Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
His entire body melts into the seat.
I drag my nose along his length, inhaling the scent of a man I trust, pulling his woody musk deep into my lungs.
A groan notches his breaths, and his legs widen, stretching the seams around his fly. “Stop playing with it, and suck it.”
Smiling, I swirl my tongue around the tip, shredding a gasp from his throat. The sight of his blanching fists around the arm rests produces a throb between my legs. The jerk of his cock against my lips rushes wet heat to my core. His pleasure is my pleasure.
As I suckle and lick the crown, I reach into his briefs to tease his balls with kneading fingers. Then I close my eyes and draw him into my mouth.
“Ah fuck.” He grunts. “That’s it. Deeper. Flatten your tongue. There you go.” His legs shake. “Jesus, Ivory. Just like that.”
I thrill at his praise and bob my head faster, tightening the suction of my mouth. When he’s not turning his neck to glance at the door, I know he’s watching me, absorbing the contentment on my face as I give and give. Imagining the desire hooding his eyes charges me up, almost as much as the way he bosses me every step of the way. Spit on it. Lick under the head. Twist your wrist. Take it deep.
Holy hell, this man. He can’t just sit there and enjoy a blow job. His harsh whispers demand I do it the way he likes it, ordering the exact motions to make. Suck faster. Stroke harder. Make it wet.
He’s a control freak through and through, but I knew he’d respond exactly this way. I love him like this. His filthy fucking mouth and the coarseness of his timbre makes my lips tingle and my nipples harden.
When he loses the last of his restraint, there’s no warning. In a blur, he grabs my hair and slams my head down. I gag, slobbering atrociously and sucking for air. A pained moan escapes him as he bucks his hips and drives harder, deeper. I choke so violently my eyes water against the pressure, and my fingers scramble for purchase in the folds of his slacks.
Both hands tangle in my hair as he holds my face against his groin, his cock digging against my throat, his voice hoarse. “Raise your hand, dammit, and I’ll stop.”
My hands are free. I can lift them anytime. Then he’ll release me, and the discomfort will end. The power in that breaks something open inside me.
I want this. I feel it at gut level, this need for him to fuck my mouth savagely, carelessly, and without thought. Maybe because he’s held back for so long, restraining himself for me, and I ache to give this back to him. Or maybe because I want his hurt so hard and deep inside me that he’s all I feel.
With the broad head pounding the back of my throat and taunting my airway, it already hurts. My tonsils feel like painful masses of swollen tissue. He’s doing this because he wants to, and I love that, crave it, like no decent woman ever would.
I’ve never been decent. I’m dirty—Emeric’s kind of dirty that leaves a claiming painful pleasure in my throat. He tries to fuck me as deeply as he can because he’s my master, the man I hunger for in the darkest, most terribly beautiful way possible.
“Raise…your…fucking…hand.” He punctuates each word with jabbing strokes in my mouth.
I bury my nails into his thighs, a silent plea. Don’t stop.
He stabs his hips and pulls my hair, legs shaking, and breaths wheezing out of control. Just when I think I can’t take any more, the balance shifts. He goes quiet, slowing his thrusts, stroking my hair, and filling my mouth with his release.
My name reverberates through the theater as his body convulses and sighs.
The power is mine. I bask in it. His hands tremble, and I grab them, hold them, our fingers intertwined. I have him.
The next morning, I shield my eyes against the glaring sun and step toward an unfamiliar car in Emeric’s driveway. “What is that?”
He follows me out of the house and walks ahead of me. “A Porsche Cayenne.”
“Okaaay. Why is it here?” I thought he was driving me to my doctor’s appointment in his muscle car. “Where did it come from?”
His strong legs carry him toward the white sporty SUV, his gorgeous ass flexing in low-waist jeans. With the chirp of a key fob, he unlocks and opens the driver’s door then faces me with a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest.
The t-shirt stretches around defined biceps and formidable shoulders, and creases of denim outline the impressive bulge between his legs. I stare without apology, a smile hitching my lips as I recall the way his swollen length pounded against my throat last night.