16. The Milo Buffet
16
THE MILO BUFFET
Veronica
If I were making a list of my top-five risky ideas this summer, launching myself at the man who pays my bills would be one through five.
But lust is stronger than logic.
I clasp Milo’s handsome face, look into his blue eyes, and I . . . pause.
Let myself experience the anticipation, no matter how foolish this choice is.
He curls his fingers more tightly over my shoulders, tension lining his body. But he waits too, patiently.
I’ve imagined kissing this man so many times. There are easily five hundred eighty seven dirty deeds and counting that I want to try with him. I have no clue how he connected the dots, and I don’t care. My mind whirs into sensory overload. I crave his lips, hard and rough against mine, then tender and gentle, then swoony and so terribly soft I go weak in the knees. I’ll take one of everything please.
But as I look into his clever blue eyes, a delicious new knowledge moves through me. I don’t want Mister Sexy Pants anymore.
I want Milo Dawson—my boss, my new friend, this real man. And just like that, I restart, my overactive brain quieting at last. I run my thumb over his sandpaper scruff then bring his face closer to mine. I say hello to his mouth with mine.
His lips are pillowy soft, and he tastes fresh, borderline minty. Like he brushed his teeth after lunch. That alone is a turn-on, but so is the sound he makes as I kiss him. A low hum of vibration.
The noise flutters through me, making my skin buzz.
We bump noses, then angle our faces, finding a better position. A shift here, a move there as we discover how to kiss each other.
As I kiss Milo, I eagerly take mental notes, learning what he likes right as he learns more about what I crave. We read the books of each other’s wishes. With each passing second, our kisses get better, hotter, headier.
I kiss the corner of his lips, then slide my mouth over his. He takes my bet and raises it, nipping me, then sucking gently on my lower lip.
That’s so good, my whole body trembles. He curls his fingers more tightly around my shoulders, like if he travels one more inch on my body, he’ll slam me against the wall and kiss me ruthlessly.
I need that. But first, I want this moment where I can set the pace. He gives it to me, as if he’s holding open the door to this kiss and letting me walk through in my own time. Slowly, taking my time, I cross the threshold, indulging in another sweep of my lips against his.
Then, once I’m inside, he kicks the door closed. As he takes over the kiss, his checked restraint unspools. He slides his hands down my arms, exploring me, and around my waist. Those strong hands curl around my hips, then dig in. His thumb presses hard into the bone, firm and insistent. I like that—the possessiveness in his touch. I break the kiss long enough to whisper a desperate command: “Kiss me more.”
He groans, his blue eyes dark and fiery. His voice is a heady growl as he says, “You taste like cinnamon and dirty dreams.”
I smile, feeling like the naughty girl I am.
Sliding his tongue over mine, he explores my mouth at a greedy, hungry pace. My body crackles with electricity from head to toe. I have to get closer to him, so I press flush against his toned frame. That makes me dizzy. I rub my thigh against his hard-on, like a little thief, stealing a preview of his firm length against me.
Milo laughs softly. “I know what you just did.”
I laugh too. “Aren’t you astute?”
“You tried to cop a feel,” he says, his voice still raspy.
“Tried? I think I did cop a feel.”
He reaches for my hand, threads his fingers through mine. Dear goddess. That feels so good, him holding my hand while he grinds his erection against my leg. He’s sending me a message, too, as he goes stroking my palm, sliding his thumb between my fingers.
I swear he’s saying you can cop a feel with your hands now .
I shudder out a breath, then let go of his hand to squeeze his hard-on.
“Fuck yes,” he grunts, and that powers me on. I stroke and rub, savoring the hard ridge of his cock against my palm.
He pumps his hips once, twice. Then another time, like he’s lost to the sensation.
Then, I squeeze him again. His restraint snaps, right with mine. Milo grabs my face, then backs me up against the wall right by his office. I lose hold of his dick when he pushes me against the doorjamb so it wedges into my back.
Angling his face against my neck, he drags his nose along the column of my throat, inhaling my scent.
“Ahhh,” I mutter, a cross between a purr and a groan. Milo’s sniffing my skin, and it’s so fucking erotic.
His mouth travels to my ear where he whispers, all gravelly and a little frustrated, “Your orange blossom drives me insane.”
But it’s a good frustration. He’s all tense and coiled. Like he might pounce on me. I hope he does. Really soon.
“I had a feeling,” I say, all fizzy.
“Yeah. What was the giveaway?”
“You seem to like to smell me at work,” I whisper.
He levels me with a gaze that’s dark and hungry. “I want to smell you, and taste you, and kiss you all over,” he says, as he stares at my mouth. “Shit. That’s too much. I should stop.”
He steps back, but I won’t allow that—his worry. I reach out, grab the neckline of his shirt as I jerk him against me. “I like it,” I say. “All of it. Everything.”
“Good. That’s so damn good. There’s so much I want to say to you, Veronica,” he tells me, his voice raw.
But he speaks with his hands instead, dragging one over the fabric of my dress, then gripping my thigh. I shiver, and I ache terribly for him too. My pulse beats savagely between my legs. I don’t bother checking the time. I don’t even care. I grab that wandering hand of his. “So, you’re good with your hands, you say?”
His grin is wicked. “I can show you.”
I clasp his hand tighter, slide it up, up, and under my skirt, then against my skin. “You better.”
With a rough groan, he grazes his hand up my thigh, travels along my flesh.
I wobble.
Then, his fingers play with the waistband of my white panties. Can this moment please last all night?
The sweet, agonizing ache is incredible. I want to stretch this bliss for as long as I possibly can, and I want him to satisfy my need right now.
I just . . . want.
“Let me tell you, sunshine,” he whispers, using the nickname that I imagined Mister Sexy Pants gave me in one of my columns. “ This is heaven.” He cups his palm between my thighs. “Right here,” he rasps out, so I can’t miss what heaven is to him— me .
He glides his fingers across the cotton panel of my damp panties. “So fucking wet,” he says, with dirty approval.
“You ruined them,” I whisper.
“And I have no regrets.”
Funny, I don’t have any regrets either, as I push his hand inside my undies. He slides his fingers where I’m desperate for him, stroking my slickness.
I shudder everywhere. Then, I clutch at his hair, kiss his jaw, and hold on tight as I ride his hand. He strokes me intently as I chase my release.
I know how to do this. I know what I want. I know just how hard and fast I need it.
And Milo reads my lust perfectly. “You want to fuck my hand, sunshine?”
I love that he asks. That he wants me to use my words.
“I do,” I pant out, rocking my hips, thrusting wildly as I seek just the right angle, just the right speed.
I use his hand like it’s my new favorite toy. When I hit maximum friction, I’m shaking all over, and this close to the edge. Delicious agony rushes through my cells. I grind against his hand until colors burst behind my eyes. I moan ceaselessly as he coaxes me through the finish with words like yes, so hot, love this .
And I love it too. This taste of reality.
But the blissfully real moment ends with the bleating of his phone. His alarm is a sheep letting out a long, unmistakable baa from his office.
Not to be outdone, my phone speaks up from the depths of my purse. A robotic, English voice asks, “What is eighteen percent of fifty?”
Milo blinks. “What the hell is that?”
I drop to my knees, grab my purse, and do math. It’s wretched. “So I don’t ever miss a dog appointment. It’s my evil alarm.”
“I’ll say.”
“You have five seconds, or we will escalate,” the British voice chirps.
“Escalate to what?” Milo asks, horrified. “Square roots?”
I wince as I fish out the obnoxious phone. “Exactly,” I say, then tap in a nine, silencing the question.
Milo stares at me, bug-eyed. “You set an alarm that makes you do percentages? That’s so cool.”
“Percentages are the most useful adult math,” I say with a shrug. “And I can’t be late. The daycare closes in fifteen minutes.”
A sheep baas from his office. Louder this time. “Shit,” he mutters, then ducks into his office, and turns off his alarm too. When he returns to me, he says, “I need to see Iris’s baby. But give me one minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
He pops into the restroom. While he’s gone, I adjust my dress, then tug at my panties.
But they’re useless, and this is going to be the real walk of shame. I have to pick up my pooch in wet panties, then walk home. Ugh. Stilettos and little black dresses at dawn have nothing on soaked undies after a work diddle.
Note to self: Pack for work like you’d pack for a trip. As if you’ll change skivvies twelve times a day.
But, as I sling my purse on my shoulder, I freeze. A wave of nerves crashes into me. Will I actually need to pack like this for work? Was this a one-time thing? What the hell happens tomorrow?
I glance around like I’ll find a sign pointing out where we go next, but all I see is a wandering dog. Oh, shoot. Trudy paces by the front door, her eyes wide, saying help me .
I spin around, finding her leash on Milo’s desk. I grab it, sprint to the cutie, and hook her up. We fly out the door. A few seconds later, she’s squatting by a hydrant. True relief.
When she’s done, Milo opens the door, his gaze a little awestruck. “You’re definitely the dog-gess,” he says, grateful.
I just smile. I don’t know what to say. I usually do, but I’ve got nothing now, since I never imagined the reality after the fantasy—what happens after your boss fingerbangs you.
“I don’t want to make you late. You need to get your dog,” he says, apologetic, but what does his sorry mean?
I hand him Trudy’s leash. His fingers graze mine while his eyes search my face. “I’ll text you later, Veronica,” he says, gently, but I don’t want to read into his tone. He gestures to the store. “I should get my bike and go too.”
His voice is strained. He must feel as awkward as I do. Great. Just great. Tomorrow is going to be so weird.
“Yeah, definitely,” I say with extra pep I don’t feel. I turn around, walking away, utterly bewildered.
Is this how hookups with off-limits guys go? Maybe this is why I’ve been picky. Maybe this is why I’ve avoided over-and-outs.
I head away from the store, unsettled.
Thirty seconds later, feet pound behind me, coupled with paws. Man and dog. Milo catches up to me. “I mean it,” he says, insistent, and when he presses a kiss to my cheek, I believe him.
But as I walk away, I’m not worried about whether he’ll text or not. I’m worried about what he might have to say.