15 comments/ 60370 views/ 13 favorites Harleigh House Ch. 01 By: charlottesometimes Rose had been working at his house for three weeks before she ever saw him. She'd gotten warnings from his estate manage, Lynnette, about how to conduct herself. "Ryan's very laid-back," Lynnette said, disapproval ringing from her tone. "It's up to you to behave professionally." She had already long since gleaned that Lynnette wanted the Harleighs to behave in a much more upper-crust manner than they—well, than Ryan—generally did. At least Ryan's wife, Jillian, with whom Lynnette spent her days in endless consultations about the cleaning solutions with which their submerged basketball court's floor ought to be treated and which lampshades best complemented the faux finish in the second guest suite—at least Jillian had the sense to consult the best interior designers and spend more on what she wore in the course of any given day than Rose spent on rent in a year. On the other hand, Ryan's only lifestyle acknowledgement of the obscene wealth his engineering firm had made him was the Maybach Landaulet he drove. It was, Rose thought as she walked past it in the garage each morning, quite the spectacular acknowledgement. The "house" was Ryan's other concession to his wealth. The newly-built 40,000 square foot property was home to a lodge-sized great room, three parlors, sixteen bedrooms, a submerged bowling alley, hockey rink, and basketball court, full, his darkrooms, her hobby rooms, and as many bathrooms as the whole apartment building Rose lived in. For Rose, working at Ryan and Jillian Harleigh's house was an exercise in facial muscle management; a typical day was a roller coaster between class rage and firmly squelched eye rolling. On the day that Rose first saw Ryan, the reigning crisis was Jillian's shower steamer; she was in a tizzy because her old one had created steam in "like, twenty seconds" and the new one took three endless minutes. "I have sinus issues!" she told Lynnette, waving her Cozumel-tanned and gym-toned arms. "I thought you were going to take care of this!" "I've told the builder this is completely unacceptable," Lynnette said soothingly. "I'm sending Rose up with the instruction manual to see if there's something that can be adjusted. One of the builders will meet her up there." "Thank God," Jillian blew out an exasperated breath. "While I have you here, let's clarify some of the landscaping procedures we talked about," Lynnette segued smoothly, nodding at Rose to head upstairs with said manual. So what else could she, a graduate student in the social sciences on summer vacation—what could Rose Telfair do but go upstairs and try to fumble her way through improving the functioning of a commercial-grade steam producer? She was sitting on the floor of the shower, the manual open in front of her, intent on understanding the automatic water-feeding mechanism, when Ryan Harleigh walked in. She took him in an instant, his muscular frame, his air of unfazeability, his sharp green gaze. "Oh, thank God you're here," she said, assuming he must be one of the contractors, sent up to deal with this latest "rich girl" problem that had been shunted off on her. "I have no idea how this shower works." "What's the issue?" he said easily, lowering himself down beside Rose. She sighed. "Jillian's not happy with how quickly it produces steam." He raised a brow. "Jillian's not happy, huh? What a surprise." That he was aware of Jillian's attitude didn't surprise Rose—Jillian had gotten on the bad side of most of the people working there—but that he was so cavalier about it distinguished him. He picked up the manual, glanced at the model for a moment, and then got on his knees to pull the cover off the steamer in the shower wall. "You... you're sure you can put that back together, right?" Rose was nervous as she watched him pull tubes out and examine them before tossing them carelessly aside. He looked at her, surprised, and then seemed to have a realization as a smile flitted around his mouth. "What do you think the missus will do to me if I can't?" he drawled. Rose smiled thinly. "Well, she fired one of the housekeepers last week for failing to disinfect her feet after she came in from sweeping the patio, so..." "She what?" Rose shrugged. "She's used to everything being easy," she explained what she'd gleaned through inference in her first days on the job, "so she invents problems and adversaries to have something to think about." His eyes narrowed, and skimmed over her black hair, her flat stomach and flashy curves appraisingly, and Rose was suddenly very, very aware of her own body, of her breasts, of his physicality, his maleness. "Who are you?" he asked abruptly. "And how did you figure out—" "Ryan!" They heard Jillian's voice from the foyer balcony. He stood up slowly as she walked in. "Ryan." She put her hands on her hips as she saw what he was doing. "How many times do I have to ask you to let professionals fix our appliances?" He laughed at Jillian openly, something Rose could never have imagined anyone doing before that moment, and with that sight came the shock of revelation. He's Ryan Harleigh and he owns this lot. Presently, Ryan Harleigh was looking at his wife mockingly. "Maybe if you ask enough times, all my engineering degrees will stop existing." She made a face at him. And then turned to Rose for support. "I swear to God, Rose, the first time I met him, we were at a party at Reynard du Plein's and he—at the du Plein's!—took apart the light fixtures because the bulbs kept flickering. It's some kind of disease." Rose, who had not the first idea of who or what Reynard du Plein was, saw the genuine irritation in Jillian's eyes, shrugged her shoulders in what she hoped passed for tacit agreement. She shot Ryan a look of apology at the same time. Ryan noticed, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll fix the steamer for you," Ryan told Jillian calmly. "And she—Rose, right?—will help. Get the manual, will you?" Jillian rolled her eyes and stormed off. Rose did as he requested, and hoped he hadn't dragged her onto the wrong side of her summer job. She needed this job if she was going to make enough money to fund her research in Strasbourg, which, aside from getting some reading done in the evenings, was her whole goal for the summer. But that fear dissipated quickly when Rose saw him flex his broad shoulders and squeeze his eyes shut as his wife walked out of the room. "'Welcome home, Ryan,'" he muttered. "'How was your trip?'" "How was your trip?" He'd just come back from a business trip to Paris, Rose knew. He looked at her, now. "C'est en forgeant qu'on devient forgeron," he said acerbically. "Which means—" "The blacksmith is created through—actually smithing." Rose was quiet a moment, just looking at him as he studied the parts in his hands intently. "Exactly," he muttered. "The trip was good. I'm—getting back to basics." He turned back to the open steamer in front of him, obviously not intending to say any more, as Rose settled back into the corner, manual open in her hands, and watched his hands move over the machine. Even then, she was imagining those hands on her body. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* She watched him whenever she could over the next two weeks, and there were moments when she believed he, twelve years older than her, a thousand times more successful, and the very definition of "out of her league"—was watching her, too. He was, and couldn't help himself. But he was discreet enough that Rose was the only one who could have noticed, intent as she was on his every movement. He would linger just a little too long in a doorway, or walk needlessly close to her as he passed by. She was fascinated by him, by his easy way with the various crews at work on finishing the house he was trying to live in, the calm way he commanded respect, his habit of pitching in with the day laborers. He was a man who had more respect for hard work than money, and because of that, all of the workers seemed to genuinely respect him. She had a crush. She knew it, and knew it was hopeless. Rose felt ridiculous as she took extra care on her eyeliner each morning on the off-chance he might be working from home, or get home before she left for the day. But knowing it was hopeless didn't stop her from lying awake at night, getting hot for him—didn't stop her from dressing with him in mind—from weaving elaborate fantasies about him as she worked, fantasies about his mouth on her body, his body inside her. One morning, he was leaving through the garage as she was coming in. He stopped short when he saw her. "Rose." He cleared his throat. "How are you this morning?" "Fine. I'm—fine." The two of them stood there, not moving, alone in the space around them for the first time since he'd fixed the steamer. She was transfixed. He was struggling not to be, and she tore his gaze from his mouth, his throat, to see him fingering his wedding ring idly. His mouth twisted and he tore his gaze away. "Right. Well—watch out for my wife this morning. She's in a bit of a mood." "More troubles with the staff?" Jillian's fights with housekeeping were legendary. "No, no. With me this time." He scowled. "I'm not dragging you into this. I just—be kind to her, this morning. And tread lightly." "OK." Rose paused. "Are you—OK?" He didn't look at her, just lowered himself into his car. "Have a good day," he said, in a tone meant to dismiss her. "You, too." He stared at her in his rearview mirror as he pulled out of the garage. Her breasts did obscene things to that blouse, he thought, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the image. But it, and others—her thighs, her shoulders, her eyes—persisted. It got worse at night. ***** There came, as there always comes, an evening—a moment—when everything seemingly changes all at once, even if it's really the culmination of weeks of pressure being suddenly released. Jillian was away for a few days at their summer house up the coast, and Lynnette left early to negotiate with some restoration experts about Jillian's mother's antique chaises, and Rose was stuck waiting to do payroll and hand out checks for all the contractors. When the last of them left, she gave into her temptation. She didn't think about it, or name it. She only knew she wanted to see him. Whole days had gone by without her hearing his voice, or seeing him more than peripherally, and it was eating her up. She went to his office and lightly knocked on the half-ajar door "I'm about to head out for the day," she told him, savoring the sight of him, an open textbook in his hands, his feet propped up on his computer tower, "and I was wondering if you needed anything...?" She honestly didn't mean the question to be suggestive, and blushed as he swung his feet to the floor and said teasingly, "You shouldn't say thing like that to a man if you don't mean them, Rose." He set the book down and let his eyes drink in the sight of her. "Come in and sit down a minute and talk to me about why someone like you is doing this job." So she told him—about her parents and sisters, about her undergraduate degree and current graduate work, about her reasons for taking this job in the 'burbs and her summer sublet in the city. "A good neighborhood to be young and single," he said easily. "I lived there myself when I was your age." That would have been a decade back, they were both thinking. Not so long, Rose considered, but Ryan was thinking, A lifetime ago. "How long have you and Jillian been married?" Rose asked bravely. "Six years." He met her eyes and smiled, though it looked a little forced, to Rose—though she told herself fiercely to stop seeing only what she wanted to see. "It'll be seven in September." "I noticed there's a nursery in the floor plan... are you guys thinking about having kids?" His eyes shadowed. "Jillian can't have children," he said shortly. "But she's... we're thinking about adopting." "Oh, well.... that's—that's good. More people should—" He put her out of her misery by getting to his feet and coming around the desk. "How'd you get that bruise?" he asked, indicating her right arm. "You know those giraffe statues? The ones that used to be in your living room. At the old house." He grinned. "Those giraffes and I go way back." "Well, Jillian wanted them in the third guest suite—so I was moving them up, and I bumped one on my arm, that's all." His eyes seemed fixed on that bruise. "I bruise easily, don't worry. And with all the heavy things that need moving around here—" "We'll get you some liniment," he said briskly. "And from now on, get one of the men to lift for you—" "I don't need a man--" His brows shot up. "Don't you?" he asked, and the question hung in the air. Both of them lived, for a moment, in the meaning of those words—she, with confusion about his intentions—he, with the need to make up his mind about them—both of them sensing that, once he had, there would be no uncrossing the line. In the next instant, hesitation gone, he lowered his mouth—first to her arm, to the bruise, to kiss it very, very gently. She never thought about pulling away. She was trembling, which she must have felt as he firmly grabbed her hands and lowered his lips to hers. There, he was only gentle for a moment. It quickly became fierce—rapacious—and wet. When he let go of her hands, it was to grab her hips and pull her against him. When he let go of her hands, they went straight to his neck, to his hair, to pull him down into her. He lifted his mouth, and his breathing was heavier. "Rose," he said quietly, "I... want... you. Now." It was a moment straight from one of her fantasies. It was also a moment of reckoning, a moment when he made it clear that he intended to fuck her, right there, that night, and in which he dredged up his old sense of honor and gave her an opportunity to refuse. She looked up at him, her eyes clear, his gleaming down at hers. She didn't refuse, of course. Her heart was racing, every sensitive point of her body—nipples, clit—throbbing... her brain felt like it was on fire. For him. And she had never felt anything like it. "How much?" she asked impishly. He grabbed one of her hands in his and pulled it between their bodies onto his cock, already hardening. "This much," he said, answering need with like need. He pulled her back into a kiss with a low moan, this time sliding a leg between hers, a leg which, as his kiss grew more passionate, she quickly clamped her legs around, riding his thigh, grinding it against her wet, aching pussy. His hands stroked lightly over her whole body, possessing some innate quality which made him confident he was welcome and would please her. He never seemed to have any doubts about her pleasure. And consequently, she followed his lead. When he backed her against the wide ledge along the wall-length window, she complained only when his mouth lifted from hers. By then, he was kissing his way down her body... biting his way down her torso, licking the sensitive skin above her belly button as he impatiently pushed her blouse to the sides. When he, on his knees in front of her, reached the waist of her skirt, he paused. "I've imagined you—this—so many times," Ryan said, "I just want to take a moment...." He savored his anticipation, lowering his face onto Rose's skirt and breathing deeply the muted scent of her pitched arousal. Then, without looking up at her again, he raised the hem of her skirt very, very slowly, revealing her pale thighs an inch at a time, raising it until the whole of it was bunched around her waist and he had an uninterrupted view of her underwear, which was trimmed with lace and covered in tiny umbrellas. He smiled against the crotch of them. "You need these," he danced his fingers softly over the umbrellas, "because it's very, very wet down here." She groaned at the double entendre, but it quickly turned into another moan as he laughed softly and said, "Forgive me," and then shoved her underwear to the side and thrust his tongue into the heat. "I—forgive you," she managed, and was rewarded with a chuckled against her sensitive clit. His tongue was long and strong and playful. It danced tantalizing circles around her clit that left her gasping and grasping at his hair, and then he pressed it hard in her center, barely entering her, working her hard and leaving her clutching the window ledge and bucking into his chin. "Ryan. Ryan." His name was a mantra. "Tell me what you're feeling, honey. Tell me what you want." "I'm—oh, God, mmm, I—I—oh, God... it hurts." He lifted his mouth immediately, his eyes flashing fear that he'd inadvertently hurt her, but she clutched his hair and pulled him back to her. "I want—more." He heaved out his breath, suddenly seeming like a relieved teenage boy, and reached up and used his thumbs to pull her lips apart around her clit, exposing its greediness. "You want to come?" he asked, his lips around it. He didn't seem like a boy, now. "Yes, please." She struggled to prevent her desperation from reaching her tone—but he heard it, and answered it. He sucked her clit hard into his mouth and she screamed—and shattered, bucking against him wildly as though trying to struggle free when that was the last thing she wanted. She wanted his tongue, his mouth, his body, his passion. Again and again. He tongued her softly as she came down, and then, licking his lips to clean her from them, to swallow her taste, he stood up and kissed her. "All you had to do was ask," he whispered, and her cunt clenched hard, and she kept trembling. As Rose recovered, Ryan reached for his belt, unbuckled it, and then pulled down his jeans and boxers to reveal a thick, heavy cock dripping a bit of precum. She wanted to reach down and touch herself, just looking at it. She met his eyes uncertainly as he, his eyes fixed on her face, slowly lowered himself onto the chair behind him, rested his arms on its arms. She was damp with perspiration and her own come, her skirt around her waist, her long brown hair tumbling around her, her blouse unbuttoned, her panties failing to shield her, open to his gaze on the window ledge. "What do you want?" she whispered, and he almost moaned at the question alone. It had been so long since anyone had asked it; Jillian thought she already knew the answers, and anyway, she imposed so many rules about where he could touch her, and how, and when, that he'd long since given up thinking, in bed with his wife, about what he really wanted. And he had never cheated on his wife before, despite—everything. But Rose, with her perfect skin, her intelligent eyes and her fine humor, her huge, beautiful breasts that had been driving him mad—she'd quickly become an obsession, and changed all his rules. He wanted her to suck him, and fuck him, and dig her nails into his back and moan for him, plead for him, work to please him, fall apart for him, and thank him for pleasing her. It was primitive, and Ryan couldn't have articulated it, and wouldn't have even if he could have. He was too private a man, too wary to expose his need. So he didn't tell her any of that. She was watching him now, mesmerized, as his hand lowered to his cock and began to stroke it before her transfixed gaze. She licked her lips nervously. "What I want," he said evenly, "is for you to follow your instincts and do with this," he pulled on his long, straining cock for emphasis, "exactly what you want." And he meant it as he said it. She let out a shuddering breath and, on shaky legs, got to her feet, readjusting her skirt and pulling off her panties and discarding them. She walked between his knees and stood there for a moment, watching him pull on his cock, licking those lips again and again. Harleigh House Ch. 01 And then she hitched one knee up on the seat beside him—and one knee on the other side of him—and lowered herself down on that cock, engulfing him inside of her and holding him there, squeezing him. Their heads fell back in mutual bliss as they were joined at last. And then she began to ride. His hands moved instinctively to her hips, to hold her, to move her on him, to give his cock what it was demanding. Her breasts were bouncing up and down inside the cups of her lacy white bra. She was running her hands over them feverishly, squeezing them, increasing her speed, lost in the primal pleasure of being filled. "You're so tight, baby," Ryan whispered encouragingly, "so tight, so hot, so wet. It's so good. Don't slow down now. Give me everything you have. Ride me hard, baby. That's right. Take what you need. Work for it. Work for us, baby. Give your body what it needs." His hands tightened on her hips as he helped her ride. "Give me what I need." Her moans were becoming shriller now, more frantic, as he, normally a very verbal lover, grew ever more silent, intent on her pleasure and his, overcome by the feel of her around him, over him, bouncing wildly on him. "Come for me," he ground out from deep in his throat. "Come, Rose. Come hard." Rose was nearly delirious when she felt his come begin to spurt up inside of her. It was that pulsing warmth which triggered her own orgasm—several of them, one right after the other, and she was thrashing on him, convulsing, felt outside of her own body, and the more he jerked his hot semen into her, the harder she came. She prolonged his orgasm, squeezing everything he had from him, folding around him, her arms around his back and her forehead in his neck, and she was shaking, shaking, shaking. He clutched her against him She was perfect, he thought, in some shock. "Were you designed to respond to my pleasure?" Rose heard his low demand in a hoarse whisper as she recovered, her muscles still clenching around him in aftershocks. "Do you come because I come?" At this his lips thinned, and she was startled to hear what sounded like jealousy in his tone. "Or would any man—any hard cock—do the same for you?" She shook her head, her mind numb, in some bewilderment, never having had climaxes in such rapid succession before. "Only—only with you," she choked out, embarrassed. His eyes darkened. "Again, then," was all he said, and then lowered her to the floor beside his pool table, and lifted her knees over his shoulders. With a long, low moan she reached her hands into his hair, looked smoky-eyed into his searing gaze, and let him help her forget all about his wife and her job, for a little while longer. *To be continued...* Harleigh House Ch. 02 For the next few days, Rose stepped warily around the house; but she didn't need to, because Ryan was avoiding her with equal diligence. "What's wrong with you?" Lynnette snapped at her on the fourth day. "You jump every time someone comes in the room." What was wrong was typical—typical enough that it made Rose feel foolish, more idiotic than she already did for having slept with a married man in the first place. She couldn't get the man out of her head. That night, she and Ryan had lain naked together on the carpet of his office for a full four hours, kissing and talking and fucking until it had gotten very dark and Rose's phone had begun to buzz with text messages from worried housemates. He had drawn into himself, as they'd gotten dressed. She could still see the hunted expression on his face as he'd seen her to her car and watched her pull through the gates of his house out of the driveway. " You're not going to last very long like that once Jillian gets back." Rose started at Lynnette's warning. Jillian was on a week-long trip to visit friends in northern California; but Rose knew Lynnette was right. When whirlwind Jillian stormed back into the mansion, in a blaze of rage and self-importance, Rose's nerves would shatter. And she was dreading that moment. But then, too, some part of her—some small, petty part—was looking forward to Jillian's return, to the secret that she would have that would blunt the worst of Jillian's grandstanding. She had heard Jillian's husband's whispers—curses, litanies—while he'd been pumping away inside her, and seen in his eyes a—she thought to herself—a... dawning, of some kind. But maybe she was just flattering herself. He hadn't so much as looked at her all week. "I'm—I'm fine," she told Lynnette. "Just haven't been sleeping well. And that morning commute drives me crazy." "It's a nightmare," Lynnette agreed. "You wouldn't catch me dead on the Edens at morning rush hour, that's for sure." She ruffled through the papers in her folder and fished out Rose's daily task sheet. "Special cleaners are coming this afternoon at two to wax the basketball court, and I'll need you down there to supervise them. I also need you to inspect all of the pool tables to see which need to be re-felted, and whether any cue tips need replacing. And then you can get back to work cataloging the service numbers for the electronics in the guest houses." "Right," Rose took the paper, picked up her notepad and clipboard, and was off to the rec room to do a job that she ordinarily would have had little patience for—seriously, re-felting two-year-old pool tables?—but which, in this world, was a perfect par for the course. What will I say when I do see Ryan? she was wondering, as she walked down. Will he speak to me? When I ran into him in the garage on Monday, he just clenched his jaw and looked away, and it was so clear he was waiting for me to leave. She rolled her neck, tense from days of worrying about the wisdom of the sex she'd had on Ryan's office floor. Some of her muscles, in her stomach and back, were still sore from the sex itself. I hate myself for how much I want to see him. For how much I just want him. She pressed the entry code for the rec room automatically, and then used her hip to open the door. And then gasped and dropped her pen and clipboard in a clatter at the same moment the crack of a cue ball against the thirteen sounded. "Ryan," she breathed, letting her eyes drink him in for a moment before she blinked and composed her expression. "I mean—Mr. Harleigh." Ryan had tensed when she walked in, but now moved to lean back against the wall behind him, his arms crossed over his chest, pool cue in hand like a spear. But if his posture was defensive, his words were not. "Ryan," he corrected her, almost gently. "A name you know perfectly well you can use, Rose." Because you screamed it when you came, they both silently added. "I... right. Ryan. I need to inspect the pool tables for re-felting," she told him crisply. Ryan frowned. "The damned things were new two years ago." She almost laughed, at that. "No kidding." She drew in a short breath, and then the tension just flowed right out of her. She and Ryan were here, now. She grinned. "I don't know if you've noticed that my whole job is built around the idea that every physical thing in your house is being held together only by the ineluctable force of Lynnette's foresight." He grinned at that, and let his arms fall to his sides. "I was wondering why we needed an estate manager." He shrugged. "But when Jillian insists..." Both of them froze as his wife's name fell on their ears. Rose tried to recover. "Yes, well. She's definitely a force of nature..." They went silent, at that, contemplating each other for long moments. And then they both spoke at once: "I'm sorry—" "Do you reg—" Ryan cut in. "Do I what?" "I... God, this is awkward. I was going to say... I was going to say, do you regret what happened? And, you know you don't have to worry I'd ever tell Jillian, right?" Ryan tilted his head at her, squinting, and then shook his head rapidly, as if to clear it. "No, I'm not worried that you'd tell Jillian. You're not the type, obviously." That word—"obviously"—warmed Rose's heart for reasons she didn't quite have time to identify. "Besides," Ryan continued, "it probably wouldn't change anything about my marriage if you did tell her." "Because she's used to you having affairs?" "No!" Ryan's fist clenched more tightly around the pool stick. "No, I—I've never actually done that before. I wouldn't have thought I was capable. Actually, I'm having a difficult time coming to grips with myself as a person who would... who would..." "Have sex with someone other than his wife?" He nodded slowly. "Then you do regret it." "Regret? I wouldn't say that." The pool cue was in both fists now, and his knuckles were white around it. "I do have some regrets." Blue clarity was in his eyes, and now he regarded her steadily above his clenched fists. "I regret that I let you leave instead of keeping you in my bed all that night. I regret that I didn't take photographs so I could look at your beautiful body again—instead of relying on these dreams I keep having, where you come to me, wet and willing, night after night after night! I regret I didn't get a chance on that night to see your beautiful mouth sucking hard on my cock as I struggled not to shove it straight down your throat. I regret that I can't hike up your skirt and pull off your panties and take you on this pool table right now. And I regret," his voice dropped huskily, "God help me, I regret that I'm married." He swallowed. "I didn't just tell you that. Or—I know I did. But you have to know that it doesn't matter. I am married." And a deep breath. "So regrets, or the lack of them, are beside the point." Rose's knees were shaking slightly as she crossed the distance between them, stopping less than a foot from him—close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. "In those dreams that you keep having," she said softly, "do I ever hike up my own skirt—pull off my own panties—for you?" She enacted her own words as she spoke, lifting her panties from around her ankles with one finger and then draping them around the pool cue in his hands. "One less regret, Ryan. You can have me again. Right. Now." The pool cue in his hands snapped in half as he attempted to ease the tension building up in his body. "Don't do this to me. Please." The two pieces of the pool cue clattered to the floor. "It doesn't have to be about anything other than the fact that we want each other, badly. That we make each other feel..." Rose swallowed the word "whole." "Good," she finished lamely. His hands clenched around her arms convulsively and he jerked her to him. "Oh, God," he muttered, "just to feel those tight nipples against my chest..." He sucked in a breath of air, and looked down at her. Then another. His chest was almost heaving as he breathed in her lust—and then, very slowly, slid one hand down her body, below the hem of her skirt, and then up. Up to her bare pussy, which was wet and clenched around his finger as he slid it very, very slowly inside her very tight body. And then out again. "I can't," he said simply, and stepped back and turned around, his shoulders squaring. Rose was quivering. She'd never been in a state like this before, never been so worked up by a man that she was bare of her ever-ready pride. "Please," she whispered. Ryan's shoulders sagged. "You have no idea what I owe to Jillian," he said heavily, and so softly she could barely hear him. "To my wife." He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes as though to scrub her image off of them. "I have to go. Believe me, it's for the best." A moment later, the door clicked closed behind him. Rose stood, her mouth hanging open, staring at the closed door behind him for long seconds. Then she recovered herself, stepping quickly and embarrassedly back into her panties, surveying the broken pool cue in disbelief. She picked up the pieces. "Well, at least there's something down here that actually needs to be fixed," she muttered. There was also something low in the pit of her stomach that was anxious and thrilled. Whether or not he'll take me, he wants me, and badly, she told herself. It was a kind of consolation, the kind that eased her. At least, eased her mind. Ryan was staring out the window of his office a little after three p.m. when he saw the floor cleaner's truck pull away. He'd known they were coming because lately, every morning, he checked the house's domestic calendar electronically. "I'll go see how they did on the court floor," he decided. It wasn't like he was getting any work done in his office, anyway. Working there had been impossible since he'd had Rose on the ledge and the floor—his mouth in her cunt, her cunt on his cock. He'd stroked her legs after the last time he fucked her, and she'd told him about how she'd "trained" as a kid for the Tour de France by riding a five-speed around her parents' neighborhood. He'd told her about how he'd rescued the paneling in the room from an old church that had been torn down near Haymarket Square. He knew he needed to stay away from the room. The memories were sharpest, there, and Ryan had become obsessed with them, poring over each moment, each sensation, every hitch of her breath and tightening of her muscles around his dick that he could remember. Maybe shooting around a little bit will clear my head up a little. The court's floor, when he got there, was shiny and even, and Ryan made a mental note to tip the company well when he paid the bill. Or was Lynnette paying it out of household accounts? He never knew, anymore, how the money was flowing inside his own house. Ryan crossed the court to the equipment closet to dig out a basketball, noting idly that there was a light on under the door. But as he neared, he heard small, muffled sounds coming from the other side. "What the hell—?" he jerked open the door. And then his cock hardened instantly. There on the floor, panties off, skirt hiked up again to her stomach, was Rose. And there was—something—there was, oh God, the butt of a pool cue clenched in her hand as she worked it in and out of her vagina furiously. "Oh, God," she yelped. "Ryan!" The cue fell on the floor, still visibly slick with her juices, as she scrambled to her feet, smoothing down her skirt. "I am so sorry. I was just... I had to... God, I don't know what came over me." Ryan was staring at the broken pool cue at her feet, mesmerized, but he looked up at her last words. "Don't you?" he asked softly, kicking the door closed behind him and advancing slowly toward her. He put his hands on her waist, pulling down the zipper on her skirt and letting it pool on the floor. "I do." His hands moved, almost mechanically, to the buttons of her blouse, which he pulled off easily before unclasping her bra. "Your pussy got teased earlier," he whispered in her ear, "and it needed satisfaction. Isn't that right?" "Y-y-yes," Rose stammered. Ryan lowered his hand to his own zipper and lowered it, reaching in to free his straining dick. She wet her lips nervously. "It just needed," Ryan whispered as he backed Rose steadily to the wall, "to get as close to my cock as it could. Right, Rose?" Her shoulderblades were pressed flat against the cold concrete wall. His hands were hot on her hips as he bent his knees and then pressed his dick up into her folds, teasing the entrance to her vagina playfully. "Yes," she hissed urgently. "That's what it needed. What I needed. Fuck me. Please, Ryan." His eyes clouded over, grew tormented for one instant. Then he squeezed them shut, and when they opened again, the shadows were gone. "Yes, ma'am," he said, almost teasingly, and hoisted her up against the wall to a height that suited him before pushing in with one hard thrust. "AAAAAAAAAAH!" Rose let out a short scream. "That's it, baby? That's what you needed?" He began sawing in and out, scraping upward along her g-spot, enjoying the wet gush that leaked around him as he did, refusing to think about anything other than the feel of her on his cock, the bounce of her breasts, the look on her face. "Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes," Rose was chanting, almost insensible, as she got fucked exactly the way she needed. He was pushing into her harder and harder, almost angrily. Her body, pinned against the wall, was wholly open; her fingers clenched into his back as he talked to her. "What if somebody other than me had come in and seen you with that pool cue in your cunt?" She clenched around him, at that, and he bit back a moan, no longer sure he was fully in his right mind. "I won't have it, Rose. You're mine." He swiveled his dick around inside of her, then froze there. "Are you listening to me?" Her head had fallen back in a low moan, but she raised it now, to stare it him with glazed eyes that showed her past comprehending him. "Please," she whispered. He let out a breath. "OK. It's OK, baby." He began to move in her again, and her hips bucked between him and the wall. "I know you couldn't help it." He bit her shoulder as he pumped, then drew back to stare fixedly into her eyes. "I know." And then his mind was lost as well, as they writhed furiously against the concrete, seeking in each other the satisfaction that neither had known before knowing the other, and couldn't live without knowing now. Harleigh House Ch. 03 Five days in Seattle didn't clear Ryan's head. Instead, they intensified his confusion. He wanted Rose like he wanted the neurons in his brains to keep firing, like he wanted his body to convert food to energy. Not just to fuck her—but, yes, of course to fuck her—but he just wanted her... present, in a deep, primitive way. So he could talk to her, hold her—so he could think about something else, and not have to wonder if his house manager, or one of the construction staff, or any of the dozen maintenance workers who came in and out of his house on a daily basis, or her goddamned next door neighbor or what the fuck did he know, anyone, was experiencing her. He knew it was hypocritical—given the ring on his finger—to be so obsessed with Rose's fidelity to him. But the thought of another man... He couldn't even finish the thought. He'd believed he was a good man. Since what he'd done to Jillian, he'd tried desperately to be. He knew he had no rights, where Rose was concerned. But he had no choices, here, and it was killing him to think that she did—that she might be choosing someone else while he was sitting in a hotel room in Seattle, drinking and trying to keep himself from going back to her. Fuck it. She had a choice. Then—so did he, even if it wasn't much of one. He'd lay it before her and see if he could keep her in his life, for a little while longer yet.