The Closer You Come (The Original Heartbreakers, #1)(91)

Her warm breath drifted over his skin as she leaned in and licked his throat. “That’s the caveat, is it?” As she spoke, she stroked his erection, the pressure building in his groin.

“I have a rule of my own,” he gritted out. “You have to wear a garbage bag Monday through Friday. That is your new work uniform. Anything else is likely to be ripped off you the moment you walk through the door.”

“And that would be terrible, wouldn’t it?” She nipped at his collarbone.

Building...

He forged ahead. “Actually, I have a couple more rules. You aren’t allowed to prance around the house if I’ve got a hammer in my hand. And you aren’t allowed to bend over. Ever.”

“Such a stern taskmaster,” she said...and slid her free hand under the hem of his shirt. Her fingers traced a path of fire to his nipple.

He flattened his palm on her bare thighs and had to bite the side of his tongue to silence his groan. She was so damn soft.

“You’re wearing a dress. Which means you’ve already broken a rule. Which means you’ll have to be punished.”

She pinched him lightly. “Spanking?”

“Severe tongue-lashing. But as your man, it’s only right that I take the punishment for you.” He unsnapped his jeans.

“You’re so good to me.”

He hissed in a breath as she bent her head to bite his nipple just the way he liked. Then she dropped to her knees. Watching as she freed his length from the constraints of his underwear, he braced his hands on the wall. Brook Lynn. On her knees. For me.

She peered up at him with baby blues smoldering all kinds of need and licked her lips. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Until she opened her mouth and sucked him deep. He could only throw back his head and pant at the overwhelming flood of pleasure.

She worked him good and hard, sucking all the way down, licking all the way up, the pressure never ending. When her teeth scraped against the head, his hips jerked, sending him back down her throat, deep, so damn deep. He tried to gasp out an apology for being too rough, but all he managed to say was her name. When he glanced down, he saw her hand moving between her legs.

Pleasuring me...and herself.

The knowledge nearly sent him hurtling down a spiral of bliss. He cupped her nape and urged her into a faster rhythm.

“That’s the way, angel. So good. You’re sucking me just right.”

As he hit the back of her throat again, she groaned, and the vibration sped down his length, into his sac, and oh...damn...a fire flicked to life there, smoldering, growing... Up and down she bobbed on him, never slowing, only working him faster and faster. Every muscle in his body began to clench on bone, the fire in his sac riding up his length...and finally shooting into her mouth.

She swallowed everything he fed her, still moaning against him, the vibrations little flashes of pure ecstasy.

When at last he’d emptied, she licked her way free of him and glanced up. Her eyes were bright, her features soft and tender. Her lips swollen and red.

He bent down, took her by the wrist and eased her up. She swayed as her knees wobbled, and he brought her wet fingers close to his mouth.

“Tell me how hard you came,” he said.

Color flooded her cheeks as she nodded. “So hard I might have broken my soul.”

“Good girl.” He sucked each finger into his mouth, savoring the taste of her honey.

She shivered. “By the way,” she said, dabbing daintily at her mouth when he released her. “You aren’t paying me for today’s work.”

As he tugged up his zipper, he said, “Why?”

“Uh, because you aren’t paying me on the days we have sex during work hours. I’ll feel like a hooker.”

Pain radiated through his jaw as his teeth ground together. He got where she was coming from, but he didn’t like it. “Well, congrats. Today is a federal holiday at Chez Hollister. National Blow Job Day. No work, plenty of play, as well as a paycheck.”

Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “No. Utterly unacceptable.”

He wanted to say, “This is the way things are going to be, honey. Get used to it.” But the need to make her happy superseded everything else. “Fine. I won’t pay you, but you won’t work, either.” And oh, hell. West and Beck were going to kill him. They lived for her sandwiches and casseroles.

Like I don’t.

She made something new every day. There was the corn dog casserole. And the tropical ham casserole. The bacon and blue cheese casserole. And his personal favorite, the turkey and white cheddar tetrazzini casserole.

The sandwiches were just as exotic. There was the one made with a doughnut rather than slices of bread. The one she made with small squares of meats and cheeses to resemble a Rubik’s Cube. The one she called the Temple of Southern Doom, with two large pieces of chicken-fried steak stuffed with mashed potatoes, yeast rolls and a scoop of bacon gravy.

His mouth watered, and for a moment, he almost wished he’d waited to kick off National Blow Job Day until after dinner.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll take the day off.”

He helped her right her clothing, noticed some scrapes on her knees. “You’re injured,” he said and frowned. “What happened and when?”

“I fell on the way to the auto shop.”