chicago week after next, and I need help with research and proofreading. I have phone calls to return, dry cleaning to pick up, Facebook and Twitter posts to respond to, and a blog to maintain. I need to buckle down on this manuscript, and I don’t have time for all of that.”

“Why do I feel like there’s more to it than that?” she asks skeptically, holding the rim of her coffee cup just below her nose so she can breathe in the fragrance.

“You caught me,” I say with a grin. “I just want you around twenty-four-seven, so I can fuck you whenever I want.”

That’s so much closer to the truth than she’ll ever know, but I’m not about to admit that to her. That, all of a sudden, she’s become my weakness.

Luckily, Savannah takes it as a joke and snorts at me before taking another sip of coffee.

“So, what do you think?” I ask her. “I’ll pay you twenty dollars an hour and you can give up breaking your back cleaning houses and having weird photographers grope at you. You can also take the time to find another photography job… one that will be perfect for you when I’m done here and ready to leave.”

“And when might you be ready to leave?” she asks quietly.

Shrugging my shoulders, I hedge. “A few months probably.”