Accidentally Amy(63)

She felt like she could and also that she’d be absolutely fine with it.
What a way to go.
Blake Phillips was killing her, and she never wanted it to stop. He turned them again, so he was above her, and she reveled in the feel of him; the weight of his big body on hers, the slide of his leg hair against her own opposing smoothness, the heat of his skin.
The hardness of his body – every ridged, straining muscle – made her wild with need.
She trailed her fingers up his wide, shredded back, her nails pressing into his flesh as she urged him closer. More. She needed more.
Him.
Now.
“Blake,” she said against his lips, shamelessly digging her heels into his soft sheets, rubbing against him as he continued treating her mouth as if it were a gourmet meal and he’d been deprived of food for a month. She managed to pant out now and please without interrupting the delicious onslaught, and then she hissed yessssss when she heard his big hand rifling in the nightstand.
But Blake - Blake didn’t stop. No, he continued inhaling her, devouring her, even while suiting himself up. Hot damn, she thought, delirious with want. VP Blake is a fucking Rockstar at multi-tasking. She closed her eyes and kissed him back with every single piece of her, and when he pressed inside her body, filling her so perfectly, she already couldn’t remember what it felt like to not love Blake Phillips.


    Blake
“Come on, Shay – you don’t really want to go home, do you?” Blake asked, yelling from the bed as she fetched them snacks from the kitchen. It was midnight, and not only was he exhausted, but he really wanted Izzy to sleep in his bed all night.
“Of course I don’t,” she yelled back, clinking dishes. “But The Darkling needs food.” “Can’t you call Josh?”
“He’s got an early flight in the morning,” she said. “He won’t help.”
Blake kicked back the covers, got up and walked into the kitchen. “What’s his number?”
“Whose?” Izzy glanced at him as she sprinkled shredded cheese all over a huge stack of tortilla chips. “Have I ever told you how good you look in a pair of boxer-briefs, by the way?”
“You have not and thank you. Now - your cousin.” Blake sat down at one of the counter stools and watched as she bent her knees – to be at nacho eye-level, he was assuming – and surveyed her chip mountain. “What’s his number?”
She spouted it off, still focused on her snacks, and he texted: Can you feed Izzy’s cat?
The response was almost immediate. Is this The Douche? You’ve got some nerve. Unless Izzy has forgiven you, in which case, Blake – what’s happening?
Blake half-smiled at that; who were these weirdos, anyway? He stood and went to find Goodyear in the living room. He texted: It IS Blake. I’ll give you fifty bucks.
Josh: No I’m pissed at you. Douche. Unless I have permission to not be. Do I have Iz’s ok?
He full-on smiled at that, scooping up the cat and texting: You have her ok. She’s sleeping over. We’re good. But for the record, Josh, I apologize to you, as well.
Josh: Thx. If you promise not to dick her around, this one’s on the house.
Blake: You’re too kind. Josh: Right?
Blake: Later, Josh.
Josh: Peace out, Physical Challenge.
Blake set Goodyear on the leather recliner – stupid cat loved to sleep there but couldn’t get up without help – and he saw Izzy through his sliding door. She was standing on the balcony, looking out at the city, looking like a fantasy in just his t-shirt and argyle socks.
Okay – looking like his idea of a fantasy.
When he pulled open the door, she didn’t turn around. She leaned on the railing and said, “I love it out here.”
“Same.” He stepped closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and trapping her between his body and the railing. He lowered his head, inhaling the sweetness of her neck as he said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she said, a smile in her voice as she ground her backside against him.
“Minx,” he muttered, nipping at her neck. “Do you think you can keep the noise down if I were to lift that t-shirt, slide down those panties and bend you over the balcony?”
“Hell, yes,” she said in a near-whisper, sounding half-amused and half-aroused.
“You sure?” he asked, biting down on her earlobe as his hands found her soft thighs. He slowly slid his fingers up the backs of her legs – fuck she had the softest skin – until he was lifting the hem of the shirt over her perfect ass. “Because you’re kind of noisy, and I have to live here.”
“Well,” she said, her voice a breathy rasp that made his blood boil. “I guess you have a choice to make, Chest. Risk versus reward.”
She removed the sexy layer of lace and presented him with a beautiful choice.
“If I say I love you at this moment,” he started, feeling dizzy with lust as he shed his own layer of Calvin Klein cotton so damn fast.
“It won’t count,” she said, widening her stance and making any remaining blood drain from his head.
“Grab the railing,” he said, done playing. “And lean down a little.”
“You’re not the boss of me anymore, remember?” she said, looking at him over her shoulder, and then she moaned when he slid inside her.
No - it wasn’t a moan. She sighed, but with volume.
He didn’t know what it was called, that noise, but he knew it set him on fire.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, clenching his jaw as he grabbed her hips and started moving, “How many times I've imagined this exact scenario playing out in my office, on top of my desk, and I was absolutely the boss of you?”