25. TWENTY-FIVE
Poppy Fields was topless and gasping in his living room. Poppy Fields was bare and wet in his living room. Poppy Fields was destroying his mind—could take it, have it. It was hers.
She half-lay, half-sat against the back of the sofa, her nipples red against her pale skin, one arm half-shielding her eyes as he drew her knickers past her knees, her ankles, and off completely. Her backside was on the sofa edge, her legs parted, but only a little. He kissed her knee again, heard the breath she took, then gently, he spread her open, pushed her knees apart until he could see exactly what he wanted to see. Her pussy, pink and wet. A ragged breath shuddered through him, and again he ignored the voice in the back of his head.
It had been there for a while. Mainly it said things like No and You fucking idiot. It had been there in the fried chicken shop. On the walk home. In the feel of Poppy’s mouth haunting his lips.
It had been there for a long time before that. Ever since he had seen her, in fact. It was basically an old friend.
He ran his mouth up the silky skin of her thigh, breathed in the smell of her.
You’re her boss, her boss, you fucking idiot…
He tasted her, the short lick of his tongue teasing them both.
You promised you wouldn’t. You invited her to live here with you, and you promised yourself you wouldn’t…
Her breath hitched, and he teased her again, a swirl of his tongue over her swollen clit. She gasped, hips lifting.
Shut up,he told his brain. Let me enjoy this one damned thing…
He kissed the inside of her thigh, smiling to himself as she squirmed, wanting more.
“Roscoe…”
“Mm?”
“You’re terrible.”
He chuckled. “I know. I should probably stop.”
Yes, you moron. Stop hours ago, before you ever stepped foot in that pub…
“No…” Her voice was hazy, thick and slow as cream. “Don’t stop.”
So he went back to where she needed him, until she was moaning, grinding against him, hands gripping the sofa. She said his name, reached for his shoulders, pulled him away even though he knew she was close, moments from coming. She pulled him back to her mouth, reached again for his belt, his fly. Fuck, he wanted her. She was perfect. Electric. Her body built for his, every curve fitting his hand. But he stopped her, drew her hand away and pinned it gently above her head.
“What?” she breathed, eyes glazed. “Why…?”
Finally,his brain said. And the rest of him wept.
“I’m not going to take anything from you.”
“But…”
“I can’t sleep with you. But…we can do this. I can do this for you.”
He wasn’t making much sense, he knew that. But it was hard to think when his body had vastly different ideas about what he should be doing. It didn’t want to waste time on words. On any thought other than how it would feel to drive his cock inside her. And Poppy was looking up at him, lips red, eyes blue, hair like copper. So beautiful he wanted to trace every line of her face with his eyes, his fingers, his mouth.
“Do…this?” she repeated, no more able to form a coherent sentence than him.
“Let me make you come. I’ll make you come whenever, however you want, you’ll be in total charge of it. It’s the only way I can think of to make this work. The only way it might possibly be OK. If I only give, don’t take.”
“Take what?”
“Erm…pleasure.”
She pulled her wrist free of his grip. “You don’t want this?”
“No, I do. God… I really do. But I can’t take advantage. I can’t ask you to…do anything for me. This is the only way we can do this,” he said, voicing the thought that was still hazy in his lust-addled brain. “It’s still wrong, but if I only give, don’t take…”
She struggled to sit up. He moved back, taking his weight from her, shifting so they were sitting side by side, turned towards each other, regret and embarrassment and guilt clanging through him.
Her cheeks were flushed. “You don’t want to have sex?”
He was desperate to have sex. Wanted basically nothing else in the world right then. Wanted to fuck her senseless. Have her in every way. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t cross that line. That’s what his brain had been trying to tell him. What he had been desperately trying to ignore.
“Let me do things for you,” he said, trying to find a way through the tangle in his mind. “Let me give. But I won’t take.”
“So, what…? I’m not allowed to touch you? We can’t…”
He looked down, gaze falling helplessly to her breasts. Lower. He could taste her on his tongue. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Believe me.”
“Then why?”
“You know why.”
She said nothing, but there was anger simmering in the blue of her eyes. In the colour on her cheeks.
Crap. He was a fucking idiot. But still… “We can’t have a relationship, Poppy. It’s unethical.”
“Now you decide that?”
“You already knew it. Remember? This is just a lesson.”
Her mouth twisted at the reminder. “You know I was joking.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t help it, he reached out, stroked the back of her hand, needed to touch her, even now. “Yes, we both knew you were joking. And that you weren’t.”
She shook her head slightly at that, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “This is stupid.”
“Almost everything I’ve done recently is stupid.”
She huffed a laugh. Didn’t argue.
He must be stupid. Mad. She was right there, impossibly beautiful. If he moved his hand a few inches he could be cupping her breasts, the swell of her silken flesh filling his palm. He could be kissing her, making her moan with the touch of his tongue, making her soften and melt and mould her body to his. He could let her touch him, let her wrap her hand around him, feel her hot lips around him. He could lay her down and spread her open and sink himself inside her, look into her eyes and kiss her mouth as he filled her, as she took him, deep and warm…
Instead, he sat there, one finger tracing the side of her thumb. He was definitely mad. He’d never wanted anyone so much in his life.
He let out a breath, went to stand up. Poppy’s fingers briefly curled around his, but she let go, reached down and snatched her blouse from the floor.
“If I was someone else,” she said, hurriedly shrugging into her blouse. “Someone more like you, you wouldn’t be like this.”
Her hasty fingers were fumbling with the blouse buttons. He itched to help, but she wouldn’t want that. He dragged his eyes from the sight of her breasts in the faintly transparent fabric, her nipples dark, gauzy shadows. Her bra was still on the floor.
“What do you mean?” His thoughts felt slow, slipping and unsure. Hardly a surprise when he’d just done something so catastrophically stupid as telling Poppy Fields he could never have her. As catastrophically stupid as kissing her in the first place.
“If you saw me as an equal, you wouldn’t care about who took and who gave. It wouldn’t matter.”
“I’m your boss,” he said softly. Sadly. “In the eyes of the world, we aren’t equal.”
And not just her boss… He had everything. His wealth, his position. Even his gender gave him power over her. And he could not, would not, make her more vulnerable than she already was.
She picked up her bra, her knickers. But the look she fixed on him was frank, unabashed.
“And in your eyes, Roscoe? Are we equal in your eyes?”
He took a beat too long to answer. She went to her room and slammed the door.