The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs (12 page)

Bry leaned forward and licked the thick vein that stood out from root to head. He twitched; his cock arched. Stroking his broad thighs she felt the muscle tense. Again she licked him, pressing her tongue up his length and back again. He grabbed his balls, tugging them out of the slit in his boxers and then she mouthed them gently, working her tongue over the warm skin, sucking and nibbling. Somewhere above her he groaned.

She nudged his knees wider apart and settled in for a firm sucking, swallowing his knob and the hard ridges of his sword-like shaft, easing it down her throat. He tasted salty and already a drop of creamy cum dripped to her tongue.

Each time she felt him thrusting, she slowed down, let his cock pop out of her mouth and left it untended for a moment while she licked his scrotum again and kissed his inner thighs.

"Have many other women signed your contract before?" she asked, seriously wondering. "Did Philippa?"

He avoided the question. "Finish me," he grunted, running his hands through her loose hair. "Let me come in your throat."

"Not yet." She moved back to her chair. "Will you consider some amendments to the contract?"

"I told you I don't barter. I don't negotiate. You know exactly what I want. It's in that document in plain, straightforward terms of employment."

"Then I guess I'll keep my skills to myself. Pity, I was looking forward to drinking you down. Every last drop."

A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow and he grabbed his cock in one fist, as if he might jerk off there and then. "I'll spill right now then and you won't get any."

She chuckled. "Ok. If you like." Carefully she parted her legs, just enough to show a teasing glimpse. "Do you like my landing strip? I thought it was appropriate."

"Get it over here. I've got an incoming flight."

"You don't even know what my terms would be, but you won't listen. You just can't stand letting any woman lay down the rules for
you,
Petruska."

"You're supposed to be wearing panties," he muttered thickly.

"Tsk, tsk." She hitched her skirt a little higher, quite casually. "Aren't I bad? You see, I'd never make a good slave." Bry could almost feel the heat of his fierce stare targeted between her thighs. She was wet already, enjoying herself, changing his rules. "If you're going to sit there jerking off, you won't mind if I please myself."

The knob of his cock was dark red and shining with cum. His heavy balls hung there, full and waiting. She could still taste them on her tongue. "Go ahead," he grunted.

Bry's pulse skipped. He was going to try and resist? Too funny.

She took a clean teaspoon from the tray, moved her skirt all the way up to her hips and tapped the cool metal against her pussy lips. His eyes widened and she saw him swallow. With the teaspoon she paddled herself lightly, squirming in the butter-soft leather seat, listening to her own breath as it shortened and quickened. The sensation of the cold spoon on her heated flesh brought her up a very fast hill and then she slowed, pausing to rub the bowl of the spoon up and down her labia.

Ben had stopped pulling on his cock. His hands went back to the chair arms, as if he was determined to hold back.

She began to spank her cunt faster and a little harder with spoon, chasing herself back up that naughty hill. The teaspoon fell to the carpet and she used her fingers, rubbing frantically.

He was on the floor two seconds later, eating her pussy through her splayed fingers, thrusting her thighs apart with his strong hands.

"Ouch."

"Hmmm." He devoured her roughly and she came with a low squeal, partly in anguish that she couldn't hold off. His eager, talented mouth forced it out of her.

When she opened her eyes, she caught the steward peeking around his curtain, getting an eye full and then the handsome co-pilot's face appeared too. She hoped to god someone was still flying the plane.

* * * *

She straddled his lap, her breasts knocking into his face, her ass bouncing in his cupped hands. The seat belt light flashed on but this ride was already bumpy. He doubted they'd notice if it stalled midair.

The friction of her tight hot body on his condom-coated rod was surely enough to cause sparks, but he didn't want it to stop. He pushed upward, spearing her each time she came down, claiming her over and over.

He'd make certain she signed that contract, because he wanted this on a more official footing. She needn't imagine he'd let her win the upper hand, because he knew exactly what he wanted—no more and no less. If she was thinking about marriage she was on the wrong man's cock, because there was no way in hell he'd ever succumb to that evil little constitution. He didn't want the permanent responsibility and he didn't trust anyone enough to let them fully into his life. It was always best to set boundaries, keep it moving. He didn't fall into traps; he made them.

Spanking her ass, he closed his lips over the nearest primed nipple and wiggled his tongue around it. Thought she could pretend an orgasm, huh? Not likely. He knew a real one when he felt it, and her entire body trembled when she hit that peak. The co-pilot and the steward were enjoying the show and that seemed to increase her pleasure. Apparently he had an exhibitionist on his hands.

"Naughty Ms. Mulligan," he whispered, pressing his lips to her other nipple. "I thought you were shy."

"I am," she panted. "I don't know what came over me."

Neither did he. But he knew what was
coming inside her. All weekend.

Chapter Nine

The sky was an incredible turquoise blue and the air surrounded her shoulders in a warm cotton-soft shrug. After the dreary weather they left behind in New York, stepping off the plane and into bright sun was like landing on the moon. It took her a moment to adjust to the heat and then they were in a limousine, gliding along in air-conditioned comfort.

Ben was suddenly all business, talking rapidly on his cell, passing her notes to read for the meeting.

"It wouldn't occur to you to send these to me ahead of time," she exclaimed.

He covered his phone with one hand. "I didn't know you were joining me until three hours ago, did I?"

She scowled, slipped on her glasses, and dove in to the papers. Of course they might have discussed this on the plane, but they were otherwise occupied. Nervous suddenly, she fumbled over her blouse buttons. Hopefully the people they met with wouldn't sense anything out of place.

As the limo rolled into a circular driveway, bordered by tall palms, a porter was waiting to take their luggage. He greeted Ben with a wide smile.

"Mr. P, sir! Nice to have you back."

Ben shook his hand warmly. "Good to be back, Joe. How are the kids?"

So he remembered the porter's name. Bry was impressed.

"They're doing fine, Mr. P. Just fine. How've you been? Lookin' good, sir." The porter glanced at Bry.

"Joe, this is Ms. Mulligan. My accountant."

"Really?" The man took her hand and shook it. "Brains
and
beauty."

She laughed. "I don't know about that. Nice to meet you, Joe."

"Well, it all adds up now, sir. It all adds up."

"Very funny, Joe." Ben gave him a large tip and steered Bryony through the rotating doors into the cool hotel lobby.

"What adds up?" she demanded.

"It was a joke about you being an accountant."

"There was more to it than that." The porter had a wily grin and a very wicked spark in his eyes. He'd been altogether too amused at his own joke—even more amused at Ben's hasty reply.

At the check-in she discovered he'd only booked one room. It hadn't occurred to her that she wouldn't have her own.

"Don't worry. It's a suite," he told her calmly. "Plenty of space."

"And only one bed?"

"Of course."

"Do you usually share a bed with your accountant?" she whispered as they stepped into the elevator.

"No." He looked at her, his face unusually solemn. "You're a first."

Well, that was something, she supposed.

Ben was right about the size of the suite. In fact he'd understated. It was three rooms divided by white, louvered pocket doors. One long balcony ran the length of the suite, overlooking endless azure ocean, a curved, pearly-sand beach and a clear, pristine sky. She walked out immediately to feel the sun on her face and that warm, gentle breeze on her legs. "Have I died and gone to heaven?"

He was behind her, one hand on her ass. "That's what I thought when you took my cock in your mouth today."

"Ha ha."

"Truthfully."

Bry glanced at him over her shoulder. This man had suffered the hots for her, according to his cousin Carl, for years. She still didn't know whether to believe it. Why wouldn't he have said something? He was a great believer in being straight-forward and honest. Yet if Carl was right, he'd hidden his feelings from her. That would suggest he wasn't quite as ballsy as he looked and acted. "Aren't we supposed to be in professional mode now?" she asked. "What time is the meeting?"

He checked his wristwatch. "In fifteen minutes."

"So..."

"Time enough for a kiss, Mulligan. Before you go over the numbers with me again."

Surprised that was all he had in mind, she said nothing, just let him kiss her. The ocean breeze ruffled her hair, stroked her legs and rippled the sleeves of her blouse. His kiss did the same to her insides.

Ben Petruska was a very, very good kisser.

She raised her hands to his shoulders and kissed him back, sliding her tongue against his, arching her body, tangling her fingers in his hair.

As their lips finally parted hers felt bruised, swollen. His hand patted her ass and he cleared his throat. "Lets get to work, Ms. Mulligan."

* * * *

The meeting lasted all morning, but she barely noticed the time. It was fascinating watching Ben do what he did best. Well...the second thing he did best. He charmed and joked and demanded attention, very much in control the moment he walked in and sat down. He wanted that property and he meant to get it—at his price and despite the red-tape of bureaucracy. There wasn't much for Bry to do, but sit there and back him up once or twice when he asked for figures. Fortunately she was efficient at picking up facts and could memorize a page of numbers after a few brief scans. Never had that skill stood her in such good stead.

She actually managed to look as if she'd worked for Petruska Industries longer than a few hours. And her mind didn't wander too much, even when he moved his hand under the table and laid it over her thigh for a quick squeeze.

When the meeting adjourned, she knew he had a few others lined up, but apparently he didn't require her for those.

"Go get some lunch," he whispered as she powered down her laptop. "Sit by the pool. Get some sun. Enjoy the rest of the day."

"Oh." She thought he'd said it wasn't that kind of trip.

"I'll join you later."

Thus he disappeared into another room, shooting her a quick smile and a "thank-you" under his breath.

Released from duty—however much she'd enjoyed herself at the meeting—Bry dashed happily to the suite for a shower and a change of clothes. She slipped on a sundress, floppy hat and espadrilles. Since she'd forgotten sunscreen, she had to stop at the store in the lobby and there she was tempted by a sight that would once have terrified her. A rack of swimsuits. It was years since she'd worn a bikini. Fat girls stuck to one piece suits, preferably with thigh coverage, and a large, matching sarong. If they were forced into swimwear and couldn't get out of it.

But the new Bryony 2.0 was ready for anything.

Other women with not-so-perfect bodies were unafraid at the prospect of donning sparkly, sequined bikinis. Why shouldn't she? Besides, Ben liked her body—he'd complimented every inch of her, several times over. So she grabbed a ruffled blue bikini and bought it. There. Done. Her dimpled ass was just as entitled to feeling a little sun as anyone else's toned butt.

She changed in the lobby bathroom and put the sundress back on over her two piece suit. Heart pounding, she walked out to the pool, took a big fluffy towel from the attendant on duty and settled on a lounge chair by the deep end. It seemed appropriate.

There were only a few stray folk around the pool and after a very short time she felt ready to slip out of her sundress. Nothing happened. The sky did not darken with a thunder storm. No one collapsed in peels of laughter. Her pale, brazen thighs shimmered with sun lotion and her old pal, the stomach roll, jiggled as she took a breath of that sweet, hot air. Good.

Even when a tall, skinny person with hip bones walked by, Bryony managed a smile and a cheerful "hi". The skinny person did not have Ben Petruska panting after her, did she? Poor, tiny thing.

What
had
come over her? Where had all the shyness gone?

She'd lost it somewhere over the Atlantic at around 30,000 feet.