11. Riley
That night,as I’m setting the table for dinner, Mr. Sullivan arrives home early.
I’m almost startled as he comes through the door—usually he works late, coming home just in time to say goodnight to Archie, or even later, when the boy is already fast asleep. He always stops in to see his nephew in the evenings, even if Archie is passed out, but he’s typically too busy to spend much time with us.
But today, he’s home at five. He comes into the kitchen, and Archie runs up to him for a tackle hug.
“You saw my concert!” he exclaims shrilly—it’s all he’s been talking about since I picked him up from daycare. “Did you like it?”
“I loved it,” Mr. Sullivan says, ruffling his hair. He looks up at me. “Is there enough food for one more? I could always order us some delivery, if need be.”
“There should be plenty,” I say, surprised—pleasantly so. “We were just about to eat. Do you want to join us?”
Tonight’s dinner is fresh, pan-seared salmon and broccoli. Archie is a somewhat picky eater, like all kids, but for some reason, he seems fine with the usual suspects, like fish and greens. And since the budget is high in the Sullivan household, I try to get him whatever healthy foods I can convince him to eat.
As we sit down to eat, Archie tells us about his burgeoning musical career. “We had to ‘member all the songs,” he says, a serious look on his young face. “It was hard.”
“How did you remember them?” asks Mr. Sullivan.
“You just have to do them over and over again. That way you get the words.” Archie nods matter-of-factly. “I sang them during my bathtime.”
“It’s true,” I say. “He did. He was very diligent.”
Archie looks at me in confusion, not recognizing the word, then eventually seems to decide that it must be a compliment. He smiles in satisfaction, spearing a piece of broccoli with his little fork.
When he’s finished with the food, he runs off to the living room, singing one of the concert songs as he goes. I stand up to collect the dishes, and to my surprise, Mr. Sullivan helps me. He reaches for Archie’s plate before I can grab it.
In the kitchen, I run the sink, rinsing the plates while Mr. Sullivan stacks them in the dishwasher. There’s something oddly rhythmic about the way we work together to clean the dishes.
“It was cool of you to come to Archie’s concert,” I say, breaking the amicable silence between us. “You must’ve been busy.”
He looks up at me from where he’s stooped over the open dishwasher, almost smiling. “I know you think I’m a workaholic, but if there’s one thing that can drag me away from work, it’s my nephew.”
“I overheard some of the other moms at the preschool,” I say, teasing. “They all seem to want you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have crushes on you.” I laugh, trying to sound lighthearted, joking.
Mr. Sullivan rolls his eyes, straightening. He holds his hand out for another plate. “Oh. I figured, to be honest. That bunch has a tendency to stare.”
“You should be flattered.” I pass a now-clean plate over to him, and he tucks it into the dishwasher.
“Why?” He huffs a humorless laugh. “I didn’t even notice them.”
I turn my attention back into the sink to hide my smile. That gives me a little bit of satisfaction—though I can’t quite admit why.
I run the sink to clear the rest of the suds down into the drain, and Mr. Sullivan closes up the dishwasher. As we disperse from our positions, we move in opposite directions, nearly running into each other.
For a moment that seems to last hours, we’re inches apart. His hand, braced on the granite island, is practically on top of mine. I’m close enough to see the pupils dilate in his deep, blue eyes.
Then the spell breaks, and he clears his throat, stepping back. I move to the side to let him pass, which he does without a word.
He heads into the living room, and I go to the counter to wrap up the leftovers, as if nothing happened. But my cheeks are still burning from the tension.
I spend the rest of the evening in some kind of haze. Mr. Sullivan hangs out with Archie a little, playing with him in the living room. Of course, it makes sense—he isn’t usually around this early, and he wants to take the chance to spend time with his kid. But I also think that he’s trying to avoid me, if he can help it.
Eventually, I come in to take Archie up to bed. He’s tired after his big day and settles in easily, but after the slight tension with Mr. Sullivan, I would rather not go downstairs and face the awkwardness. I go straight to my room and flop onto the bed.
Rolling over, I pull out my phone to text Olivia.
Since I started this job, I’ve been keeping my best friend updated on the situation here. Mostly, when we talk about it, I feel like she’s almost living vicariously through me—her situation at her own job is annoying enough that she’ll take what she can get.
But that means that Olivia knows everything about the tension between me and Mr. Sullivan. Which means that Olivia is the perfect person to vent to.
ME: God, things are so weird here tonight…
OLIVIA: Weird how?
ME: I bumped into him in the kitchen.
OLIVIA: Omg!
OLIVIA: In a good way, or…?
Sighing, I lower the phone and lean back against the pillows. Olivia has been like this from the moment I told her about walking in on Mr. Sullivan jerking off. She actively wants us to get together, and every time she insists on it, I have to remind her what a terrible idea that is.
ME: There is no good way
OLIVIA: What are you talking about??? There’s a hot way!
ME: He’s my boss!
OLIVIA: So what?
ME: This job is a really good opportunity for me. I don’t want to blow it.
ME: And it’s definitely unprofessional to make a move on your boss…
OLIVIA: :(
ME: I can’t lose this job!
OLIVIA: I know… but…
OLIVIA: :(
OLIVIA: Man I wish I could trade places with you lol.
ME: Is your boss being annoying again?
OLIVIA: The worst…
OLIVIA: He’s such a hard-ass
ME: Cole is kind of a hard-ass, too.
OLIVIA: But he’s gorgeous. It’s not the same.
ME: Fair enough
OLIVIA: Anytime you wanna swap, let me know
ME: Lol, I’m good, thanks
ME: Sorry you have to put up with him, tho. I’m sure something better will come along.
OLIVIA: Yeah, I hope so.
OLIVIA: Anyway, I have to get an early start tomorrow, so I’m gonna go to bed.
ME: Probably a good idea.
ME: Goodnight!
OLIVIA: Goodnight :)
I plug my phone into the wall and get changed into pajamas—a simple gray tank top and shorts. I go through my nightly routine, mulling over the conversation I just had with Olivia while I brush my teeth.
It figures that Olivia wants me to get together with my boss, after putting up with so much bullshit from hers. But that’s the problem. The idea of starting something with her boss is unthinkable, repulsive. It’s distant enough that she’s never thought about what might go wrong in a situation like this.
Namely, that my job itself would be in danger.
I finish brushing my teeth, then comb my hair and head back into the main bedroom.
As I settle into bed, my thoughts have shifted to my strange run-in with Mr. Sullivan. Honestly, it shouldn’t have been that strange. People run into each other all the time. Awkward physicality is just part of sharing space.
So why did it get me so flustered? And, for that matter, why did he seem to feel the heat, too? I know I wasn’t the only one acting tense.
Groggily, I sink into the pillows, turning onto my side. Is this real, this magnetism between us? What if I’m just imagining it—making something out of nothing, turning completely normal interactions into awkward, stilted encounters?
Does he even feel the same attraction toward me that I do for him? Or is this all one-sided?
Even as I drift off to sleep, my mind is spinning with frustration.
* * *
I stand at one of the large windows in Cole’s house, in the lightly-used sunroom where I set up my easel, looking out at a beautiful sky. I’m thinking about painting it; the clouds are like strange wisps of satin, and I know they would be stunning rendered in watercolor.
Before I can turn back to my easel, though, I feel arms wrapping around me from behind, strong and well-muscled. The touch is gentle, but it still spikes my heart rate. That’s nothing, though, compared to the electric sensation of a kiss on my neck.
A sudden, desperate feeling builds in my core. Desire. Need.
His voice is in my ear. “What am I going to feel if I touch you?”
I can’t respond—I can only whimper. His hand slides down the side of my body, fingertips gliding over my tight-fitting shirt and finding their place between my legs.
“It’s only fair,” Cole whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “You saw me come. I want to feel you come.”
His fingers begin to set a rhythm against my clit, over my pants. The fabric between his touch and my core frustrates me; it’s an unnecessary barrier, and I want it gone. It’s going to drive me insane.
And so is the husky tone he takes as he says, “Do you know what I want to do to you?”
I barely manage to shake my head, panting.
“I want to lick every inch of you,” he growls, his finger circling. I’m so wet now that I’m positive he can feel it. “I want to hear you scream my name. I want to make you feel so good that you forget how to speak.”
I’ve already forgotten how to speak. All I can do is whimper as his ministrations quicken, bringing me right to the edge, his breath hot on my neck and shoulder.
“Do you want more?” he breathes.
“Yes,” I moan, pressing against him. “God, yes.”
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes.”
“Beg,” he says, his voice low.
My pulse quickens in my temples, and I’m certain he can feel the flutter of my heartbeat as he presses his lips against the side of my neck.
“Please,” I gasp finally. “Please, fuck me. I want it so bad. I want to feel you inside me. I want to come on your cock.”
He exhales sharply, and his hands move to my waist, tugging down my pants. He gropes my ass, massaging me as he drags the jeans down my thighs, catching the lace hem of my panties in his teeth.
Then he tugs off my shirt, exploring my chest. He fondles my breasts, his thumbs sliding over my sensitive nipples. I moan again, pushing myself back against him—and feel the length of his cock against my ass, rock hard and waiting.
He pushes me up against the window, bracing my hands over my head, palms against the glass. From this angle, I can see the street. Anyone out there will definitely be able to see me.
Completely naked. On display.
“I want the whole world to watch me fuck you,” he growls.
He grips my hips and drives into me forcefully, filling me up. I whimper and mewl, grasping at the window rail as if to anchor myself. I’m so turned on, so wet, that he slides in and out easily.
And he’s huge, reaching parts of me that I didn’t even know I needed. He starts slow, but builds quickly, fucking me harder and harder.
The pleasure is intense—more intense than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. It ramps up with his pace until finally, with a thrust that draws a groan from his throat, he tips me over the edge.
I come, crying out in pure ecstasy as I reach my release.