True for You(3)

“Baby, you have to climb on top.”

She hesitates. “But you said… you said that you didn’t want—”

“Oh, I want you, but someone was standing in the way.”

“Violet.” Not a question but a statement.

I nod.

“So, I’m second place.” She glances at the door. “I think I made a mistake coming here.”

“No mistake. It’s where you’re meant to be at this very moment.”

Before she can walk away, I grab her hand and tug hard, sending her tumbling down on top of me. Her skirt, one I hadn’t seen her wear before, rides up to her thighs, hair falling in my face. I gently push it back. Her hands come between us, pressing against me as she sits up.

I groan at the feel of her softness against my really inconvenient erection.

“You smell like whiskey,” she says.

“That’s because I’m drunk.” My fingers go to the buttons of her shirt, undoing them slowly. She might think I’m being seductive, but it’s really because I can’t see straight, and my hands are shaking.

“And that’s the only way you’ll be with me?” She shrugs out of her shirt and takes a deep breath, the plain white bra hiding what I want to see.

Her breasts look to be a handful, but I have whiskey vision. I cup them, feeling her nipples harden against my palms.

“A bit bigger than a handful,” I murmur, squeezing a little.

“Do that again,” she gasps, her hips rocking, and I have to close my eyes against the pleasure that racks through my body.

Gritting my teeth, I open my eyes. “Why are you here, Bliss? Just to get your cherry popped by someone famous?” A low blow, even for me.

“No.” She tries to scramble off my lap, but I stop her, digging my hands into her waist and keeping her in one spot. “Let me go.”

“Hey, hey, stay with me.” I gently cup her face, making her look at me. “Ignore my less-than-flattering questions, beautiful girl. That’s just the whiskey talking.”

She glances around again, and then fixes her gaze on me as my hands travel back to her breasts, covering them. “Okay.”

“Now tell me why you’re here.”

“Because tonight’s the last stop on the tour.” She takes off her glasses and rubs her nose, then puts them back on. It’s a familiar habit of hers. One I find very cute. Everything she does is cute, and everything she does turns me on.

Never in my life have I been turned on by cute.

The breasts that bounce against my hands remind me that not everything about the female on top of me is cute. She’s downright sexy.

“And?”

A frown appears and I sit up, maneuvering us so that she’s straddling my lap and my feet are on the floor. Her breasts are in my face, and I press my forehead to the center of them and breathe in her scent. She smells like lemons, and her heart is beating like crazy.

Her hand goes to my neck, playing with the chain around it.

I lean back, removing my mouth from that very dangerous part of her body, and she lets go.

“It’s my last night too.” She reaches behind her and before I know it, the material of her bra falls over the tops of my hands. “I thought we could spend it together.”

Oh God, she’s offering me no-strings, never-see-you again, good-bye sex, and my damn conscience is making me hesitate. “I don’t want you to go, yet. I can’t imagine my life right now, without you in it.” The truth, it’s all true for me. Or it’s bottle number two of the whiskey I’m half-finished drinking.

“Where would I stay? What would I do? My… internship is over, and a new person will be going on the world tour.”

“There won’t be a world tour.”

“Don’t ruin your career, Jackson.”

“You could stay with me, be my assistant or something.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the tiniest part of my brain is shouting at me, telling me to take it back.

“I don’t want to work for you.” She leans closer and takes hold of my wrists. “Like I said, I don’t screw my employer.”

At this moment, I have two choices.

One—I can help her back into her clothes and send her on her way.

Two—I can ignore my conscience, screw her senseless, and watch her leave tomorrow.

I don’t like either of my choices, so I go with a third one.

“Do you have anywhere else to go?”

She slowly shakes her head.

“You’re not a college intern, are you?” I ask, voicing the suspicion I’ve kept to myself for months.

A slight hesitation, and then, “No.”

“Please tell me you’re over eighteen, and your real name is Bliss Davenport.”