Chapter 20 Veronica
TWENTY
veronica
On Friday, I decided to follow through on the threat to give Austin a massage.
You. Tonight. My place. No argument.
Are you going to have whips and chains?
No. I’m going to have candles and massage oil.
I think I’d prefer the whips and chains.
Tough. I’ve listened to you gripe about sore muscles for weeks now, and I want to help.
Will you be naked?
If I say yes, will you agree to let me do it?
It would definitely sway me in that direction.
Then yes. I’ll be naked.
Look for me about 7.
I’ll be waiting.
And I get to be the boss tonight.
We’ll see about that.
That afternoon, I gave Morgan a call.
“I thought you were coming to visit me,” she whined. “You said the kids were going somewhere and you’d have days off.”
“I said maybe I would come to visit you,” I corrected with a laugh. I put her on speaker and set the phone aside so I could fold my laundry. “But the tickets were expensive, and I really need to save my money.”
“So what have you been doing while they’re gone?” she asked.
“Oh, this and that,” I said airily, pulling Austin’s TWO BUCKLEYS T-shirt from the basket. It made me smile.
“Does ‘this and that’ include your hot boss?”
“It might.”
She gasped. “Details!”
“We’re having fun.”
“But like how much fun?”
“All the fun,” I confessed.
“Every night?”
“Every night, every room of the house, every which way you can imagine.” I folded my yoga shorts.
Morgan groaned loudly. “God, I’m so jealous. I remember those days. So is he good?”
“So good I can’t describe it.”
“Body?”
I closed my eyes, picturing him. “Ten out of ten.”
“Package?”
“Long, strong, and he knows how to use it.”
“Thank god. Nothing worse than a guy who’s hung but helpless.”
I snorted, matching a pair of socks. “For real.”
“So are you guys dating or just messing around?”
“Just messing around,” I said. “It has to end when the kids come back.”
“When is that?”
“Sunday.” I tried to sound cool and casual, which was how I wanted to feel.
“In two days? Jeez. No wonder you guys are going at it like rabbits. That stinks.”
“No, I think it’s better.”
“Why?”
“Because I like that we both know the score. It feels even.” I folded my sports bra. “No one will be blindsided by the end.”
“If you guys have such good chemistry, why let it end?”
“That would get awkward, because of the kids. I’ve still got another month here, and I need this job. If something went wrong with Austin—”
“But what if something goes right?”
“He’s not really a dater,” I said, avoiding the question.
“He’s told me several times he likes being single.
He’s one of those guys who doesn’t do feelings.
Not in an asshole way, just in a sort of businesslike way.
Like, he’s here to deliver the orgasms, get the signature, and get back in the truck. ”
She laughed. “Okay, but what if—”
“There are no what ifs, Morgan,” I said, getting up from the couch and wandering over to the window. “The boundaries were established from the start. I flat out told him I was not looking for a relationship. It’s casual. Temporary. Just for fun.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so,” I told her, wishing I felt so. “I’m just going a little wild because I was all cooped up for a year. I’m enjoying my freedom. And my orgasms.”
She laughed. “Sounds like it. Well, good for you.”
“And besides, no use in carrying on when I’m leaving in a month anyway. It would just be delaying the inevitable. Better now than later.”
“That’s true, I suppose. Hey, did Scott Blackstone reach out yet?”
“No, is he going to?”
“He told Jake he was. Jake said he was super excited to hear you were interested in the job.”
“Oh, that’s awesome. Please thank Jake for me.”
“I will, and let me know as soon as you hear from Scott. Next, we need to find you a place to live! Let me ask around—I’m still close with a lot of the current Rockettes and maybe someone is looking to sublet or share a two-bedroom or something.”
“Thanks, Morgan. I appreciate it.”
We hung up, and I put my clean clothes away, trying to get excited about moving back to Manhattan.
But all I could think of was leaving here. Leaving him. Somehow New York City was losing its appeal.
I repeated the words I’d said to Morgan.
It’s not like that with us. It’s casual. Temporary. Just for fun. We are not dating, and there are no feelings involved.
And when my heart tried to argue, I repeated them again.
And again.
And again.
When he knocked on my door about quarter after seven, I was ready.
The shades were drawn, the lights were out, and a dozen candles flickered in the dark.
Dreamy spa music played on my phone in the bedroom, and I’d covered the bed with towels.
On the nightstand was the fancy massage oil I’d splurged on at a high-end Main Street boutique, which offset the dollar-store candles.
I opened the door wearing a sundress, and he immediately frowned. “You said—”
“Relax,” I said, bringing him inside. He wore only his sweatpants, and his hair was damp from the shower. I could smell his man shampoo. “Come here.”
Leading him into the bedroom, I gestured toward the bed. “Okay, take off your pants and lie down.”
He gamely doffed his sweats and climbed onto the bed, stretching out on his back, hands behind his head. “My body is ready.”
“Turn over. Lie on your stomach.”
“But my fun bits are on the front.”
“Do it, please.” I gave him a stern look.
“Take off the dress first.”
Sighing, I pulled the dress over my head and tossed it aside, then shimmied out of my underwear. “There.”
“Well, now I don’t want to turn over. I want to look at you.” His eyes swept over my skin, which bore fading marks from the last two nights, and his cock began to swell.
I put my hands on my hips. “Don’t make me get rough with you, Buckley.”
He groaned and flopped over onto his stomach. “I’m giving you five minutes. And then I’m getting rough with you.”
“Shhhh. Just relax.” Grabbing the bottle of massage oil from the nightstand, I straddled his hips, sitting on his ass.
He moaned. “This is just cruel.”
“Hush. Put your hands by your head.” I rubbed some oil into my hands and started with light strokes up and down either side of his spine, between his shoulder blades, and on the back of his neck.
“That actually feels pretty good,” he said. “Much better than the revenge massage.”
“This is just the warm-up,” I informed him. “I’m about to get mean.”
Increasing the pressure, I worked all the muscles of his back and shoulders and neck, then moved on to his arms. He groaned and cursed me out a few times, especially when I used my elbows, but I could feel the knots loosening up.
I scooted down and massaged his legs and feet, admiring the solid thighs and calves.
I let my hands glide up his inner thighs and get close to his fun bits, but I was careful not to touch them.
I didn’t want him to get turned on and take over—I had a plan.
I saved his butt for last and had a good time kneading the firm flesh with my hands, enjoying the string of curses he muttered. “Okay, now you can turn over,” I told him.
He rolled onto his back. “Are you going to straddle me again?”
“In a minute.” I started with his legs, moving from ankle to thigh. His cock was hard, and it jumped when my hands came near it. Finally, I knelt with a leg on either side of his thighs and took it in my hands, which were warm and slick with the oil.
“Fuck, yeah,” he said, reaching for my breasts.
I pushed his hands away. “No touching, sir.”
“You didn’t mention that rule before.”
“Just lie back, please. You’re going to like this.” I moved up, straddling his torso to rub his pecs and deltoids and biceps. “Doesn’t that feel good?”
“Yes,” he said, scowling. “It does, but I’m dying to get my hands on you.”
“I know. You love your hands on me. And your mouth. Look at the marks you’ve made.”
Once more, he admired the bruises lingering on my skin. “I fucking love them.”
“Now it’s my turn.” I crawled over to the nightstand, set the massage oil down and grabbed my red lipstick. Then I straddled his hips, trapping his cock between us.
He watched as I applied the lipstick, slowly painting my mouth with my favorite shade of red.
“Fuck me,” he growled, gripping my thighs.
“Eventually,” I said. “We should discuss consent.”
“Like permission?”
“Yes. Do I have your permission to leave marks on your skin?”
“You have my permission to do any fucking thing you want.”
“Good.” I started with his neck and worked my way down, leaving a kiss print on his throat, his collarbone, his shoulder, his tattooed bicep, his nipple, which I licked and sucked, aroused by the way it hardened against my tongue.
I teased the other one with my fingertips, and his breathing grew heavy and hard.
Moving down his legs, I left kiss marks on his ridged abs, his hip bones, both sides of his V lines, which I traced with my tongue.
Then I took a moment to reapply, gliding the color on and rubbing my lips together.
His body already had the power to turn me on, but those kiss marks on his skin had my blood running hot.
I lowered my head and pressed my lips to either side of his cock, getting just close enough to torture him. Then lower, on his thighs. Then just above the spot where the tip rested, glistening and smooth.
“Veronica.” A plea. A rebuke. A prayer.
I smiled and gave him what he wanted, taking his erection in my hand and positioning it in front of my mouth.
Then I slid my lips down his rigid length, taking him as deep as I could.
When I couldn’t fit another inch of him in my mouth, I contracted my lips as well as I could, then slowly lifted my head, squeezing his shaft along the way, wanting to leave rings of Don’t F*ck With Me red in my wake.
He grunted and cursed, his hands fisting in the towels on the bed.
When I got to the top, I pressed a kiss to the tip and looked at what I’d done. “A masterpiece,” I said. “A work of art.”