He Stole My Bill, So I Divorced Him and Outranked His Father novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Door

At Emilio's bungalow he sets one rule in the doorway and she takes him against the front door; at four in the morning he is Mr. Cavazos again.

The door shut behind us, and his hand was already flat on the wood beside my head.

"One rule," Emilio said.

The hallway was dark. I could smell cedar and starch and the faint sweetness of cooking oil from some other night.

"Not at the Capitol," he said. "Not anywhere the Governor's name is on the door."

"And at your house?"

"At my house, the rule doesn't apply."

I put my handbag on the floor. I did not hear it land.

"Then I'll say when," I said.

"Say it."

"Now."

He kissed me.

It was not careful. I had expected careful from a man who folded his handkerchief into thirds.

His mouth was hot and certain, and it took mine open at once.

His hand went to the back of my neck and held me there.

I had forgotten what it was to be kissed by someone who wanted to.

I took two fistfuls of his shirt and pulled.

He made a low sound against my lip, and I felt it in my knees.

"Greta," he said against my jaw.

"Mr. Cavazos," I answered.

"Say that again."

"Mr. Cavazos," I said, and his teeth closed on my earlobe, and my head went back against the door.

"I want this dress off you," he said.

"I want it burned. Conway picked it out."

He found the zipper in the dark and drew it down my spine slowly, one tooth at a time, with his knuckles brushing my skin.

The green dress went off my shoulders and slid to my feet.

I stood against his front door in a plain cotton bra and underwear, in a stranger's hallway, and I was not cold.

"Look at you," Emilio said quietly.

His hand slid down my ribs, and over my hip, and stopped.

"Tell me what you want."

"Your mouth," I said. "Here."

I put his hand on my breast.

He bent and took my nipple through the cotton, and I gasped, loud, and heard how loud it was.

He pushed the cup down with one finger. His tongue was hot and rough. He sucked, and I felt it low in my belly.

My hands found his hair and held on.

"More," I said.

He gave me more.

He went from one breast to the other until my nipples were tight and aching and I was arching off the door into his mouth.

His free hand moved down my stomach.

It slid under the waistband of my underwear, and he stopped with two fingers against my skin, just short.

"Greta," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"I want you to tell me how long."

I could have lied. It would have been easy.

"Fourteen months," I said. "He stopped touching me fourteen months ago. I stopped asking."

Emilio's face changed.

For one second, in the dark, he looked angry, and the anger was not for me.

"Then I'll take my time," he said.

His fingers slid down and into me.

I was so wet that he groaned.

"Look at that," he said. "You were wet in the car."

"I was wet in the conference room."

"I know. I could smell it."

He worked two fingers in slowly, all the way, and curled them, and I made a noise that was half a word.

"There," he said. "Right there. Tell me."

"Yes. Oh, God. There."

His thumb found my clit and circled it, light, then harder.

I came apart against his front door with my hands in his hair and his mouth on my throat.

It came fast, a fourteen-month backlog all at once, and my knees went.

He caught me with his free arm around my waist and held me up while I shook.

"That's one," Emilio said.

I laughed. It came out ragged.

"One what?"

"One of tonight."

He drew his fingers out slowly and I whimpered.

He lifted them to his mouth and tasted them, and watched my face while he did it.

I tore at his belt.

My hands were clumsy and my fingers wouldn't work, and he let me fight it until the buckle came loose and his zipper came down.

He was hard.

He was thick and hot in my palm, and heavy, and when I closed my fist around him, his head dropped to my shoulder.

"Greta."

"Now," I said. "I said when. It's now."

He lifted me.

His hands went under my thighs and I wrapped my legs around his waist.

He pushed my underwear aside with two fingers.

I felt the broad head of his cock at my entrance.

He held there, and I could feel him shaking with it.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

He pushed in, slow, and the stretch of it took my breath.

It had been so long.

He was bigger than I was used to, and I felt every inch go in, and my back arched against the wood.

"Oh my God," I said.

"Breathe," Emilio said.

"I am breathing," I said.

"Not enough," he answered.

He drew out half and pressed back in, and I cried out.

He did it again.

He fucked me against that door with long, deep strokes, his forearms under my knees and my shoulders pressed to the wood.

Each thrust ground my clit against his body.

"You feel so good," he said into my neck. "God, Greta. Tight and hot. So good."

"Harder."

"Say please."

"Harder, Mr. Cavazos," I said. "Please."

He gave me harder.

The door shook in its frame. My breath came out in short, loud cries, and I did not care who heard them.

His mouth found mine again, and I tasted myself on his tongue.

I came a second time with his cock buried to the root in me, my nails in his back, and his name in my mouth.

He felt it. He groaned and slowed and let me ride it out.

"Bed," he said hoarsely.

He carried me down the hall with my legs around his waist, and he was still hard against me with every step.

He laid me on cool sheets and stood over me, and drew his shirt off over his head.

I looked at him for the first time without a suit on him.

He was lean and broad, with dark hair across his chest and a long white scar over his ribs.

I put my palm flat on his stomach and felt the muscles jump.

"You're staring, Ms. Wehmeyer," he said.

"I'm reading the fine print," I said.

He laughed, low, and the sound went straight through me.

He knelt on the bed and unhooked my bra, and I helped him pull it away.

For a while he only touched me.

His hands traced my ribs, my belly and the soft insides of my thighs.

He kissed the freckles across my shoulders, one at a time.

My hips kept lifting to find him.

He lay down behind me, and I felt his chest against my back and his cock hard against the curve of my ass.

"Like this," Emilio said into my hair.

He hooked my knee back over his hip and slid into me from behind, one long push.

I turned my face into the pillow and moaned.

He held me tight with his forearm across my chest and rolled his hips, slow and shallow, over and over.

Every thrust pressed the place inside me that curled my toes.

His other hand cupped my breast and tugged my nipple in time with his hips.

"It's so much," I said. "Don't stop."

"I'm not going to."

He turned me onto my back without leaving me, so smoothly that I only felt it when his weight settled over me.

I pulled him in with my heels at the small of his back.

"Slower now," he said.

"No," I said.

"Yes," he said.

He moved in me slow and deep, with his forehead against mine.

There was no hurry in it.

He watched my face, and I watched his.

His hands went up my arms and laced his fingers through mine and pinned them by my head.

"Tell me what you feel," he said.

"Full," I said. "Wanted."

His eyes closed for a moment.

"You are," Emilio said. "God, you are."

He rocked into me, long and steady, until the pressure built again.

It was deeper this time, a slow heat that spread from the base of my spine.

I wrapped my legs tighter. I arched to meet him.

"Please," I said. "Please. Don't stop."

"I won't."

"Say my name."

"Greta," he said. "Greta. Greta."

He slid one hand under my hips and tipped them up, and the angle changed everything.

I felt him reach a place that made my whole body clench.

"There," I said. "Oh, God. There."

"I know. I can feel it," he said.

"Don't change anything," I said.

"I won't," he said.

He kept the angle, and the pace, and the long grinding press at the end of every stroke.

My nails raked down his back.

I heard myself babbling, half words, his name and mine, and I did not care how I sounded.

He bent and took my mouth, and I could taste the salt on his lip.

"You are so beautiful like this," he said against my cheek.

"Don't talk," I said, laughing, breathless.

"I'll talk if I want. You're mine to talk to tonight."

"Then tell me."

"I'll tell you everything," Emilio said. "Later. I'll tell you what I wanted, the first day. Right now I just want to watch you come."

That undid me.

I came for the third time, low and long and silent, with my head back and my mouth open.

He followed.

His hips stuttered and he pushed deep and held there.

I felt him pulse inside me, and he said my name again into the hollow of my throat.

For a long time neither of us moved.

He rolled onto his side and drew me back against his chest, and his arm came around my waist.

"I'd forgotten how," I said into the dark.

"You hadn't."

He kissed my shoulder, once, and said nothing else.

I woke at four with the sheet tangled around my legs and his side of the bed cool.

A light was on in the kitchen.

Someone had set my suitcase neatly at the foot of the bed, and I found a cotton shirt in it and pulled it on.

He was on the porch in his shirtsleeves with two cups of coffee, watching the dark.

He handed me one without looking round.

"Monday you're Ms. Wehmeyer," Emilio said. "At work, in front of anyone, I don't know you."

I sat on the swing beside him and took a sip.

It was black and strong and exactly the way I would have made it.

"Then I'll see you at eight, Mr. Cavazos," I said. "Don't be late."

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