Breaking All the Rules (10 page)

His fingers fold into tight fists.

“Ah . . . but I forgot.” I unbutton his shirt, revealing tanned skin and defined muscle. He’s perfect and mine. For now. I push the cotton off his shoulders and his shirt drifts to the floor, a white billowing cloud covering a field of green carpet.

“I’m supposed to allow you to set our appointments.” I trail my lips down his chest, tasting the salt of his skin, and he shudders, his shoulders shaking, his eyes darkening. Every inch of him is sculpted and hard.

“But I never do anything I’m supposed to do.” I unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants, release him, and stroke him, enjoying his pure maleness. He’s less crisp here, less proper, his musk mixing with the mint scent. I inhale deeply, imprinting him on my brain.

His thighs tremble. I gaze up at him, my lips pursed a breath away from his tip. He’s exhausted, shadows framing his eyes.

“Lie down, Nate,” I order, my voice as firm as my grip. His lips part. “This is nonnegotiable,” I add, my man deliciously stubborn. He would never change simply to fit in, to be loved. Nate is Nate.

He sits on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and he lies down, resting his golden head on the white pillow. A soul-deep sigh escapes his lips.

“You don’t know what you need.” I remove his shoes and socks, lift his big finely groomed feet to the bed. “But I do.”

He folds his arms behind his head, his naked body displayed for me, his cock proudly erect. Nate is no longer the Iceman, cold and unattainable. He’s my glorious human man, tired and aroused, needing comfort and relief.

“I know what I need also.” I toss his jacket off my shoulders, my body as naked as his, and his cock bobs, his appreciation precious and pure, unsullied by words. “Since I first saw you standing in the elevator, clad in your perfect black suit, I’ve wanted to do this.” I drag my breasts along his firm physique, massaging his muscles with my nipples, the slide of skin over skin erotic, real, breathtakingly intimate.

Nate shakes under me, his biceps bulging. He doesn’t hold me, doesn’t touch me, allowing me to explore every dip, every swell, every inch of him.

I kiss and lick and suck, watching his reactions, learning what he likes. His flat male nipples are especially sensitive. I circle them with my fingernails, teasing him into a sexual frenzy.

“Camille.” Nate pushes his hips upward, sliding his shaft between my thighs. I move lower, spreading my legs, and my pussy lips connect with his hot flesh. He rocks as I play with his right nipple, nipping, tugging, laving him with my tongue.

I focus on him, showing him everything I can’t say, everything he isn’t ready to hear, might never be ready to hear, my link to him, this impossible broken man, as deep and as true as my connection to the earth.

This link between us, this change within me, is permanent. I will never be the same. I glide down his body, licking a path to Nirvana. His body stills, tenses, his eyes widening. A bead of pre-cum forms on his tip.

“Kissing is covered by our contract, right?” I smile at him.

Nate stares at me, his gaze thunderous with desire. I extend my tongue and electricity surges around us, the air crackling as it does before a summer storm. Holding both his gaze and his shaft, I flick his tip.

“Camille,” he cries, his body bowing, lightning flashing in his eyes.

“Easy, lover,” I purr. “I didn’t give you permission to come.” I clasp the base of his cock harder, assisting him with his control. “You’ll find release when I squeeze your balls.” I bend over him and nuzzle them. His toes curl. “And not a moment sooner.” I suck on his sensitive skin and he kicks his feet. “I’m in control now.” I lick his slightly curved shaft, following a pulsing vein. Nate’s lips flatten.

This powerful man’s satisfaction rests in my hands and between my lips. I twirl my tongue around his tip and dip into his slit, savoring his essence, Nate’s flavor as unique as he is. His chest rises and falls, his muscles flexing beneath me.

“You’re my lover, Nate,” I murmur against his skin. “Words on a paper and money in the bank won’t alter this truth.” I push my lips over his tip and suck. He groans, lifting his ass off the mattress.

I take him deeper into my mouth. Taking all of him is impossible. He’s too large and I’m no porn star. His cock head taps the back of my throat. I wrap my fingers around his remaining shaft and I inhale, tugging on his flesh.

A strangled noise comes from Nate’s throat, his eyes wild, his hands clenching behind his head. I release and he relaxes. I suck again. He tenses and I chuckle, the sound muffled by the huge cock in my mouth.

He’s easy to torture. I bob up and down him, varying my pressure, intent on driving him absolutely crazy.

“Camille.” His voice cracks.

I release him with a juicy pop. “Who am I to you, Nate?” I brush my fingertips over his balls, reminding him that he can’t come until I squeeze them. “Am I merely some random hooker you’ve hired to take care of your needs?”

He presses his lips together mulishly. He knows what I want to hear.

“Fine. Be that way.” I bend over him once more and suck him deep, fluttering my tongue against his shaft. His thighs shake and his breathing grows harsh.

“No,” Nate growls. “You’re more.”

I smile around his cock. He cares for me. I roll his balls with my fingers as I fuck him with my mouth, drawing my lips along his cock.

“I said the words,” Nate states, the sexual strain written on his face, lines creasing his golden skin. “Give me release.”

Nate and his agreements. I sink down on him, cup his balls, and squeeze.

“Camille,” he roars, driving his hips upward. I move with him, riding his bucking body, his release violently strong. His hot cum shoots down my throat, filling my mouth, coating my tongue. I swallow and suck, swallow and suck, draining him dry, not wasting a single drop, my cheeks indenting around him.

Nate thrusts once more, shudders, and collapses, his body relaxing and his breath leveling. “You’re everything.” His voice is drowsy.

I lap the flat of my tongue over him, cleaning him, caring for him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything more. I peer up at him. His eyes are closed and his handsome face is softened by sleep.

Yes, my heart will definitely break at the end of this month. “I’ll take care of you, Nate,” I whisper, holding him tight. “You’re my everything also.”

Chapter Seven

I
WAKE IN
a dimly lit room and reach for Nate. My fingers touch cotton. I’m alone. There’s an indentation in the pillow where his head has been, the decadently soft bedsheets are pulled over my naked body, and the light in the bathroom has been turned on.

I might mean more than a sexual release to him, but I’m not much more, not yet. I hug the pillow to my chest, inhaling his scent. We have a month. His feelings could change in a month.

My new bedroom is massive, bigger than my entire apartment. The walls are covered with striped fabric, one shade of green slightly darker than the other. Three of my mom’s oil paintings hang in the room, the landscapes cheerful and happy.

The crystals in the light fixture above me sparkle. Three dressers guard the perimeter. The photo of my mom and dad has been placed on a nightstand, beside my company passcard. A wooden writing desk is positioned in front of the window, one of my computers set on its surface.

I bounce out of the bed, my toes sinking into the lush carpet, and stride toward the desk. The view is fantastic. The moon and stars shine in the dark sky, illuminating grass, a swimming pool, flowers.

I start up my computer and sit down on a delicate wooden chair, the silky soft seat cushioning my bare ass. The house is quiet as I focus on my data-sharing project: answering e-mails, adding lines of codes, making dreaded decisions.

I work until the sun rises and the birds sing. Then I saunter into the bathroom. My ratty old towels look out of place against the sparkling white tile and silver fixtures. My toothbrush hangs in the holder. My brush rests on the counter. My birth-control pills are hidden in the medicine cabinet. My shampoo and conditioner have been placed in the shower stall.

I quickly complete my morning routine. In the past getting prepped took hours, as I had to put my hair into a Mohawk, touch up my temporary tattoos, insert all of the hardware, filling the holes in my ears, tongue, lip. Conforming saves time.

My panties are stored neatly in the top drawer of a dresser. Nate had painstakingly folded each dainty scrap of lace. And he must have been responsible for their care. I grin as I don a pair. I can’t imagine the rough tough moving men being this conscientious with my intimate garments.

I open the closet. It’s as big as the bathroom, a light shining on the gleaming wood floor. My inappropriate-for-work, rave-worthy dress hangs in one corner, beside my collection of corsets. I spot a gorgeous green evening gown and five black leather suits in varying styles.

There are no other outfits in the cedar-scented space. I frown. Nate said I could wear one of the suits in the closet to work. He must have been referring to the leather suits.

I run my fingers over my choices. Each suit is a work of art, unique and different, garments I’d choose for myself if I had the inclination to shop.

My wonder grows as I dress. The first suit fits as though it was custom made for my body, hugging my curves and cupping my breasts. The jacket is formfitting and delectably soft. The equally tight skirt is midcalf length, the kick pleat playful and sexy.

I twirl in front of a mirror, gazing at myself from varying angles. Damn, I look badass, feminine yet strong, edgy yet conservative enough for Blaine Technologies’ stodgy fashion police.

I slip on my battered heels, clip my phone and passcard to the waistband, and skip into the hallway. All of the other doors are closed and I’m tempted to explore.

My hunger is greater than my curiosity. I descend the stairs, seeking the kitchen. There’s no mistaking whose house I’m now living in. Nate’s clean, minimalistic, black-and-white style is reflected in every corner of the structure.

After a couple of wrong turns I locate the kitchen. I don’t locate Nate. My man is missing and I’m starving. I look in the fridge. My groceries and not much else occupy the immaculately clean shelves. I gather eggs, a green pepper, a tomato, and a block of cheddar cheese. The herbs are carefully arranged on the windowsill. I pinch the tops off some of the chive plants. My dented, darkened frying pan is stored in a bottom cupboard. The other pans appear too shiny to have ever been used.

I smile. Nate has the best of everything—a huge black-and-white kitchen, a massive center island, a beautiful black range—and he doesn’t cook.

He
does
have faultless timing, though. As I’m belting out the lyrics to a very vulgar hip-hop song and sliding the second omelet onto a white china plate, my senses sound an alarm. I glance upward and stop my singing and dancing.

Nate is watching me, his big body leaning against the wall, thought lines furrowing his forehead. He’s dressed as he always is, in a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie, and his hair is wet, moisture darkening the gold strands.

“Your breakfast is ready, lover.” I place a plate with an omelet at the end of the kitchen table, giving him the power seat. “I hope you like eggs and orange juice. That’s all I had.”

“The agreement is I pay for meals.” He frowns.

Nate and his agreements. I roll my eyes. “Don’t get your boxer briefs tied into a knot. We’ll go grocery shopping tonight and you can pay the bill.” I carry my plate to the table. It is set with dishes I suspect he’s never used.

Nate doesn’t move. “I normally eat out or order in.”

“There’s nothing normal about that,” I mutter. “Sit down and eat your eggs before they get cold.” Freakin’ hell. I sound like my mom. I splatter hot sauce over my omelet. “Starting tonight I’ll cook all of your meals.”

“You’re changing our agreement.” Nate sits down and gazes at his omelet, his expression grim. “I knew this would happen. You’ll expect more from me. Your daily rate—”

“My daily rate won’t change,” I assure him. This is about more than money. Money can’t cause the pain I see reflected in his eyes. “I’m cooking for you because I want to, because it gives me pleasure. I don’t expect anything more from you.”

“You’re cooking for me and you don’t want anything more from me?” Nate glances toward me and I nod, biting back a sarcastic “Just eat your damn eggs already.”

Silence stretches between us.

“This is a hippie thing,” he finally concludes and grasps his fork.

“Wait.” I stop him. “Close your eyes.” He looks at me as though I’m insane. “Just do it, Mr. Suspicious.” He complies. I break off a piece of his omelet with my fork. “Open your mouth.” He parts his lips, and I carefully transfer a forkful of egg into his mouth. “Now tell me if you taste it.”

Nate chews slowly and swallows. “Taste what?”

The love
, I almost reply. This will freak my emotionally repressed man completely out. “My special ingredient,” I say instead.

“What is your special ingredient?” He pokes the omelet with the tongs of his fork. “Will it cause me to fail a drug test?”

I laugh. “No. I haven’t done drugs in a very long time and I certainly don’t need them when I’m with you. You make me happy.”

We eat breakfast. I chatter about the meals I plan to make for him, the groceries we need, and other nonsense. Nate dines quietly, devouring every morsel of his omelet, his back straight, his table manners impeccable.

After he finishes his food he sets down his fork and stares at his empty plate. I stop talking, waiting for him to share whatever is clearly bothering him. Lines appear around his eyes and mouth.

“Do I?” he finally asks.

“Do you what?” I don’t know what he’s referring to.

“Do I make you happy?” Nate’s gaze meets mine. He’s heartbreakingly serious. “Am I enough for you?”

He doesn’t ask if
this
is enough for me. He asks if
he’s
enough for me.

I leave my seat and climb onto his lap, and Nate stiffens. “Are we having another one of your kissing breaks?” He frowns. “Because we don’t have time for sex. I have a meeting at eight o’clock.”