Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
In a moment of daring, I slide my thighs wider. He smiles, an oddly sweet-looking thing but with teeth, like he can see right through me as he brings his mouth to my ear.
“Can I help you with something?” he taunts.
“You should stop talking and do something more useful with your mouth.”
His chuckle is filthy as he drives those fingers deep inside me. Strong fingers. Experienced hands. I want to feel them everywhere as he twists his wrist, his dark lashes flickering as his lips close over my nipple again.
I arch my back, gifting my body to him. I want what’s left of my clothes to disintegrate as his clever mouth slides down the underside my of breast. A press of teeth and I moan before he kisses his way down my torso, teeth and tongue and lips exploring every inch.
I’m strung so tight, I feel I might break. Snap like the stem of a flower.
This is such a rush. I’m moments away from coming apart under the hands of this man. Again. His fingers sunk so deep and curling inside me as the smooth glide of his freshly shaved cheek touches my belly. He bites the soft flesh, and I buck. And I curse. He hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet, and I’m already on the brink. I feel so light-headed, I wonder if I might pass out. I inhale a deep breath, hoping that will help.
It doesn’t. I feel like I am nothing but the place where his mouth has been and the places it hasn’t reached yet.
His teeth graze just south of my navel, before the point of his tongue slides lower, and slips inside me. It feels so good, it ought to be illegal. I lose track of everything—my dignity, the awareness of this risk—as a ragged moan slips out of me.
Luc stops, just for a heartbeat, glancing up at me as his mouth lifts with a slow, hungered kind of amusement; his face is close enough to drink in my every twitch.
“Those sounds make me want to swallow you whole.”
I shouldn’t make so much noise, I know. But the walls are thick and his office far from the kitchen.
“Make me want to suck the marrow from your bones.” His voice sounds so rough, the refinement of the man nowhere to be seen. “You make me forget everything I’m supposed to know.” French this time. A language I’m not meant to understand and a sentiment I’m not meant to comprehend as his tongue flicks at me again.
My hips buck clumsily—I don’t care. I just want this. I need this, I fear.
“So slick and pink.” The sound is more of a masculine groan as though the sight of my pussy is some source of awe as he peels me open by the v of his fingers.
All the fingers. All inside me.
My hips rise as his tongue swipes my clit, my hands grasping his hair as he engulfs it with his lips. Sucking. Swirling. Flicking. The sensations feel enormous, and my cries echo around the room. This is so intense, my whole body electrified as his fingers and tongue work again and again.
“Please!” Please more? Please stop? I can barely think, held together as I am between the desk and this very bad decision. “God, Luc!” It’s not even a plea—the noise is pure relief as he whispers his praise, a spill of rasping heat of yes and a good girl and you taste so fucking good falling from his lips.
I come so hard my teeth rattle, but he doesn’t slow. And I don’t ask him to as his tongue licks and laves, keeping up the divine kind of pressure that draws out in waves. My muscles lock, my knees, the keening noise I make raw and primal. It’s almost ugly. But it’s real. And I need it. God, I need it.
A minute or a year later, a bird screeches in the sky, and the spell inside the room flexes under the weight of a reality that feels too bright.
Luc’s smooth cheek rubs against my inner thigh, and I shiver at the press of his lips. “The angels must’ve had a hand in making you.”
Did he say that in English or French? I can’t process as I shakily sit straighter, drawing my legs together as the wet pleasure between my thighs grows cool.
I frown at the window, reality and fantasy at odds. I don’t like it.
“The terrace is walled,” Luc offers, reading my expression again.
“That’s no guarantee of privacy,” I murmur to myself.
“True.” But he looks amused. “I wonder if that would have mattered.”
I shuffle my bum squeakily across the desk—I die at the sound—and out from under him. “Of course it matters. I’m not like that. You—you don’t know me.”
“I know what you like.” His expression is so shockingly sure that I do a double take.