Once back in the living room, Derek looks to me, waiting for me to speak. And I do. “Derek … sorry, Mr. Pennington, it’s beautiful. Whose is it?”
He walks to me slowly, palming his keys in his hand as he approaches, and he leans toward my ear. “I like Derek. And it’s mine. I have more talents than just managing escorts.” He winks as he brushes past my shoulder toward the door.
“You mean you built it?” My question trails after him.
When he reaches the door, he looks back with a smirk gently pulling his mouth. “I designed it. I was an architect before I sold my soul to the devil … or Mr. Grayson more precisely.” He pulls the door open, still eying me with his beautiful smirk, and gives me his parting words. “Stay put. I’m running to town for some groceries.” And he’s out the door as I stare slack-jawed after him. Architect! I’m starting to think he belongs at Trimbles even less than I do.
While he’s left my mind reeling with his words, they’re certainly not enough to stop me from spending this time exploring his home some more.
I end up lying on my stomach at the edge of the deck, trailing my hand through the water below. It is cool and clear, and I’m suddenly overcome with a fairly childish desire to jump in naked and swim. I learned to swim early in life, and I’m as comfortable in water as I am on land. I love the feeling of being completely surrounded by water, and the weightless relaxation of floating around in a pool for hours. As I peel myself out of my clothes, leaving them heaped on the deck, I only pause for a brief moment to wonder if Derek will be upset with me before I jump in.
I swim, diving deep to the sandy bottom. The water is so incredibly clear. I float on my back endlessly, spacing off into comfort, and I think about Derek and all his mystery. I know nothing about him at all. He comes from a political family, he doesn’t talk to them, he designs houses … what else don’t I know about this man? I’m guessing far more than I’ve figured out thus far. I drift aimlessly around in the clear water that is speckled only with leaves that have fallen from the lush trees, with Derek’s beautiful lips and exceptional features in my mind. I have no idea how long I’ve been swimming, floating, daydreaming, but as I reinvigorate, I dive back down below the surface, not yet ready to give it up. When I return to the surface though, I look toward the deck. He’s back, and at this distance, I can’t tell if he’s upset to see me swimming alone in the pond or not.
He’s leaning against one of the pillars that support the overhanging roof of the pergola-style deck. I continue to watch him as I start to slowly, hesitantly swim back toward the deck. When I reach the deck, I see by the smirk on his face that he isn’t upset in the least, or at least he’s not going to say he is. He reaches a hand down to me and pulls me easily to the deck. He stands in front of me, letting his gaze travel every dripping inch of my body as I inhale deep and needy breaths, waiting and hoping for him to make a move. He does, and moments later, I’m in his arms and he’s carrying me away to the very inviting bed in the master bedroom.
He lays me gently down on the quilt that covers the bed and hastily pushes my legs apart as he covers my body with his. He’s still clothed, but every time I reach for the waist of his jeans, he stops my hands. When at long last I give up trying to undress him, he moves to my mouth. Pulling my chin down, he invades my mouth forcefully. He wants my mouth, which is such a complete flip from two weeks prior, when the very act of kissing me seemed to chill his body. He’ll hear no complaints from me. I need his kisses; this intimacy is healing in a way that nothing else can even touch, but as he slowly pulls from my mouth and looks in my eyes, I still in nervousness at his next words.
“I want you to let me taste your pussy.” His smirk is downright lascivious, as he well knows.
This man has pushed every last limit I’ve ever had and ever imagined I would have, but this is more than what my self-conscious, often self-loathing, overly naïve, and let’s face it, chicken-shit mind can handle. There is no way this man can want to be so up close and personal with my vagina. If he’s trying to convince me that I don’t repel him after the events of the night before, sex will do just fine, thank you. I just don’t have the nerve to let this man, whom I happen to be obsessed with, “taste” my most intimate girl bits.
But as usual, he is unrelenting. He watches my eyes, not the least bit phased by my fear. His swollen cock, still restrained by his pants, brushes enticingly across my sex, and I realize this is exactly what he wants, really and truly wants. But we don’t do this. If kissing is taboo for a house manager and one of his girls, this is downright illegal. As always, though, his desire has my body tingling. I know the feel of his mouth on that most private part of my body would, without a doubt, be incredible, but there is far more to this act than simple physical pleasure. Submitting in such an intimate way, with nowhere to run and hide, with every last inch of my body exposed and tasted, is terrifying. This is beyond being vulnerable to him, and my self-conscious fear has me frozen. This beautiful man can’t possibly want to see me and experience me in such a way. And yet, even as my fear rises, so, too, do the goose bumps on my skin that betray my nervousness and undeniable lust for this.
“We aren’t allowed to do that, are we?”
“I’m allowed to do whatever I want to you, and quite frankly, what we choose to do together when we’re alone is no one’s business but ours.” I watch him warily. I love his words, but I’m terrified of where he’s going with this.
I can’t do this. What will he think of me? Then I have to remind myself that I asked the same question of him the night before, and it is quite obvious his opinion of me hasn’t suffered in the least. His face is pained in need for my body. He’s clothed, and his body is straining against the zipped fly of his jeans. He wants me so desperately, and nothing of what he’s seen so far has affected that. What makes me think this would?
He’s tiring of my hesitation, and in his effort to set my mind at ease, he continues. “I want to know your taste, just like you know mine. Why should that be surprising? I’ve wanted to taste your sweetness since the first moment I saw you trembling and naked in that damn interview chair.”
“And here I thought you hated my guts when you met me…” Oops. The brain-mouth filter is just broken today for some reason, and watching his already hooded and desperate eyes, I realize this is just one such time that I perhaps should have kept my mouth shut.
“I’m practically drooling on you, and you want to discuss this right now?” I stare slack-jawed at his face. He’s not upset; he’s just so damn desperate for me, and I’m desperate for him too. Why couldn’t I have just kept my damn mouth shut! But as he watches me while I’m stunned into silence, he speaks again. “I’ve never hated you … not ever. But I’m sure it felt that way…” His voice and eyes trail away at this admission.
He’s right. It did feel that way, and I don’t want to do this right now. It’s too much, too heavy, and too real. Suddenly, his mouth on my pussy seems like a far easier prospect than having this conversation.