37. Monica
37
MONICA
I stretch my legs as much as I can with this damn cast still on my ankle. Being stuck in bed all day has me wanting to climb the walls, even in Henry's luxurious penthouse with its ridiculously comfortable mattress and thousand-thread-count sheets.
"I'm so fucking bored," I groan, tossing my phone aside after scrolling through the same social media posts for the third time today. The walls of this penthouse are starting to close in on me, no matter how pristine and perfect they are.
Henry looks up from his laptop, those blue eyes catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. The sun hits him just right, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. "Poor baby. Been a whole six hours since you tried to sneak into the kitchen, huh?" His voice carries that teasing tone that both irritates and thrills me.
"I wasn't sneaking. I was getting water." I fold my arms across my chest defensively. "It's not a crime to be thirsty."
"Mmhmm." He closes his laptop with a definitive click and sets it on the nightstand. "You know what the doctor said. Rest." He emphasizes the last word like it's a command, all business- like in that way that reminds me he runs a multi-million dollar company.
"I've rested enough to hibernate for winter." I shift against the pillows, wincing slightly when my ankle twinges. "I need something to do. Anything. I'm dying here, Henry. My brain cells are committing mass suicide from boredom."
Henry's mouth curves into that smile that still makes my stomach flip, the one that's equal parts dangerous and delicious. His eyes darken just enough for me to catch it. "I can entertain you," he says, his voice dropping an octave lower.
"Yeah? You gonna read me a bedtime story?" I tease, but my breath catches when he moves closer, his weight shifting the mattress.
"Not exactly what I had in mind." His voice drops lower as he leans in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear.
"Henry..." His name comes out half-warning, half-plea.
"Just relax." His mouth trails down my neck, leaving a path of heat that spreads through my body. "Let me take care of you."
His fingers slide under my t-shirt, tracing patterns on my skin that make me shiver.
But then his hand moves lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. His fingers find me already wet, and I can't help the gasp that escapes me when he starts circling my clit.
"Fuck," I whisper, my hips rising instinctively to meet his touch.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against my neck, his fingers pausing.
I nod, unable to form words as he resumes those slow, deliberate circles. My eyes flutter closed as pleasure builds, hot and insistent.
"You're so beautiful," he says, his voice rough with desire as he watches my reactions. "So fucking perfect."
His fingers move faster, and I grab his arm, not to stop him but to anchor myself as everything inside me tightens and builds.
Henry's fingers slide deeper inside me, making me gasp. The rhythm he sets is maddening—just slow enough to build tension but not fast enough to push me over the edge.
"Please," I whisper, my voice breaking as he adds another finger, stretching me in the most delicious way.
"Please what?" His breath is hot against my ear, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me what you need, Monica."
I buck my hips against his hand, desperate for more friction. "Faster... I need—fuck!"
My words dissolve into a moan as his thumb circles my clit, sending jolts of pleasure through my body. His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur.
"Like this?" he asks, knowing damn well what he's doing to me.
"Yes," I pant, clutching at his shoulders. "God, yes."
Henry's mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. The slight pain mixed with pleasure makes me arch against him, my good leg squirming from the delicious sensation.
His fingers move faster now, his thumb applying just the right pressure to my clit. I'm trembling, teetering on the edge, my body wound so tight I might shatter.
"Henry," I gasp, digging my nails into his back. "Don't stop."
He groans against my neck, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through me. "I won't. I've got you."
The pressure builds and builds until I can't take it anymore. I'm begging incoherently now, my hips moving desperately against his hand, chasing the release I need so badly.
The pressure inside me finally shatters, and I come apart completely, crying out Henry's name as waves of pleasure crash through me. My body trembles uncontrollably as I clench around his fingers, my release coating his hand. The orgasm feels endless, each aftershock making me gasp and shudder.
"That's it, baby," Henry murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Let go for me."
When I finally catch my breath, I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that makes my heart race all over again. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes darkening with satisfaction.
"Fuck, you taste incredible," he groans. "Sweet and perfect."
I feel my body flush with heat, but I can't look away. There's something primal about watching him taste me that makes desire pool low in my belly again.
"I'm sorry I can't fuck you properly," he says, leaning down to kiss me softly. "Not with your ankle like this. But I promise, the minute you're healed enough..." His voice trails off as his hand slides up my thigh again.
"The minute I'm healed enough, what?" I challenge, already addicted to his touch. My body hums with anticipation, eager for whatever he's about to promise me.
He grins, that dangerous smile that makes my heart skip. "The minute you're healed enough, I'm going to make you come so many times you'll forget your own name." His voice drops an octave, rough with desire, and I feel it like a physical caress down my spine.
I reach up to pull him down for a kiss, my fingers threading through his hair. The silky strands wrap around my fingers as I tug him closer. "I'm going to hold you to that promise, Blackwood." My words are breathless against his mouth.
"Count on it, Mrs. Blackwood," he whispers against my lips, the possessiveness in his tone making heat pool between my thighs all over again.
God, I can't get enough of this man. Henry Blackwood has become someone I can't imagine living without. His touch, his voice, the way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world—it's intoxicating. Every time he calls me Mrs. Blackwood, something primal and satisfied unfurls inside me, despite how our arrangement began.
And it makes me happy to know that he's all mine. Not just on paper or for show, but in these private moments when there's no one to perform for. Just us, tangled together, making promises with our bodies that our lips haven't quite caught up to yet.