Chapter 31
Harper
Straddling Rocco, I place my raised palm to his, my body still tingling from the orgasm he forced out of me. “Your hands are huge.”
He laces our fingers together, his other arm tightening around my waist and drawing me closer. “Compared to yours, yes.”
Thankfully, I shaved my legs this morning.
After my conversation with Rocco last night, I actually slept.
I didn’t lie there, dazed, staring off at nothing.
No tossing and turning. I woke up in the same position I’d fallen asleep in, drooling on the pillow.
I was up before Danny, which rarely happens.
Usually, it’s him being awake that drags me out of bed.
I took advantage of the alone time and the products I found in the bathroom to indulge in a long shower. I washed my hair, conditioned it, shaved my legs and armpits—I even moisturized.
Wrapped in a thick, luxurious robe, I performed more self-care than I had in months. I felt like a new person. On a whim, I slipped into my nicest bra and panties—a gift from my sister meant to ‘improve my mood’—I never expected anyone else to see them.
Okay, maybe I had an inkling.
At breakfast, my anxiety returned—though not about Daniel or our safety, but about something quieter and harder to shake.
The feeling that I don’t fit in.
I’m wearing thrift store jeans with frayed hems and a shapeless sweater. Rocco looks like he stepped out of a movie—a romantic comedy starring a hot older man who wears crisp button-ups even on his days off.
In the cozy rom-com, he’d be a wealthy businessman who swore off relationships and lives in a glass skyscraper in the city.
He has no patience for kids; their sticky fingers and runny noses disgust him.
His life is perfect until his new, chaotic secretary falls into his lap, spilling his morning coffee all over him.
They hate each other, but somehow, they fall madly in love.
This isn’t that movie. This one features men with neck tattoos and sugar daddies whose contracts include generous bonuses for divorcing your shitty husband.
The arrangement doesn’t make me uneasy, and it’s not just Rocco’s appearance. It’s me. I don’t know what to do with myself. He has a housekeeper and pristine white tablecloths. I have a four-year-old who enjoys playing with his food more than eating.
Alexei sat beside me at the breakfast table, working on his phone while Danny made construction noises. I stayed on edge, waiting for one of them to snap or roll their eyes or storm out of the kitchen. But none of that happened. I’m not used to patience, to this amount of help.
When I walked into Rocco’s office, I was certain he was sending me away. Instead, he handed me a contract that could change my life.
If not for his uncanny ability to know exactly what I need and all that self-care, I wouldn’t be here, on his lap, coming down from the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
Thank you, Mrs. Harris, for stocking the en suite bathroom, and to the women who raised these Rossi men.
Rocco loosens the messy bun from the top of my head, letting my hair fall down my back. “How are you feeling?”
“Um…” I struggle to find the words. How do I explain that this new spark of happiness is making me nervous? That I feel inadequate? That I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop? That my panties are soaked, and I’m not sure what he coaxed out of my body. “I’m lost. I’m unclear how I should feel.”
His fingers brush through my hair. “Not what I asked. I want to know what’s going through your head, if you’re okay, if you need anything. Try again—how do you feel?”
“Safe but also embarrassed.” I bury my face in his neck, unable to meet his gaze. After the gushing orgasm, I hurried to get dressed, my thighs and panties wet. “I’ve never—was that supposed to happen?” My body flushes with something similar to shame. “Was it wrong?”
He grips my waist and grinds his still-hard erection against my center. “Does that feel like you did anything wrong?”
His jeans do little to hide his size, and I can’t stop my hips from rocking. My sensitive clit throbs with renewed arousal.
“No, I meant the wetness. I haven’t…” I trail off, unable to finish the sentence. I’ve read about women squirting, but I honestly didn’t think it was real. I’ve never watched porn, too afraid someone would search my phone or computer and find it, and all hell would break loose.
Rocco lets out a growl that vibrates through his chest. “You were perfect. You came beautifully for me.” His hands slide down to cup my ass, encouraging my movements. “And that wetness? It means I’ve done my job right.”
His words unexpectedly heal a piece of my battered soul. I’ve spent years thinking I was the problem, that I was broken or frigid. Defective because I couldn’t come, couldn’t respond properly to a man’s touch. Yet, here I am, soaked from only his fingers and begging for more.
“Let me please you,” I whisper, the words tumbling free before I can second-guess them. “Let me make you feel good, too.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not necessary.”
“I want to.” I slide off his lap, sinking to my knees between his spread legs, and reach for his belt. “Please.”
He catches my wrist. “You don’t owe me anything, kitten.”
“I know.” My heart hammers, and my words escape in a breathless rush. “But I want to feel you, taste you, satisfy you.”
He grazes his thumb over my bottom lip. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Does it excite you to please me?”
His tone isn’t condescending, but I lower my gaze and nod, embarrassed again and not even sure why. Because I dared to express my desires? Because I’m on my knees, practically begging? Heat blooms hotter across my cheeks. Who am I right now?
“Harper, look at me.”
I glance up. His eyes are irresistible, filled with a rapt attention that makes me want to surrender—not just my body, but everything.
“Never be ashamed of what we do,” he demands, deep and throaty. “And never, ever be ashamed of who you are. Do you understand?”
Relief floods me. He didn’t reject or mock me or try to take advantage of my vulnerability. Instead, he mended another raw, aching place inside me.
I nod again, too overcome to speak.
“Say it. Let me hear you.”
“I understand.”
“Does it arouse you to please me? To be on your knees for me?”
My heart skips a beat. Why is this so difficult? “Yes,” I admit.
He threads his fingers through my hair and gently tugs my head back. “Good girl.”
Those two words are intoxicating. I’ve never felt desired like this—not only sexually, but wholly. As if he sees all of me and wants every part, even the broken bits.
He releases my wrist and relaxes in his chair. “Go ahead.”
With trembling fingers, I unbuckle his belt, pop the button of his jeans, and drag the zipper down. I tug at his pants, and he lifts his hips to help me slide them down just enough. His erection tents his boxer briefs, and my breath catches.
His size is intimidating. I’ve only done this with one other person, and that was forever ago—years ago. What was I thinking?
Before I lose my newfound courage, he thumbs his boxers and releases his monster cock.
I stare at his thick length—hard, veined, the head flushed an angry red. He’s even bigger than I imagined.
“Take your time,” he says, but there’s an edge to his tone that tells me he’s barely containing himself.
I recall him mentioning it’s been years for him, too, which boosts my confidence.
I wrap my fingers around his shaft, amazed my hand can’t fully encircle his girth.
I stroke him tentatively. Precum beads at the tip, and I dart my tongue out, tasting the salty, musky flavor.
My eyes flutter shut, and a soft, needy moan slips free.
“Fuck, Harper. You’re killing me. Put me out of my misery.”
Emboldened by his response, I open my mouth and take him as deep as I can, which isn’t nearly all. His thickness stretches my lips, and I have to concentrate to keep my teeth away.
“That’s it,” he groans. “Take more—you can do it, baby.”
I press further until he hits the back of my throat. My eyes well up, and I gag.
“Jesus Christ.” He tightens his grip on my hair and tilts his hips upward.
He pushes deeper, and my mouth waters, coating his shaft with saliva. I hollow my cheeks and suck him harder, teasing my tongue along the underside. His thighs tense, and he releases a low, drawn-out rumble.
“Eyes on me,” he commands. “Watch what you do to me.”
I glance up through my lashes. Holding his gaze, I bob my head, my lips stretched wide around his girth, my hand stroking what I can’t fit.
“Just like that—fuck—suck my cock just like that.” He thrusts into my mouth, his breathing growing ragged. “Such a good fucking girl.”
His praise fuels me. I quicken my pace and suck him with everything I have. He cups the back of my head and neck, guiding my movements but not forcing.
“Harper,” he warns. “I’m close.”
I keep my gaze locked on his and hum around his shaft, telling him without words I want him to fill my mouth.
His jaw clenches, then slackens. His brows draw tight. His head falls back into the leather, the cords of his neck strain, and his lips part on a guttural groan. His hips buck, and he pulses against my tongue before thick spurts of cum coat my throat.
I swallow everything he gives me, determined to make him lose control. His aftershocks cease, but I keep sucking, gentler, milking every last drop.
“Fuck, Harper. You have to stop, baby.” He grips my hair and draws me off him, his softening length slipping from my mouth. “I can’t take any more. You feel too fucking good.” He tucks himself into his boxers. Then he crooks a finger at me. “Come here.”
His hands close around my waist, lifting me as if I weigh nothing and setting me back on his lap, my knees braced on either side of his thighs. He’s more affectionate than any man I’ve ever known. It’s not unwelcome. My body feels electric—alive in ways I never thought possible.
“You’re incredible.” He kisses my lips, still catching his breath, his heart pounding in rhythm with mine. “Where have you been all my life?”
I let out a breathy laugh. “Hiding in South Carolina, apparently.”
He groans, and not in a good way. “Speaking of—and I hate to ruin this moment—but we need to discuss your husband before we go rescue Danny from Mrs. Harris’ spoiling.
I want your phone so you don’t have to deal with Daniel when he retaliates—because he will retaliate, and I’d rather Alexei or I handle him than you.
I’ll get you another one; you can give the number to anyone you want—except him. ”