Chapter 10
Lucy
This feels like the breathless, dizzying moment right at the top of a roller coaster, except right now I have about half of Dane Rourke’s cock inside me, and he’s stopped the ride to ask me if I’m a virgin.
I want to laugh, to sputter out, “Not anymore,” but it occurs to me, suddenly, that he might want to know. That this might be important information to this man twice my age, with twice my experience, if the woman he’s about to have sex with has never actually done this before.
A wave of desperate panic rolls through me, and I want to grip onto him, promise him that I’ll do whatever he wants, that I can make it good for him if he keeps going, that my inexperience doesn’t have to mean it will be a bad time for him.
Dane deserves the truth, though, and so I say, simply, and in a small voice, “Yes.”
He’s completely still, but I can feel his heart thundering in his chest, his hands shaking on my hips, his restraint evident in the clutch of his muscles around me.
I want to move—want, more than anything, to keep sinking down onto his dick, but it’s stretching inside me, pleasure just to the point of pain, and I’m still.
“Fuck,” he says, equal parts lust and frustration. He lets out a breath, runs his hands up and down my back. “We’re going to have to go slow, Lucy.”
“Okay,” I breathe, shoulders relaxing slightly, my muscles easing.
This is something I’m used to—Dane telling me what to do.
When I relax, I’m able to take another inch of him, and he grips onto me tightly, lowering his forehead to my shoulder and murmuring expletives.
His hips twitch, and it’s the knowledge of his desire, more than anything else, that sends another wave of need through me, which makes me tighten around him even more.
It’s a closed loop—when Dane touches me or moves, I tighten up around his cock, which gets a reaction out of him, and we have to start all over again, clutching at each other and breathing hard, him trying to help me relax.
Finally—after what feels like forever—I settle down on him, legs shaking, as I’m fully seated, his entire length inside me. I feel like I’ve done a full workout, and, on top of that, this entire exercise has done nothing but made me need him even more.
It turns out unmoving pressure isn’t quite enough to scratch the itch that’s coiled up inside of me.
Dane brushes my hair out of my face, voice a rumble. “Are you okay?”
I nod, breathing hard, and ask, “Should I—?” But before I finish the question, I’m rolling my hips on instinct and gasping at the sensation he manages to create inside me. The feeling ripples up and out, through my body, and my clit throbs in response.
“Yeah,” he chokes, nodding against me. “Fuck, Lucy—”
And with that, Dane seems to lose whatever control he was holding onto before this. Reaching up, he deftly finds the clasp to my bra and unfastens it, so it falls loose, and he can bring his mouth to my breasts.
I actually cry out at the sensation, and try to pull back in embarrassment, in the hope that the pilot isn’t still waiting outside, potentially listening.
I didn’t expect this to feel so good. Dane holds me tight, one hand planted on my back, his mouth working at a nipple while his other hand massages at the other breast.
It doubles and re-doubles the pleasure, and I start to roll my hips again, chasing the feeling, sighing and breathing and crying out against him. It’s like pushing on a loose tooth or watching a video you know is going to make you sob.
At first, there’s more pain than pleasure, even with the lubrication from the condom and how wet I am. Each time I roll my hips is another experiment, my body trying to figure out how exactly I'm supposed to accommodate this massive thing inside me.
And then, all at once, it clicks, and the pain fades away, and there’s nothing but movement, rhythm, breathing and desperate touches.
Dane brushes his thumb over my pert nipple, and I wind my hands into the back of his hair, tugging gently. He finds my clit and teases, and I lower my mouth to his neck, sucking and biting and tasting.
For a long time, I hated the word fuck.
But now, I understand it. I get that it’s really the only word that makes sense for what this is, each of us grasping out for the next beat of pleasure, each of us, lapping at the next hit of dopamine from the others’ touch.
Now, I say it like Dane did, letting it out, “Fuck.”
And that feels good, so I try it again, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Seeing me enjoying myself, Dane relaxes, too, reaching up and running his thumb over my lips. He stares up at me like I’m something gorgeous, something perfect, and in the moment, I feel it. In fact, I feel more beautiful than I have in my entire life. Sexy. Desirable.
“You have a dirty mouth, huh?” Dane asks, voice coming out hazy, like he’s in a trance. From me. This feels like the best decision I’ve ever made, the best return from a leap of faith.
“I’m not sure just yet,” I breathe through a laugh, leaning down, bracketing my hands on either side of the seat, riding him and taking as much as I need.
My clit grinds against him, pressure building, then I’m holding him, crying out, unable to stop myself from making wholly embarrassing noises as he thrusts up and into me wildly, desperately.
With a final, low noise, he drives up and into me again, and I feel it—the pressure of his release against the condom.
For one blissful moment, we stay like that, exhausted and holding tight to one another, him still inside me, before he pulls back, breathing hard, and gives me a resolved look.
“Lucy,” he says, all the wonder and desire completely gone from his eyes. My stomach contracts, my throat swelling so it’s a bit hard for me to breathe through whatever I know is coming next. Expression suddenly and completely blank, Dane recites, “This cannot happen again.”
I manage to hold back my tears until Dane and I walk into the lobby of the expansive, luxurious hotel I booked us in Amsterdam. It’s historical, gold-plated, and meets the strict criteria outlined in the binder for what the men require in accommodations.
If that information is even correct.
“I need the bathroom,” I say, quietly, before peeling off and heading for the ladies’ room. I might not be able to read the signs, but I know that little triangle woman when I see her.
Pushing in through the doors, I clap my hand to my face and suck in a breath through my fingers, trying to stifle the sob until the door swings shut behind me. The stalls are huge and just as nice as you’d imagine, reaching floor to ceiling—no gaps, like back in the United States.
All the better for me to sit here and cry in private, tipping my head forward to keep my mascara from running in streaks over my cheeks.
How stupid I was.
After telling me that nothing more could happen, Dane had launched into a level-headed, simple explanation for why it was so.
“First, you’re my assistant. It was a mistake.
This was a moment of heightened emotions for both of us,” he’d said, as I climbed off of him, pulled my skirt down with numb fingers.
He disposed of the condom neatly, tying it, wrapping it in a Kleenex, and dropping it in a hidden waste basket.
“But it was highly inappropriate on my part, and for that I apologize.”
I wanted to speak up and tell him I didn’t feel taken advantage of. That, while he might have been right about it being unprofessional, there was nothing that warranted the guilty look on his face.
For me, it had been magical. One of the only times in my life I’ve ever felt at home in my body, with his hands on me and his voice in my ear.
So, hearing him instantly regret it, wishing he could take it back and undo it—it was worse than him telling me I was a bad lay.
“Besides the obvious power imbalance and violation of company policy,” he’d said, like reading from a script, “there’s the fact that it won’t end well. I don’t have time for dating, and you—”
Dane didn’t need to finish that, to say the obvious—that I had so little experience, there was no chance I could jump into something casual with ease. And he would be right about that.
Only a few fantasies of him, and a single time having sex on his private jet, and I’d already started to think about the feeling of his hand in mine, the way it felt when he said my name.
Not things you think about when you’re in something casual.
The sobs were already pushing at the back of my throat as he went on, trying to soften the blow, explaining every reason why this would be a bad idea.
I wanted to fall apart then, but I held it together, nodding and saying things like, of course, and I understand, until the engineer came—one from London, apparently, hurrying to the site to do a favor to the great Dane Rourke.
Then we were on a new jet, right back on the path to Amsterdam, though we’d be arriving much later than planned.
And now—now I let it out, crying hard and fast into my hands.
Not because of what happened, but because Dane regrets it.
And because he made it clear that it wouldn’t ever occur again.
And because, stupidly, I’d thought… what?
That sex with a man twice my age, in a completely different tax bracket, could be the start of something, instead of a single, passing mistake?
For him, what happened will just be a blip on his radar, a moment he won’t even remember in a year.
I give myself four minutes to fall apart, three minutes to breathe and splash cold water on my face, and one more minute to settle before I shakily walk back out to the lobby.
Where I see Dane standing at the counter, looking hugely dissatisfied with the attendant.
“…must have been a mistake with whoever made the reservations,” the attendant is saying through a thick Dutch accent. A fresh flush of anxiety rolls from my head to my ankles. Obviously, I made the reservations.
There was no mistake—I’m sure of that. At least, I think I am. I might be more sure if my entire body wasn’t still buzzing from the crying session and everything that came before it.
Then Dane says, “There was no mistake. My assistant doesn’t make mistakes. You can fix this now by finding us another room.”
The attendant raises his hands like he’s being held up. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no other room available. We’re all booked up for the conference, and we already vacated this suite for Ember at the last minute—”
“For fucks’ sake,” Dane growls, turning around and reaching for his phone, but he stops short when he sees me.
I realize, with his gaze on me, that it must be obvious that I’ve been crying.
It only takes a split second, but Dane makes his decision—rather than pulling his phone from his pocket and making whatever call he planned to, he just sighs, turns back to the counter, and plucks the key card from the attendant’s outstretched hand.
“Contact your supervisor,” he says, his voice deadly cold. “And find a way to make this right.”
With that, he turns and walks toward the elevators, and I have no choice but to follow after him.