Chapter 59 – Pleasing the Boss

I let out a sigh and let go of Shiloh’s fantasy. Whatever is going on with me and Hadrian, I’m smart enough to know it’s a passing phase. He’s never had a serious girlfriend, according to the internet, but he’s been seen with many different women over the years. He’s obviously a player, and I’m just one of his many plays.

I suppose I should enjoy it while it lasts.

With that thought, I head back to the living room, only to find it’s empty. “Hadrian?” I cross to my bedroom, sure I’ll find him snooping through my lingerie or browsing through my books in search of a diary. Whatever he thinks will make me the most uncomfortable, since that seems to be his kink. Him being in there at all is embarrassing since my bed is still unmade from two days ago, and I have bras hanging on my bedpost.

But when I peek in my room, I realize he’s not there either.

Ah, f**k.

I take off for Elvis’s bedroom, and sure enough…

“Was this a special occasion?” Hadrian is holding the one picture Elvis has in his room of us together.

“The day he was recognized as producer of the year. It was a New Jersey only award.” I rarely invade Elvis’s space, so I feel antsy with Hadrian in here. “Can you put it back now?”

He puts it down, but only so he can examine the other items on Elvis’s dresser. A few images from other important days in his career. Various trophies he’s acquired over the years. Hadrian scans over them quickly, then spins to take in the rest of the room. “There isn’t a wedding picture anywhere.”

“We didn’t have a photographer.” I know how it sounds, and I try to make it sound…less…like it does. “We had a small ceremony at City Hall.”

“City Hall?” He sounds disgusted.

“We didn’t want to make a big production. We’re not into those sorts of symbolic gestures. It’s a waste of money. What matters is our commitment to each other.”

“Do you really mean ‘we’ or is that really a ‘he’?”

I don’t know how to answer. In the past, I would have sworn I was on board with all of that too, but honestly? I was so into him, I would have taken whatever parts of himself that he was willing to give.

And that’s exactly what I did. Took the pieces. Hoped I could give more in exchange and call us whole.

It’s not a topic I should try to analyze when Hadrian’s around, so I sweep those thoughts from my mind. “We shouldn’t be in here, Hadrian.”

He ignores me, and sits on the end of the perfectly made bed. “Has he ever made you come in this bed?”

I shake my head because I don’t want to do this with him, but before I can say that, he assumes the shake is an answer to his question.

“He hasn’t? Has he even ever f**ked you in here?”

I know better than to answer.

Why am I so bad at being smart when I’m with this guy? “We’ve never had sex on that bed.”

“Really.” It’s not a question. More of a processing statement. “Do you not f**k at all?”

“Come on,” I say, because most people assume I’m a trophy wife, and isn’t sex part of the job requirement? And because I can’t bring myself to tell Hadrian that I have sex with my husband.

Or that I had sex with my husband, pretty regularly until Hadrian came around.

“So you f**k. Just not in here.” He takes that in, adds these new pieces to whatever picture he’s already formed regarding my marriage. “Your bed is the copulation bed, then.”

“Hadrian, this conversation is…” Strange, bad, uncomfortable, too revealing.

He stands up suddenly. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Just come here.”

Reluctantly, I trudge toward him. As soon as I’m next to him, he pushes me toward the mattress. “I have to make you come on this bed.”

I pull away. “What? No!”

“Yes. I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything of the sort.” Though, admittedly—traitorously—my lady bits are sl**k with the thought.

“I do. I can’t not make you come on this bed. It’s all I’m going to think about until I do.” Again, he pushes me toward the mattress. “Up here. On all fours. I’m going to make you come real good. I promise.”

I don’t know why, but I allow him to direct me into place.

Okay, I do know why—because Hadrian gives really good orgasms, and like his cousin said, I’m kind of Hadrian’s whore. Which sounds really f**king hot at the moment, despite how f**king ugly it felt an hour ago when I first read it.

“Spread your legs and back up a little.” When my knees are near the edge of the bed, he praises me, and then reaches around my waist to undo the drawstring of his sweats. They’re so loose, he easily pulls them down to gather at my knees, exposing my p**sy for him.

“You’re already w*t.” He slides a fi**ger down my seam. “It’s the praise, isn’t it? You like when I call you a good girl?”

“I…” Why is it so hard to admit?

Without warning, his hand smacks across my ass. “You like it a little mean, too. So easy to please, my honeybee. You’ll take the sweet, you’ll take the sting, won’t you?”

Yes. I’ll take whatever you give.

My modus operandi. To my detriment and my delight.

And then I can’t be bothered with examining what I’m into any further because Hadrian’s t***ue is suddenly on my c**t, I’m m**ning into the mattress, and I’m no longer capable of functional thought.

He’s aggressive immediately, s**king and nipping then l**king down my slit so he can t***ue-f**k my hole before returning to my c**t. It’s a form of feasting I’ve never experienced, and I always considered Elvis good at cunnilingus. Apparently there was room for improvement, and within a handful of minutes, Hadrian has put every p**sy-eating experience I’ve ever had to shame.

“Ah, f**k.” I wr*p my fi**gers into the bedspread, stars already forming behind my eyelids.

Hadrian responds with another slap on my ass, and the sounds that follow—a zipping and then skin against skin—tells me that he’s jerking himself off at the same time.

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