Press Release

21: Release Me

When Minnie awakens, she doesn't want to move a muscle. She's lying on her right side facing Harry, and the scruff on his face is so sexy. He's on his back, his arms resting on top of the sheet and thin cotton blanket, giving her an unrestricted view of the tattoos on his left arm. Her fingers ache to trace them. With that sentiment, she mentally shakes herself.

What was she doing with him? By now, he should be out of her system. How many times had they had sex? Four? Five? Six? She was confident that every single coupling was seared in her brain, but counting them made her head hurt. Speaking of which, she really wished she could blame her indiscretion last night on being tipsy. But that didn't explain all of the other times she had jumped head first into bed with him. Or into a maid's closet. Or a hotel room. Plus she had given him permission to use her name. Her nickname. That was something that had to be earned. Hell, most of her former clients don't know her by that nickname, and she'd worked with them a damn sight longer than she'd been boinking Harry Edward Styles.

Worst of all was the fact that looking at him lying next to her this morning made her wet. Her interior muscles were clenching at the thought of pairing with him. Dammit. At thirty-five, maybe her biological clock was ticking so loudly and her ovaries aching so completely that her libido was in overdrive. When she'd turned 30, she still harbored hopes of having children. But now? She'd given up that ghost two years ago. Her life was just fine as she knew it. No other complications, including children, were needed.

As Minnie is reminding herself that she is just going to have to try harder to move past this infatuation, Harry stirs, opening his eyes and blinking a few times before turning his head to spot her. The corners of his mouth lift up in a genuine smile.

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She's the first thing I see when I open my eyes, and damn. She looks amazing. Minnie. I live for you. I long for you. I don't care that the lyrics don't match anymore. Maybe I need to change the lyrics to Wilhelmina instead of Olivia. Yes. That would work. In my head, I play the song. It's more syllables, but I can make it fit.

My instinct is to capture her lips in a kiss and see where that takes us, and I always obey my instincts. Turning onto my side, I move my head towards her, expecting that she will pull away. Or move closer. Instead, she stays still like a statue, and I'm able to press my lips to hers. Within seconds, we're entangled in a passionate kiss, tongues wrapped together as I suck on hers and she retreats to her own mouth so that I chase her. Rolling on top of her, I demonstrate that I'm ready for her.

With her left hand, she reaches for her bedside table, grappling to open it, handing me the condom without hesitation, and soon enough I'm buried inside her as we're face to face. Her legs are spread wide, and I'm deeply embedded. I want to kick myself for not checking her level of readiness, but she shifts her hips, and I find myself slipping deeper inside. Fuck me. She's as wet as if I'd spent an hour working her up. Our movements are like a slow dance: leisurely, coordinated, sedate, steady. Her hand touches the back of my neck. Mine skims her breasts, running over her belly. She slides her fingers down my arm, wrapping them around my bicep as she arches her back in pleasure. Our pace doesn't change; her breath hitches, and I find that I'm on the brink. As I fall into the abyss, taking her with me, I marvel at the multiple ways in which she's brought me to my climax. By now, I should have gotten her out of my system, and I cannot fathom why two or three times wasn't enough, especially since we've more than doubled that now.

When I collapse on top of her, she wraps her arms around my back, caressing me gently, and I kiss her neck, that little spot just behind and under her ear. She shudders, and I feel it in my softening dick. The other day she'd asked me what I'd done to her. But the real question is what had SHE done to ME?