My Naughty New Year's Eve

Some of the most extravagant events happen on New Year's Eve. I don't attend them. I run them. Over ten years, I've built a career organizing parties for the elite and their friends—for holidays, fundraisers, weddings, birthdays, and no reason at all.

During that same time, Jesse has built a career as a caterer and restauranteur. We've worked together before. Many times, before. Too many times.

Both his food and his tongue have become dangerously familiar to me. Mine glides against it like it's an old friend. My bottom lip welcomes his gentle bite, and my clit pulses against the bulge between his hips. He holds me tightly like he's held me dozens of times, with an arm around my waist and a hand cupping my ass. We fit perfectly, like we have from the beginning, like five years ago when we ran our first event together.

We didn't want to want each other. I had just landed my first major client, and he had just opened his first restaurant. Our relationship would be strictly professional. I was only ever going to be the event coordinator, and he was only ever going to be the caterer. But the day of the event, he was all I thought about. We avoided each other as best we could, but I knew when he was near me; my sex would wake whenever he passed me. We accidentally brushed against each other, and I couldn't breathe. It was cool in the ballroom, but I was hot and delirious. I was so out of my mind that I pulled him behind a pillar and kissed him as the bride and groom cut their wedding cake. The crowd clapped while we devoured each other. When the clapping subsided, we ripped ourselves apart and served the cake like nothing had happened.

Right now, we're in an empty renovated warehouse. Blinding lights radiate off the white walls and on our ridiculous clothing. His neon green bike suit pins my pink dress against the edge of a table. But I don't care what I'm wearing. He's kissing me like I'm a creamy dessert, and we're alone, which has never happened before.

We usually meet somewhere inconspicuous, just out of view from the party guests. We've made out next to priceless statues in museums, behind giant floral arrangements, in quiet hotel hallways, and in empty photo booths.

Over the years, we've gotten bolder, not because we like the risk but because it's harder to stay away. I sucked his dick right next to the DJ during a blackout party. During a Victorian costume party, he hid under my skirt and ate me out. One late night, in a hot tub full of drunk, exhausted guests, I straddled him and then grinded against him until he came in his swim shorts.

Okay. Maybe I like the risk. I suggested the blackout theme, and the costume party, and the hot tub. My events have become so legendary that my clients agree to almost all of my suggestions. One even agreed to a lingerie party—heart-shaped bed and all.

I didn't have to wear a lace bodysuit that night. He could have worn a shirt. Instead we sucked each other's tongues behind a satin curtain. With my back against a cool window, he felt the delicate lace on my stomach, then ran his knuckles over my silk brasserie. When he squeezed my bare ass, he told me he hated my outfit. He just wanted to rip it off. I felt his bare chest for the first time. And his nipples. And his stomach. I felt his heat on my chilly skin.

Just on the other side of the curtain, guests were fucking on the bed. Envy gnawed at my sex with every sigh and ruffle of sheets. I wanted to push them off the bed and throw him onto it. I wanted to make them watch me ride him, harder and harder until they came, and he came, and I came. But he kept his cock in his pants in case we were actually discovered. We both knew that having his tongue in my mouth would have been more forgivable than having his dick in my cunt.

That's our unspoken rule: no penetration. I know I'd lose complete control of myself if my wettest, most sensitive skin felt any part of his hard cock. With every passionate stroke, I'd weaken, and I'd cry out my weakness so obviously that everyone would know what we were doing. They'd rush over, and I'd only get weaker. I know he wouldn't be able to stop. He'd grab me if I tried to run away. He'd press me harder against the window if I tried to escape. He'd senselessly fuck me until I was limp in his arms and our clients were crying, or shouting, or calling the police, or all three. I've seen glimpses of his wild desire, and the idea of it escaping keeps me on the edge of orgasm whenever we work together.

For this New Year's party, our clients insisted on a "tight and bright" theme. I was strictly told to not allow anyone in who was not wearing skin-tight clothes in blinding colors. The white room and matching furniture are meant to enhance the theme. There's nowhere to hide.

I didn't tell Jesse that I was planning to get to the venue early. We just showed up and found each other like we both knew this would be our only chance to be together. I'm not surprised. All of our rendezvous have been spontaneous. We've never conspired to meet and risk ruining our reputations. We're just drawn to each other, whether we like it or not.

Why I won't go home with him? He's asked me after every event. Maybe it's because we work long hours and regularly travel. Maybe it's because I've been building my career and I haven't wanted to do anything different. Maybe it's because I don't want to make sacrifices.

He brushes his thumb over my hard nipple. "You're not wearing a bra."

I mischievously smile and bite his lip. He slides his hands under the hem of my dress, and I tense in excitement. His fingers travel up my thighs, and when my dress goes up with them, cool air tickles my ass. Part of me wants someone to walk in and see it shining in the bright light.

He smiles against my lips. "And you're not wearing underwear."

I grind my naked pussy against his stiff crotch. "I don't know how you're going to hide your erection all night."

He teasingly kisses me. "We could take care of it right now."

My cheeks burn with desire. Is this the moment? Is this finally when we do it? No one is here. Should I take a chance?

I grab him by his hair and force him into a kiss. Goosebumps ripple across my skin when he pushes my dress up to my waist. We kiss and fondle each other. I tease his hard dick with my fingers while he shoves his tongue down my throat. We ravage each other until we're so desperate that he shoves me onto the table. Goddamn, I like it.

I run my hands up his chest and pull down the zipper of his bike suit. He yanks the stretchy nylon off his shoulders and bunches the suit at his hips. I gasp and twitch when he sucks on my breast through the fabric of my dress. He wiggles his suit down until his erection springs free, and my muscles are already clenching from the thought of him inside me. My pussy is pulsing, and it's dripping onto the table. He grabs his dick, centers it, and—

My phone rings, and his face falls like he wants to cry. "Fuck."

I get off the table and shimmy my dress back into place. I comb my fingers through my hair while he glumly pulls his bike suit over his shoulders.

I say breathlessly, "It's probably my assistant." I reach for my phone at the other end of the table.

Exasperated, he confesses, "Renée, I can't do this anymore. You're killing me."

I pick up my phone and point to the other end of the warehouse. "She can't know you were here. Leave through the back door."

His tone sharpens. "What do you want me to do? Wait in the alley?"

"Yes."

He growls as I walk toward the front door. I answer my assistant's call just as he slams the back door behind him.

☆

Three minutes until midnight. Jesse has done everything possible to avoid me. The guests are drunk. I've spent the past fifteen minutes making sure they don't trip or vomit on the electrical equipment. An AV technician is setting up a large monitor to stream the ball drop. The ball in Times Square appears on the monitor, and excited chatter from the crowd plays through the speakers. The guests collect glasses of champagne and then congregate in front of the TV.

I've never actually seen the guests toast to the new year while running an event with Jesse. We were always somewhere else. In Sydney, we were on a dark ledge of a rooftop. He had me pinned against the wall and two fingers inside me. I remember gripping his arm while he told me how wet I was, and I remember coming as the fireworks lit the sky. One year, the theme was to "wear what your parents wanted you to be when you grew up." My parents wanted me to be a doctor. His parents wanted him to be a judge. I zipped open his long black robe and stroked his dick in the walk-in freezer. He came on my white coat. The last time we were together for the new year, he sucked my breasts at a luau, far away from the lights of the tiki torches. This year, I have no choice but to watch the guests giggle in their cheesy hats and sunglasses and Jesse sulk alone on the other side of the room.

The guests start the countdown from ten, and my heart sinks further as each second passes. It's over—the fun we've had and the relationship we might have had. The guests shout happy new year, turn to their partners, and kiss. I turn to Jesse to solemnly toast the end of us. He turns to me and I raise my glass, but he sets his down on a high table. I sigh and raise mine to my lips.

I can't drink it. He's right. It's not fun anymore. Our attraction has mutated into torture—for both of us. I have to try to end the suffering.

I hand my glass to my assistant and run across the room.

The guests turn toward me as my heels ring against the concrete floor, but all I care about is Jesse. I approach him and whisper his name, and just before I crash into him, he finally turns. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him with naked passion and longing. I nearly cry with relief when he wraps his arms around me. The crowd cheers as he pulls me close to him.

My assistant touches my arm and smiles. "Go. I'll take care of everything."

Jesse and I rush out of the venue.

☆

His apartment door slams against the wall as we fumble through the doorway. I kick off my heels while he shuts the door, and I'm out of my dress by the time he's removed his sneakers. We laugh as we struggle to peel off his bike suit. Once he's naked, he picks me up and takes me to his bedroom. My pulse kickstarts when he throws me onto the bed. It's soft and comfortable, unlike every other quiet place we've been. Those places were hot because it was wrong to be there. But now we're finally somewhere right. We're in the perfect place to fucking lose our minds.

He kisses my neck, but I order, "Just put it in already."

He hovers over me, centers himself and plunges inside. Our cries engulf his dark room as five years of unrequited lust erupt to the surface. He desperately thrusts to claim everything I denied him, and I let him take it. My hips relax. My legs lay wide open. My sex is soaked with my arousal, and it gets wetter with every gliding thrust. It invites him to take more of what he has undeniably earned.

He pumps faster. "Oh my God."

He makes my breasts shake as he smacks against me. He grips his mattress and pumps hard, so hard that my vagina clenches around him in surprise. He shouts, and I shout when he heaves again and reaches the deepest part of me. Heat blooms in my cheeks. My legs clutch around him.

He stops and pants, "Are you okay?"

Dull pain pulses in my abdomen. I take a breath, and it tingles away.

I want more.

I nod and brace myself against his headboard. "Again."

He gives it to me, and we shout together when his tip meets my hilt.

His bed scrapes against the floor in rhythm with his desperate desire. He shouts when he's not sighing my name. He never stops, and I'm overcome by it all. The tingling pain. His urgent thrusts. Our ear-shattering cries. Heat and sweat pour from my skin.

I scream his name, and then he shouts with one violent, ejaculating blow. My body shakes, and his twitches until we've lost all our strength. He collapses next to me looking blissfully spent. I feel the same way.

☆

The sun shining through his bedroom window wakes me up. I open an eye and find him reading a cookbook in bed.

He smiles at me. "Hey, how do you like your eggs?" He excitedly flips through some pages. "I realized you've never tried my brunch."

His bedsheet slips down my torso as I sit up. I groan. Every muscle aches.

He laughs. "I feel you. I could barely walk into the kitchen to get this book."

I can see his tidy kitchen and his cozy living room from the bed. There are a few healthy plants and family photos. Everything is calm and comfortable. I can't smile back. This can't become a thing. I'm not ready for bridesmaids or babies. I don't know if I'll ever be.

I search for my clothes. "I think I should go."

"Oh, come on. I didn't ask you to marry me. I asked you about eggs."

I cock a sleepy eyebrow at him. He smiles and shrugs. I try not to like it.

I say, "You're different this morning."

"Maybe that's because my dick doesn't feel like it's going to explode."

He cheekily smirks, and I roll my eyes. I think to punch his shoulder, but I lean my head on it instead. Eggs are okay.

He kisses my forehead, then points at the recipe he tabbed. "Breakfast tacos?"

His cookbook rests on his bare stomach, and the sheet barely covers his crotch. I slide my hand under the sheet and murmur, "Maybe later."