Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(49)
He moves behind me, taking his erection with one hand to guide it inside. I’m so slick with pent-up lust and desire, he slides in easily even as I feel the slight burn from the way he stretches me.
We both groan loudly. It melds together, sounding like one harmonious and erotic vibration throughout the room.
“I wish I were a poet,” Gavin murmurs as he starts moving in and out of me. “I wish I were a poet because then… and only then, would I have the words that would be salient enough to describe the way you feel to me. I’d f*cking be a best seller every time if I could just describe how I feel… at this very moment, when I’m lodged deep inside of you.”
Oh, Gavin. His words… they are poetry, and it’s not just in the humble consonants and vowels that pour out of his mouth. It’s in his tone… with utter worship in his emotion. It speaks deeply to me, and while Gavin has made every part of my body tremble with pleasure, for the first time, my heart gives a bit of a squeeze as I realize that we both have feelings that are starting to get deep.
He moves with tenderness and care within my body. Yes, he’s taking me from behind with my hands bound behind my back. My shoulders ache and my thighs tremble, and I know this should feel impersonal, but it doesn’t. I’m giving something to Gavin that he very much enjoys, and I’m finding that I, myself, enjoy this different bit of sex as well.
But nothing about our positioning—with him at my back so our lips never meet and my pose completely subservient—speaks of an impersonal nature. No, on the contrary, as Gavin and I stare at each other in the mirror, our breath quickening even though he’s moving oh so slowly within me… I can feel a connection to him at this very moment that buries deep into my soul and sinks its claws permanently into me.
Savannah has been my personal assistant for a week and, unfortunately, she’s doing too damned good of a job. With her taking off my plate every little annoyance and administrative task I always had to handle on my own, I’m freed up to do nothing but write. My productivity skyrocketed, even with me taking breaks during the day to come downstairs and molest my Sweet. Those tend to be the best parts of my day.
At night… we spend hours exploring each other’s body, and after having known each other for just under two weeks, I’m finding it neither odd nor weird that I’m liking her available to me at all hours of the day and night.
I had asked her just yesterday, “Does Casey think it’s weird that you’re sleeping over here every night?”
Savannah laughed at me, full throated and husky. “No. She said she was just glad that I was finally getting some.”
I laughed in return, kissed her hard, and then made love to her on my bathroom vanity, knocking one place I had promised she’d be f*cked off my list.
Yes, Savannah is the most efficient personal assistant ever. Hell, even her research is quick and spot-on, further speeding up the process of finishing my manuscript. At this rate, I will definitely be done within a week. I had vainly hoped to stretch it longer just to give myself some more time with her. At least I’m taking her to Chicago with me on Wednesday, and we’ll be gone a few days. Maybe I can extend my trip there, lengthening the time frame within which I can complete the manuscript, and thus prolonging my time with her.
Lindie called me again yesterday, reminding me that I had a deadline, and I told her to f*ck off… that I’d take another month to write the damn thing if I felt that is what was needed. She responded with her ever-present question, “Are you drinking, Gavin?”
Deeply… from between Savannah’s thighs, I thought to myself. And oh, the intoxicating rush of it all.
I assured her I was fine, but that you could not rush creativity. That must be a standard response from her other authors because she got quiet and didn’t push at me anymore. I then gave her the power punch and reminded her that the book wasn’t set to be published until the following year, so we had plenty of time. I had the sneaking suspicion that my editor had set a deadline on me with plenty of cushion in case I couldn’t meet the original schedule.
My manuscript was changing in flavor, and those changes would often spill from laptop to real flesh. It happened on more than one occasion this week. I’d be writing an intensely erotic scene between Honey and Max—Max, by the way, having given up his philandering ways—and I would be so immersed in the scene that I’d get a massive erection.
I didn’t need Freud to point out to me that the sex scenes between Honey and Max were nothing more than my own subconscious desires for the depraved things I wanted to do to Savannah being played out across my laptop screen.
I’d come out of my writing haze, read back over the intense eroticism I had just written, and would be struck with a massive yearning and a raging hard-on for Savannah. I’d merely push back from my desk, stalk around my house until I found her, and then I’d play out that scene for real.
Once I took her out on the back deck, with the frigid, late January wind blowing around us, and the beach thankfully deserted. Pulled her pants off, left the rest of our clothes on, and set her ass on the deck rail. I did nothing more than free my cock from my zipper and f*cked her fast and furiously. I immediately carried her inside afterward, her nipples erect from the cold, and put us in a hot shower, where I went down on her with the warm water pelting my body.
Another time, I found her sitting at my kitchen table, her nose practically plastered to her own laptop while she did research for me on Jack the Ripper. I had a sub-plot where one of the demons in my fantasy universe was actually a reincarnation of Jack, who liked to shred his victims from the inside out. I merely walked up to her, grabbed her by the ponytail she had ensnared her beautiful hair in, and tilted her head back to look at me.