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[personal profile] flighty_dreams

Jenna longed to fling this thing across the room.

Beating back the temptation, she tried to focus on the proposal in her hands. Sadists had drafted this thing, which was about five times longer than it needed to be. Who actually expected anyone to read a thousand pages worth of bullshit?

They didn't, that was the problem. Usually she delegated this task to someone else, but her father had 'suggested' that it was advisable to read one herself once in a while. That way when her employee, Pullman, reported the contents of the proposal to her later this week, she could better judge his diligence. Normally she would have ignored her father's advice—he'd been giving it to her for months—and avoided this torture, but she'd received the impression lately that Pullman was slacking on the job. He'd seemed a little defensive and not as confident when reporting the contents of the last two proposals.

At least she'd had the foresight to go through the document first and note which sections looked essential. She didn't have to read everything; some things could be skipped or skimmed. Still, even culling it down left her facing two hundred boring pages. That it was Sunday, when she should have been relaxing, only made the prospect worse, but it would be impossible for her to be left in peace at the office long enough to read this.

She leaned back in her chair with a sigh, gaze roaming over her home office. It had been a bad decision to install her bookcases here, tempting her with far more interesting things to read. Even the book on the history of the Founding Families her mother had given her three years ago finally looked appealing now.

Of course, there was a much more appealing distraction close by. She'd left the door open—the work of her subconscious she assumed, leaving herself an escape route—and she could hear the distant drone of the television. They'd had lunch just an hour ago, and she'd left Brett reading on the couch. He liked having the TV on in the background while he did other things.

It was unlikely that Brett was busy with anything important right now.

Frowning, her eyes flickered between the page before her and the open doorway. Wrestling with herself, she finally called out, “Brett!”

He appeared in less than a minute, halting just inside the room. “Mistress?”

She kept her gaze ostensibly on the document, although she glanced at him through her eyelashes. A bit puzzled perhaps—she had told him she would be busy for a few hours—but he didn't seem concerned. As she continued not to acknowledge him though, his posture became more formal, his spine straightening, his hands shifting to the small of his back.

She repressed a smile. It was what she'd been waiting for. “Strip.”

She'd caught him off guard, judging by the moment of hesitation before he obeyed, clever fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Only now did she look up, watching him with burning interest, giving him that. Even after all this time, his hands were as fascinating as ever.

His shirt removed, he folded it with care, placing it beside the lamp on an end table. Always so conscientious, her Brett. The pants and underwear soon joined it, and she smiled when she saw he was already hardening for her.

Done, he resumed his earlier posture, hiding nothing of himself.

“Come here,” she said, crooking her finger.

He stopped beside her chair, and she made him wait there for a few minutes. She loved looking at him—though not quite as much as more hands on activities—and she never seemed to have her fill, not after four years without him. The muscled upper body, strong enough to lift her easily, the lean hips and powerful thighs; down to his well-formed feet, she admired all of him. When her gaze lingered overlong between his legs, the flesh there twitched with interest.

Putting her hand in front of her mouth to cover her smile, she rubbed at her lips and then said, “Kneel.”

He knelt. Leaning forward, she cupped her hands over his cheeks and kissed him. He opened for her, his mouth gentle against her fierce one, submitting to her passion.

By the time she was done—several kisses, touches and licks later—his own passion had risen, his breathing ragged, need shining in his eyes. Pulling back she ignored her body's clamor and studied him, pleased by his response. Bare toes sliding between his thighs, he widened them for her, providing better access. His length was definitely harder now, and growing more so as she stroked him.

“You want me?” she asked, as if there were any doubt.

“Yes, Mistress.” His voice was as ragged as his breathing. She adored hearing it that way, especially when it was her doing.

“Lie back on the carpet,” she told him, his unquestioning obedience never failing to arouse her, even though she could see in his eyes that he didn't understand what she was about. Not yet. She guided him to the spot where she wanted him, ordering him a little closer. Reaching out now, her heel was able to slide along the base of his shaft, rubbing into him.

He groaned in response, a harsh, beloved sound. She continued until his eyes were pleading with her, begging for her to stop or go on—she would bet even he wasn't sure which. After removing her foot, the plea in his eyes grew fiercer. He looked delicious like this, a banquet of sin spread out before her. There was just one thing to correct.

Smiling, she said, “Stay just like that.” She rose from her chair, carefully stepping around him.

“Mistress,” he protested.

The fear in his voice made her pause, fear of being scorned, dismissed like this. She crouched beside his head, brushing hair away from the sweat that had broken out on his brow. Then she leaned down, giving his forehead a brief kiss. “Shh, I'll be right back.”

Either her touch or her words steadied him, and he settled. His gaze calmed, though none of his need diminished. After one last brush of her thumb against his cheek, she stood again. Going to the living room, she left the television on and retrieved one of the couch cushions. As she guided his head up, sliding the cushion beneath it, his eyes widened at this indication that he would be here for a good while at least.

While still crouched again, she couldn't help running her hand down his chest, her fingers closing around his cock. Squeezing him, she rubbed his underside a few times, delighted by the whimper that slipped from his throat.

“Yes, Brett?” she asked, as if nothing were wrong. From her perspective, everything was very right.

“Mistress.” The exasperated acceptance in his tone delighted her even more than the whimper. The long-suffering look in his eyes didn't hurt either.

“I know,” she said with a wicked grin, squeezing his arm now instead of his shaft. “I am terrible. But you're going to be so good for me, aren't you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his eyes brightening with more than need.

Her chest was suddenly tight. She kissed him, just a firm press of lips.

Rising, she settled back into her chair. She looked down at Brett, his legs spread for her, his arms free and at his sides—making the temptation to relieve his own need all the harder to repress—and his head pillowed by the cushion, both for his comfort and so she could better see his face. His eyes were begging her to finish what she'd started.

Perfect, she thought, her toes sneaking in one last stroking of his arousal. With reluctance she pulled back, picking up the document again. When coming up with this idea earlier, she'd promised herself the reward of playing with Brett each time she finished twenty pages.

Sneaking another look at Brett, she revised that number to ten. Possibly even five.


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January 2013


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