Free Falling Under You: A Fixed Trilogy Novella (1001 Dark Nights) by Laurelin Paige Page A

you the one and only thing you can’t give yourself.”
    “What’s that?” My voice was shaky, threadbare.
    “A break.”
    Then talking was over, and so was pretty much thinking, as he buried his face between my thighs, licking and sucking and nibbling until I was coming. Coming hard and long, like I’d never come before, every muscle in my body trembling with pleasure.
    Even when I was whimpering and spent, he still didn’t let up, tracing designs along my thighs with his fingers before inserting one, then two inside me. He rubbed and stroked and caressed, inside and out, while his lips kissed along my pubic bone. While his hands teased me to orgasm. While he helped me let go, and he gave me a break.
     
     
    Chapter Seven
    That was as sexual as we got that night. The rest of the time he did his romance thing where he was very sweet and intimate. I slept in his T-shirt, he in a pair of boxers, my body curled into his, his arms wrapped tightly around me.
    We didn’t get any further the next time he had me over, either. Or the next. He’d go down on me, he’d use his hands, he’d massage my body, we’d make out. It was wonderful and amazing, like I was a teenager holding on to my virginity and he was the man who respected it.
    But it was also frustrating.
    Because I wasn’t a teenager. And I wasn’t holding on to my virginity—not purposefully.
    A month went by. Then it was nearly two, and even though I saw him outside of work a couple of times each week, Boyd still refused to let me pleasure him in any way, saying he wouldn’t let me until I was able to “let go”—his words, not mine.
    As far as I was concerned, I’d let go of a lot. I’d certainly had plenty of orgasms, and didn’t that require letting go?
    Apparently there was more I needed to release. More I needed to be taught.
    I’d like to say that I was a fast learner, because I usually am, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case with Boyd. Being in charge was just such a longtime habit, such a hard one to break, that I casually gave orders and resisted domination without even realizing it.
    Over and over I’d try to decide things for us. “I’ll come over tonight,” I’d say. Or, “I’ll pick up Chinese for dinner.” Always, I’d catch myself too late—or not at all—and he’d have to correct me. Which always stung, no matter how gentle his reprimand.
    Sometimes my mistakes were even worse. Twice, I didn’t put on the underwear he’d requested, simply because I hadn’t been thinking, work already occupying my mind as I’d dressed. Both times he sent me home as soon as he discovered my error with instructions not to get myself off.
    Both times I got myself off anyway. It wasn’t like he knew.
    Once, I made other plans on one of his nights without consulting him, not because I’d forgotten or because I’d been flippant about our arrangement, but because I’d honestly assumed he’d understand once I explained the situation. And maybe he did understand because he didn’t make a scene when I explained.
    He also didn’t ask to see me again for an entire week.
    Finally, one October evening before he left for the day—while we were still on my turf—I cornered him at his desk and asked him point-blank if he was still miffed about my alteration of the schedule.
    “Miffed?” he asked, as if the idea had never even occurred to him. “Not at all. It just seemed that our arrangement might not be working out for you, and I was leaving you the opportunity to let it end without any huge upset in our working relationship.”
    “Because I swapped out one evening without asking first?” I was taken aback. Yes, I’d made mistakes, but surely that didn’t mean I was a lost cause. I perched on the edge of his desk, signaling my willingness to talk about it further.
    Boyd, however, stood and buttoned his jacket. “Not because of that one evening. Because time and time again, you step on my authority. As though it’s not really an