Hey, y’all. Slowing emerging from the deep, dark, non creative hole I’d fallen into. Here’s an unedited snippet from my upcoming novel about jewelry designer Margot Temple and CEO retailer Nori James. You know how you second guess yourself and analyze what’s going on early in the relationship? You’re half way between I can’t believe my luck and what the fuck is wrong with this person. That’s kind of what’s going on here. Let me know if you like it! – SS
A novice in the love department she might be, but she wasn’t so fucked up she’d object to being cared for. He wasn’t pushy or bossy, which she’d have balked at immediately. He was considerate, thoughtful, clever, funny. And the sex remained amazing. Unbelievable really. Sometimes just being on the other end of one of his hot ass looks got her ready faster than hands on foreplay from past lovers.
He was fabulous in bed. Actually fabulous wasn’t fabulous enough of an adjective. They hadn’t invented a word for how good he was. His body was amazing, God bless his type A little heart. He got crabby if he didn’t work out for at least an hour every single week day, and he liked to do something physical on Saturdays too.
He was also beautiful. Tall, with thick black hair with just a hint of wave, those piercing blue eyes and lips as plush as cotton candy and damn near as pink. But as handsome as he was, and as well groomed, no one would ever call him pretty. With his deep voice, broad shoulders, narrow hips, big hands, cut everything, he couldn’t be more masculine. That was just the packaging. He was also, gasp, sensitive.
Not in the crying at commercials, bitching over the break in his pants sensitive. But sensitive in that he listened. He was as generous with praise as he was critical of flaws. She’d seen his employees bloom like flowers in the sun under his compliments. As bossy as he could be, he knew when to push and when not to. It was a skill that came in quite useful when they were fucking.
Margot had never spent so much time on her back. Or her side, or her knees as she rode Nori like a thoroughbred pony or blew him like a hard, fleshy balloon. The other day she’d spent at least five minutes eyeballing the back of her head, convinced her hair was getting thin from constant wear against the sheets. It turned out to be the lighting, thank God.
There was no two, three, or even four times a week with him. He wanted it every single day. Sometimes twice a day. It was a miracle she hadn’t had complications her poor pussy was so overworked. But her girl loved him. She got wet on cue for Nori – cue being he was anywhere within touching distance – and she stayed that way.
For the first time in Margot’s life an orgasm wasn’t her ultimate goal with a man. It was a goal, she wasn’t a fucking idiot, but the way his body moved, the look on his face as he touched her, by turns smug, curious or completely undone, she loved it all.
The sounds he made when it was feeling really good made the eventual orgasm a disappointment in a way. He wasn’t afraid to let himself go. The way he thrashed, gripped, stared at her with that soft mouth gaping, she shivered.
And he was a talker, in English, French, sometimes both. He spun tales with his mouth like a web, and like a hypnotized fly she didn’t mind one bit being caught. But as completely mind blowing as it was, it wasn’t the sex that kept him in her thoughts. His body atop hers, slick with sweat, thrusting inside her until she came apart like wet Kleenex, that wasn’t what had her thinking of him and staring off into space when she should have been working.
The orgasms had their place, as did his undeniable beauty – he inspired her just sitting there on her couch tapping away on his laptop – but it was his laugh, his intellect, and conversation, his clear and honest desire for her that really revved her up. It was just him.
The way he’d talk on his cell while he was working. Perhaps talking to the Paris branch of Ineffable, speaking softly in seductive French. The first time he did it she asked him was he talking to a woman. He just laughed and said yes, he was – about a missing shipment of inventory. Or the way he’d bring her a drink if she coughed.
Like as not it might be from the joint dangling from her lips, but he cared about her comfort and health. He’d croon that she was a bad girl in French. He was teaching her the language. Sometimes, when she’d repeat his words back to him, his blue eyes would gleam, that full, mobile mouth turned up so happily, she wanted to inhale him, rub him into her skin like lotion until he merged with her blood and flowed into her heart.
Sometimes when shit like that came to mind she’d have to retreat. She’d go into her office/studio, and after awhile he’d follow. He’d come and stand behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, his chin on top of her head.
Had anyone else done it she’d have blasted their ass, kicked them out of the room, maybe even out of her house for interfering with her work. Not Nori. When he followed she instantly felt better, even though he was the reason she left the room in the first place. When he whispered that he missed her, and was there anything he could carry into the other room for her – he wanted her with him, and there was no place in the studio for him to sit with his laptop – she’d say, no. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
And he’d give her a minute. Maybe two, three at the outside before he appeared again, looking sad as he leaned against the doorjamb, waiting. She marveled at his behavior, shades of which she’d experienced before and which had driven her to drink. Now she found it, soothing…