Bad Boy Boss (4 page)

“If I turn the heat down to sixty-two, you and I will have a very clingy night. Back in a sec.” He walked out, obviously to turn down the heat. He came back, did his minor strip and got in next to me.

I lay there and waited. I was prepared to wait all damn night if I had to. After what he – or actually Laurel – had done to me, it was up to him to follow through.

The first moves were tentative. He was well aware that his cradle robbing ex-lover’s technique had pissed me off. I realized, though, that I had some of my own techniques. Maybe it was time for me to teach him a thing or two.

I pushed him on his back, moved my leg over him and straddled him. I began to ride him fast, and then I would slow down to barely moving. I lifted myself onto my knees so I was only making contact with the tip of his cock. I loved feeling myself slide over the tip, over and over again, reaching behind me to help hold him in place.

Then, as soon as I saw he had relaxed into the sensation, I took a deep breath and impaled myself. The movement was so fast, he gasped for air and I grinned to see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I repeated the varying speeds several times and finally, when I could barely stand it any longer, I rode him fast and hard until we exploded again.

He held me for a while, from behind, licking me between my shoulder blades, rubbing my breasts and maintaining the heat. Then he decided to play my new game. flipping me over and torturing me in the same speed-varying fury.

He came and I just turned to liquid. After my third – fourth? I’m not sure. I’d lost the ability to count by then – orgasm, we flopped together, satiated. I scared the hell out of myself, because I said, “God, I love you.”

I was so embarrassed, I wanted to hide in some small box somewhere and just scream. I moaned and looked away from him, burying my face in his pillows.

Peter made me look at him. It took some persuading to get me to lift my face from my downy hiding place, but finally, I brought my eyes to his.

He said,

“In 1973, my mother was a journalist who worked for a major publication. My father was a soap opera actor. Rich people do these things, having no reason to make an honest living by working. My father was thinking about getting into producing, so he and a friend had a workshop for script development through NATAS, the people who do the Emmys. My mother called and got my father who happened to be in the office that day. They talked for two hours. He met her the next Saturday. A month and three days later, they were married at the UN chapel because he was an Episcopalian and she was Jewish. No one in his family or hers knew until December when she got a Jewish ceremony on the second.

“I am the youngest, the baby. I have two older sisters, one used to hold me over the toilet while the other threatened to flush me. Wait here.”

He went out and came back with a laptop. “Read,” he commanded. “Start from the bottom and work your way up.”

The emails read:

Mom, I know you and Dad hooked up pretty damn quick. I met someone and I think it’s happening to me. How long does it take to be sure?

Science indicates somewhere between a second and a minute. Just teasing. I don’t think there’s a good answer. But I’m no expert; I only fell in love once. Haha! Why don’t you ask your father? He might be able to give a better perspective. In the meantime, CALL ME. I want to know all about this woman.

Dad, sent this to Mom: “I know you and Mom hooked up pretty damn quick. I met someone like that. How long does it take to be sure?” She said to ask you.

How long does it take to say a word?

Seriously, I knew from the first word your mother said to me. Don’t remember the actual word, but I remember the context. Darwin said we get together to make things better; that was what it was, the thing that makes things better. If she does that to you, hop in your Jag, speed to Vegas and marry her. If I had had that kind of sense, you’d be a month older.”

I was stunned. I scrolled back to the beginning and read it over. Then I studied the dates and times. I needed to collect myself before I said anything. When I did, I noticed the look in his eye. He was unsure of my reaction. I guess the man could show signs of insecurity. That in itself was better than him saying those three words. “So, we’re in love?” I said.

“Guess so.” He hugged me and buried his face in my hair.

“What are we going to do about that?”

He kissed that soft spot right behind my earlobe and held me close. “I really don’t know. It just scares me.”

“Me too,” I said and just held onto him.

He was right about the temperature. I had to hold him or freeze to death. The next round of lovemaking that night was the one that will go down in my book of personal bests. He slowly hit every erogenous zone I had. I was shaking, I was so turned on and so alive to his every touch. I couldn’t get my mouth off of his and I ran my hands all over his body.

He finally pulled me up on my side, moved his hand down the inside of my arm, brushing the side of my breast, then down across my hip to my knee, and pulling my leg up to open me up to him. As hot as we were, we didn’t do a lot of moving. Everything was gentle and slow, punctuated with little thrills and shivers. His hand on the small of my back moved me in little circles against him. It moved him inside me as well and he would hit the spot every few minutes, and I’d shiver from head to toe. We didn’t stop kissing, except when he teased me by licking my lips. Everything just felt right and perfect, making love for the first time after admitting to being in love. I don’t think it has ever lasted as long, but then again, there have been more than a few times that I lost all track of time when we were together, part of each other. He came when I ran my leg up and down his side a few times and the warmth spread throughout my body.

When I woke the first time, it was still dark. One of my tits was cold, so I wiggled underneath him to get it on his chest. His arms came up around me and my freezing nipple melted under his warm tongue. He brought a hand up to replace his tongue and we started kissing. He brought his other hand up between my legs and slowly opened me up to his fingers and the way he rubbed and flicked me into an orgasm. He got on top of me and we melted into each other again. He warmed me up again from inside, and I didn’t let him off me as I fell asleep again.

For the second morning in a row, I awoke to a hand between my legs.

“You are not getting up this time until you finish the job,” I said. Then I licked his lips… well, sauces; goose, gander and all that.

Now Jimmy, the drug dealer, he had a short refractory period and had managed three times in one evening, and it hurt like hell for a couple days. This was different. It was all so soft and gentle, my pelvis wasn’t getting slammed, and my vagina wasn’t getting treated like a stick someone was trying to light on fire with friction. Eventually I turned Peter on his back and got on top of him. As I said before, who counts at a time like that?

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said. “So we really don’t have to shower together.”

“We’ve got plenty of time to shower together; isn’t that the proper way to phrase that?” I said.

“That would be correct,” he said as he led me to the shower.

We soaped and rinsed each other, slipping along each other’s bodies until the hot water began to run out. Then we dried each other, half the time getting the dried portion wet again because the corresponding part of the other person’s body was still wet and, well they just sort of found their way together.

We dressed, ate bacon and eggs for breakfast and headed off to work. The first costume was going to be ready that day, so most of the day would be spent in the forest. I didn’t know much about the project, except that it was about fairies, so I just assumed it was like a fairy tale. It wasn’t.

Kate’s costume was a pretty amazing copy of a photo. The photo was one of a fairy. Once I was in the costume, less the wings, Peter sat me down at a makeup table. I'd never had a man apply makeup to me and I nearly purred under the sensation. By the time he was done, my face was a reasonable copy of the fairy’s. Once the wings were attached we were off, up Sugarloaf Mountain in the San Bernardino National Forest.

He showed me the drawings that he needed to replicate with a real, live me. Some involved flying and I learned to jump into a pose so that in a still picture, I would appear to be flying. A couple times, I found rocks to climb and jump off of to hold the pose longer. It was both more and less challenging than the figure modeling. The camera froze the motion, not the model, so while as a figure model you have to concentrate on not moving, the photographic model has to concentrate on her motion and on not stopping. Peter would show me his sketch and I would make a kind of dance around the pose so I came back to it time after time approaching it from different angles and positions so that, hopefully, one frame would be perfect.

I wasn’t cold because the exercise of moving kept me warm. Peter had brought along a picnic of the corned beef sandwiches, potato salad and we split a tenth of Merlot.

We stopped at about three, because Peter said the sun was slanting wrong for the north face of the mountain and we lost most of the north light.

I carefully took off the costume and hung it up behind the screen, just putting on my boots and socks with the wrap skirt because I knew I’d have to change.

“What about dinner?” I asked.

“Your turn. Also in your meat keeper, there are two pork chops and two pieces of calves’ liver, ham and bacon.”

“Well, I know we have onions,” I said, “and I know how to do bacon, liver and onions. I saw some frozen peas. Normally they wouldn’t go, but if I cut them with some cocktail onions it’ll be a perfect match.”

“Sounds good; we can go over the shots from today and decide if we have any keepers.”

“Well, it might help to know what we’re doing. About all I know is that we’re doing a book about fairies and not the type that live in Frisco.”

“The book is about the fairies of Cottingley. In 1917 and 1920, two young girls took five photographs of fairies. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle became interested and wrote an article about them for the Strand Magazine and, in 1922 a book about them called The Coming of the Fairies.

“Kate does wardrobe for television, so I set her up to recreate the costumes for the fairies from the five photographs the girls took.

“Now the girls confessed to faking the first four, but not the fifth, which they both claimed to have taken. The standard explanation for this is that they didn’t change the plate, and so the double exposure would show each girl the picture of a fairy they didn’t take.

“Well, I got to thinking, suppose there actually are fairies and they don’t want to be found? With modern digital photography I can recreate the fairies, and make the claim that the Cottingley fairies were real, have the photos as proof.”

“And how will you explain me?”

“Do you really think anyone will believe it? It’s a children’s book, sort of like proving Santa Claus is real.”

“But Santa Claus is real. I know because I sat on his lap and told him that I wanted a ‘Tickle Me Elmo’ and I got one.”

“Then you’re a real fairy. I have pictures of you to prove it.”

So I just kissed him because I couldn’t answer his argument. And really, being a fairy did have its charms. It was so far from where we met in Cash’s backyard that I wondered again about his intuition. How did he know that the fake punching chick with a bikini bottom and flopping tits was going to make a good fairy?

I did manage to cook everything, after a shower and changing to a mini with a pullover sweater that I normally didn’t wear because it either showed my bra or my nipples. I was currently opting for nipples.

He brought a bottle of pinot noir, which worked rather well with the liver. Most people don’t care for liver; I don’t know why, I’ve always liked it.

“Can we get some fava beans?” I asked as we were eating.

“Up here on the mountain, I kind of doubt it. You may have noticed that it’s a bit rustic around here, not given to gourmet food or ingredients. If you go down the hill into the LA area, I know at least three markets that have them. If you want we can pick some up on Sunday. What’s in your devious little mind?”

“Since we both like liver we could have it with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. And where are we going Sunday?”

“Saturday and Sunday, actually,” Peter said. “My parents are having a party in Santa Barbara on Saturday, so we’ll stay over.”

“You are actually taking me home to meet your parents?” I was stunned.

“I actually am.” He grinned. “Not only do I want you to meet them, Mom practically ordered it.”

“Must have been the emails.”

“I’m guessing that had something to do with it.”

“I haven’t got anything to wear… I mean not to meet parents,” I stammered. “I mean, my clothes aren’t the kind that you meet parents in. Everything shows my knees and my tops are tight and…”

“I’m sure you’ll sort it out,” he interrupted me. “My mother shows her knees; in fact, I don’t think she has a dress that doesn’t. And Dad is a legendary leg man. Besides, attire and looks aside, you’re simply amazing. Believe me, they’ll both love you.”

We went over the photos and it was really amazing how close Peter, Kate and I had come to recreating the little girls' fairies. Peter’s idea seemed to be taking shape really well. I was able to hop, jump or dance into flight, and once I saw how it all came out, I knew that I could do an even better job the next day.