Chapter 8
chapter
eight
Thorne
Being productive after making Addison come proves challenging. Thankfully, I don’t have any new legal fires to put out, so I channel my energy into my new Rosie story.
“Ms. Windsor, I need you in my office immediately.”
My pretty assistant glances at me from her desk and gives me a nod.
If she followed my instructions, then she’s not wearing any panties under that skirt.
She steps into my office, and I close and lock the door behind her.
“Over to my desk, hands on the wood.”
She immediately obeys, and I’m presented with her plump ass outlined by her tight skirt. I run my palm over the curves of her cheeks.
“Did you wear panties, Ms. Windsor?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good girl. So if I fuck you now while you’re bent over my desk, then I’ll be leaking out of you for the rest of the day. My come running down your legs. Just thinking about that has me so damn hard.”
“Yes, please.”
“You want that? You want me to mark my territory, fill you up, and let you sit in the mess of us afterwards?”
“Yes. I want that.”
“Fuck, I want you. Pull that skirt up, all the way up. I want to see your pretty ass.” I unzip my trousers and pull myself out.
Yeah, so I abandoned the snowed-in cabin story. Or at least pushed it back for a while. This new one is unfolding like magic. The words are pouring out of me.
I try to tell myself it’s because Ford finally got his head out of his ass and told his assistant, Mia, how he really felt about her. Now they’re engaged and in love, and I set that whole thing in motion. So an office romance fits.
But I know that’s just an excuse. Because in my mind, Ms. Joy Windsor looks remarkably like Addison. Not to mention she’s the first virgin character I’ve ever written.
The hero, Peter Sinclair, is a complete goner for his innocent assistant. He can say the things that I can’t. Feel as strongly as he can. Fiction can be intentionally messy and expressive in ways that are inappropriate in the real world.
After Addison and I finalize our plans for the evening via text messages, I leave the office on time and head straight home.
I’ve already put an order in at Gator’s and paid extra to have it delivered to my house later tonight.
Dinner isn’t part of her research, but if I’m taking Addison’s virginity, feeding her is the very least I can do.
And it seems less potentially horrifying than buying her a diamond ring.
I get my house ready, which doesn’t take much time considering it’s just me, and I tend to be on the tidy side. I decide to go casual tonight and don a pair of jeans and a dark green Henley.
When she arrives, she stands in my doorway looking both brave and uncertain, clutching her bag like a shield.
She’s standing just inside the door, porchlight catching on the soft fabric of her dress. It’s a pale, dusky pink—something that should look sweet and innocent, but on her it does entirely different things to my equilibrium.
The material drapes over her curves like it was made to test my restraint, the neckline modest but somehow more dangerous for it. Every time she breathes, the fabric moves, whispering against her skin. Giving me just a hint of her impressive cleavage.
Her hair is loose, the ends brushing her shoulders, and the faintest curl has escaped to rest against her collarbone. I want to tuck it back, to feel the silk of it between my fingers.
She’s wearing heels—nothing dramatic, but enough to make her legs look longer. And when she shifts her weight, nervous energy rippling through her, the movement is pure distraction.
The only jewelry she has on is a thin gold chain that rests just above the neckline of her dress. When she laughs, it glints—one flash of light that hits me like a spark.
It’s such a simple outfit. Nothing showy, nothing meant to entice.
And that’s precisely why it undoes me.
Because Addison Blankenship doesn’t need to try. She just is.
And God help me, she’s beautiful.
She shifts under my gaze, cheeks coloring faintly.
“Do I pass inspection?” she asks, smiling just enough to let me know she’s aware of the effect she’s having.
“Barely,” I say. “I was expecting something more… professional. A blazer, perhaps. Power suit.”
She snorts softly. “Sorry to disappoint. I left my corporate armor at home.”
“Good,” I murmur. “I prefer this version of you.”
Her lips curve, a little uncertain. “You mean the nervous, overdressed one?”
I motion for her to follow me to the dining table. “The real one.”
Dinner’s already set out—shrimp po’boys, fries, two glasses of wine. I pull out a chair for her. She sits, smoothing the skirt of her dress with hands that tremble just slightly.
“You didn’t have to order food,” she says, watching me take the seat across from her.
“Of course I did. I’m providing the full date experience.”
She tilts her head. “I thought this was research.”
“It is,” I say, feigning solemnity. “Comprehensive fieldwork requires dinner. And possibly dessert.”
Her laugh breaks the tension, easy and bright. “You take your job very seriously.”
“I do,” I say, softer now. “Especially when it involves beautiful company.”
“Fair enough. This looks delicious.”
“Eat,” I instruct. “And you have every opportunity to leave whenever you like. No questions, no guilt.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine. “You’re giving me an out?”
“I’d be a terrible lawyer if I didn’t lay out all your options.”
For a moment, we simply eat and talk. She tells me about Kelsie’s bakery, about the chaos of running a small-town marketing campaign. Then, about all of her other siblings.
I tell her about contract law in the least boring way possible. My parents and sister.
When the conversation drifts to books, she leans forward, chin resting on her hand. “Have you ever read a romance novel?”
“Would you like to know a secret?”
Her eyes flash. “Yes.”
“Aside from boring legal texts, they’re the only types of books I love to read.”
She gasps. “Truly? That’s so forward-thinking of you. I bet my dumb brothers wouldn’t know what to do with one of those books.”
“Have you always been a reader?”
“I have. Fiction feels… safer than real life.”
“I know the feeling,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
She tilts her head. “Do you write?”
I take a slow sip of my tea. “Mostly contracts and sternly worded emails.”
She smiles. “Pity. You’ve got that sexy bad boy hero thing down.”
“I would settle for sexy bad boy research assistant,” I say.
She sips her iced tea. “Who are your favorite authors?”
“Oh, well, I am a big fan of Anita Dix. She lives here in town, you know? Her assassin books are enthralling.”
“I did not realize that. I have read her. Once. She’s very good, but I prefer my romance without the violence on the side.”
“That’s fair. Since you are choosing to write historical romances, you must have favorite authors of your own,” I say.
“I do. I read across the genres, though. Just not any of the dark stuff. I love Robyn DeHart’s historicals. I adore Hope Ford’s contemporaries. But Rosie Thorne is my absolute favorite.”
I nearly spit my tea across the room. Shit. I cough to try and cover it up.
“Sorry, ice cube went down the wrong way,” I say. “Carry on.”
“Oh, well, I was just going to say that the best thing about good romance novels is the anticipation. That feeling that something’s about to happen, even when you’re pretending it’s not.”
“That’s what good writing does,” I say, aware of how close her fingers are to mine on the table. “It builds a promise.”
Her eyes lift to meet mine. “And then delivers?”
“If it’s done right.”
She smiles, the kind that curls slowly, like a secret unfolding. “Do you think we’re good at that? Building promises?”
I let out a low laugh. “We’re certainly trying.”
Her gaze lingers on my mouth, and suddenly, neither of us is pretending anymore.
I set my glass down, studying her. “Do you ever think about it? Your first time, I mean. How you’d want it to be?”
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t look away. “Sometimes.”
“And?”
“I guess I picture it being… gentle, but real. Not perfect, just honest. The kind of moment you remember because of how it feels, not because it checks some box.”
I nod slowly, heart thudding far too hard. “That’s a good fantasy.”
Her lips curve. “What about you?” Then she laughs. “I meant if you had any thoughts about how tonight would go. I know you’re not fantasizing about losing your virginity. That probably happened years ago.”
I let out a low laugh. “At the moment, mine involves trying very hard not to kiss you before we finish dinner.”
She goes still, then whispers, “You could fail at that.”
That’s all the invitation I need.
I lean across the table, brushing a crumb from her lip with my thumb. Her breath catches; my pulse roars in my ears.
“Addison. You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
“You don’t have to seduce me, Thorne. I’m here for this.”
I sit back a bit. “This isn’t seduction. This is the truth. You’re beautiful, Addison, and if no one has ever told you that, then you’ve surrounded yourself with a passel of idiots.”
“I’d like to get started before I lose my nerve,” she says.
“We don’t have to do anything.”
“Stop saying that. If you don’t want to go through with it, then I understand. But I want this. I want this with you.”
I stand, grab her hand, and pull her into my bedroom. “I’m not sure I have the patience to go slowly.”
“Then, I guess we start with the clothes,” she says. Her dress comes off her body, and she tosses it behind her. Pauses a moment, then turns back and retrieves it and drapes it nicely over the chair in the corner.
It’s on my tongue to pledge my undying love to her in that moment, because that was so authentic and real, and it’s everything that I know to be true about this woman.
I pull off my own shirt and drape it with her dress.
When I step back over to her, she reaches for me.
“Can I touch you?” she asks.
“Yes. Please touch me,” my voice sounds desperate, and I don’t even care.
Her hands go to my pecs, her nails scraping through my chest hair.
“I like that you have body hair. Even if it is faint in color,” she says.
“Are you making fun of my pale body hair?”
“I would never,” she says. “Also, I find your freckles ridiculously sexy.”
“These words you’re speaking sound like compliments, but then also don’t.”
She laughs, then unhooks her bra and lets it slide off her body to the floor between us.
I cup her tits, appreciating the weight of them against my palms. Her skin is pale and creamy, and her nipples are hard and a perfect pink.
“Yes, I’m definitely going to want to fuck these.” I press them together, scrape my thumbs over her hard nipples.
“We can do that,” she says.
I shake my head. “No. Tonight is about you.”
We kiss while I explore her tits and she traces her fingertips against my chest.
“I’ve got to taste you again, I can’t wait any longer,” I tell her. “Lie down on the bed.”
I work my way down her body, then pull off her damp panties. She’s so damn beautiful. Big tits, wide hips, a soft belly, and thick thighs.
“You’re goddamn perfect, love,” I tell her. Then I wedge myself between her thighs.
I keep our eyes locked as I lean forward and lick her from slit to clit.
Her lips part and her eyes darken.
I slide one finger inside her tight, wet channel, and she grips me so damn tight. I curve my finger and find that textured spot on the front wall of her pussy and rub across it.
“Holy hell!” Her hips buck, letting me know I’ve hit the right spot.
“I want to make you come quickly. I want to watch this time,” I tell her. “Since this morning, I was buried here and not paying close attention.
I suck her clit into my mouth and add another finger inside her. She’s so tight. She squirms, so I press my free arm across her hips to keep her still. I finger fuck her G-spot while flicking my tongue against her clit. Making sure my rhythm is steady.
She’s writhing and pressing her pussy against my mouth. Her nails scrape against my scalp, and she threads her fingers through my hair.
“I’m going to come!” she shrieks. A surge of fresh wetness coats my tongue. I slow my movements, just licking gently to coax out every last tremor of her orgasm.