Chapter 11
Brynne
“Has that old, decrepit boss made your promotion official yet?” Raven asks. I pull my car into my designated parking spot.
Three more days.
“He’s been out of the office and won’t be back until Friday. I haven’t heard from him.”
There’s a nagging feeling in the back of my mind, but Milton has pretty much given me this job. He assured me he wanted me to take his place in the firm's day-to-day running. The first order of business would mean me taking the lead on a major subdivision in North Carolina. He would still handle a few projects, but I’ll run the firm. He’s not only mentored and trained me, but he’s also become somewhat of a father figure to me. The only one I’ve had since my stepfather passed away six years ago.
“Well, I’m sick of him dragging his feet. You need that big ass raise. Brunch will be on you the minute that direct deposit hits.”
She’s right. I do need it. The job comes with a substantial raise, a sign-on, and a sizable quarterly bonus. I’ve exhausted most of my savings buying and renovating a rental property. Now, I’m paying two mortgages, and the sign-on bonus would give me a cushion.
I end the call with Raven, get in the elevator, and go to my fourth-floor condo. I bought this three years ago after saving money by renting a tiny studio apartment in a less-than-stellar part of town.
Just like the past seven days, there’s a bouquet of a dozen roses waiting for me. This one is light pink. I pick it up and bring it inside. “You can be next to your siblings,” I say to the bouquet. I put it between the white and yellow roses and inhale.
Three more days until I can see him again. It’s been years since I’ve had a relationship, and I wasn’t looking for one, but this one found me.
I take a picture of the flowers and send it to him.
Me: I’m running out of room in my condo.
I see the three dots seconds later.
Colin: Three more bouquets and then I can have you in my arms.
Me: How’s the groom?
Colin: Nervous but excited.
Me: Has he punched Malcolm yet?
Colin: Not yet, but Mal’s family is here so he’s on his best behavior. I’ll text later. The rehearsal dinner is starting.
Me: Send me pictures.
Emboldened, I send him a kiss emoji, and he sends a heart back.
“So, Honeybee, I’m stuck in hell,” he says.
I look out the window and at the gray skies. The flurries have just started, but we’re in for a substantial amount. Colin’s flight has been delayed indefinitely, and instead of being in his arms and his bed tonight, I don’t know when it will happen.
“It’s more like paradise,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment.
“Not with you so far away.”
“What’s your flight info? I want to track it.”
“You can’t, baby. It’s a private plane.”
That shocks me. I know he’s well off. He admitted it, but being told he's flying on a private plane still surprises me. There’s rich, and then there’s private plane rich.
“Must be nice,” is all I can think of to say.
“It’s not nice. Not at all. It’s awful. You know what’s nice? Your breasts. Both sets of your lips and your ass. Not to mention the curve of your hips. I’d rather have my hands all over your soft, supple skin. That would be nice.” His words set my body on fire, and the throbbing between my legs starts. It’s been dormant all week, but my need for him awakens each time I talk to him.
“Your hands on my body sounds way beyond nice.” I want to tell him how much I want to kiss him and how I want to take him in my mouth. I want to remind him of how good he tastes and how I’ve never swallowed another man’s cum before him, but the words die in my throat.
“Why are you blushing?” he asks.
“How do you know I’m blushing?” I put a hand to my cheek and fan my face.
“Because you blush all the time, and you always blush after I hold you through an orgasm. Now, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about how I want to take all of you in my mouth. I want to taste your cum. I want to swallow it.”
He groans and says, “That was a bad idea. Now I have an erection in the—”
“In the private plane waiting room?”
“I have my backpack on my lap to hide it. I should be in the air on my way to you. And inside of you.”
“Well, I want that too. I’m sick of winter.” I stomp my feet in the middle of my kitchen. I have the news on in the background, and even though it’s on mute, I can tell it's not good. The bad weather stretches across many states in the Northeast, and we’re projected to get at least a foot of it.
He won’t likely be here for a couple of more days, and he starts his new job on Monday.
“Tell me about your new job,” I say in an attempt to change the subject because my body still has not calmed down.
“I want to tell you that when I see you. We can talk about it over baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and string beans.” I smile at that. I don’t know if the man can cook, but even if it tastes bad, I’ll eat it without complaint.