"What do you think?"
He peels back his lips and his teeth flash against his tanned skin. He eases me down and I drop to my knees.
Hell, he handles my body like I am made of room-temperature butter… Would he lick me like I am a toffee-topped crumpet too? That large rough tongue of his would lave my flesh, dig into the nooks and crannies of my sensitive core, strum on my pussy lips, nibble on my cream and sugar… No.. No… No. "No," I shake my head.
"Don’t mock it till you try it," he growls.
I’m eye level with that part of him that has taunted me since I walked into this house. No, even before that... Since I first saw him, across a crowded room at my friend Summer’s wedding, when he’d prowled toward the bar, leaned against the barrier, stance wide, reached for a tumbler for whiskey and I’d seen the tendons of his throat stretch as he’d swallowed it down.
"Open," he growls.
I tip up my chin. "You’re no dessert," I huff.
"No, I’m better."
He releases me, only to grab his dick and—what the—? I stare. I can’t help it. I mean, I shouldn’t. I should look away, spring to my feet and follow Max into the kitchen, then keep going until I reach my car and get out of here. I could do it, too. He’s not holding me back. I should get away from him; away from this insane start to what was supposed to have been a quiet time, of reflection, and experimentation, of coming up with ideas for new desserts that I could use to differentiate my business from the rest… Which is exactly what I have been doing since I walked in here.
Hold on a second… Is being with him sparking off brainwaves of the culinary, and face it, the lustful kind? And hell, if the two don’t go together. Desserts and orgasms, puddings and sex, cupcakes and clit stimulators…
Whoa. Hold on. Back up there. That idea I’d pulled out of my arse earlier, of writing a book about desserts that are stimulants… Well, it’s not a bad idea at all… In fact, it could inspire an entire range of recipes…that I could use for my occasions-themed menu—valentines, anniversaries, birthdays, weddings… Hmm. I chew on my lower lip, watch as he squeezes himself from root to swollen head of his fat dick. My mouth waters and my belly clenches… Hell, what am I thinking? I’m not seriously considering…
He squeezes his cock, so it stands straight out, staring at me in the face, with precum oozing from the slit, and hell… I’m only a woman kneeling in front of a beautiful dick, wanting to lick it.
"Do it," he insists. "Open up, Buttercup."
"Did you just rhyme your words with my so-called pet name—?"
He shoves his dick in between my lips… He’s not tender or gentle, by any means… He takes it like it’s his right, to have his shaft in my mouth, filling me, bumping up over my tongue. "Swallow," he growls.
What the hell? How dare he think he can command me and I’ll obey? How can he take me for granted…? Because I haven’t left yet, have followed his directions so far, allowed him to maneuver me into this place of supplication, where I peer up at him, watch the sweat bead his forehead,
"Now." He glares at me, and heat flares in my belly; a shudder runs down my spine and my thighs spasm, I resist the urge to squeeze them together. I will not show him that his dominance is turning me on, that his complete arrogance in assuming I’ll do what he asks is…a bloody turnoff.
"Amelie." His voice lowers to a hush.
So, he remembers my name, huh?
His jaw tics, "Take me down your throat."
And his tone brooks no argument. I tip my chin up, open my mouth further—wide enough for his cock to slip in, ease down my gullet. I cough and tears squeeze out of my eyes. I swallow and a groan rips out of him. His massive thighs on either side of my face ripple as if unseen currents grip him, the same ones that writhe down my legs, to my toes. My fingers tingle and my scalp itches. I raise my hands, grip the outside of each of his legs.
"Fuck," he rasps, "you have no idea what you’re doing to me."
Oh, trust me, I do. Question is, why the hell am I still here?
"You want to leave?" His voice cuts through my mind. Huh? Has he been reading my thoughts? "Do you, Buttercup?" he asks.
Is it the fact that his nickname is growing on me—because it belonged to my childhood heroine…the one I’d wanted to be when I grew up? Or because the strain in his tone is evident? Because he doesn’t touch me anywhere… Well, except for the most intimate part of him in one of my orifices. I swipe my tongue up the bottom of his cock over the throbbing vein, to the rim of his swollen head. I circle it, and another growl rips out of him. The heat pours off of him, and down on me. The strength of his dominance seems to grow, coiling around me, pinning me in place. Moisture pools between my thighs. Hell, what is he doing to me? What am I going to do to ensure that he doesn’t take me for granted again? That he doesn’t simply put me down as another of the women who’ve succumbed to his charms… Okay, so I am as guilty, but hell, if I am going to walk away from this encounter without making an impression. Yeah, did I mention I am bloody competitive by nature? It’s been my downfall… The reason I’m here, about to spend Christmas on my own… I should take him up on the out he’s extended to me and scram… I should.
"You scared you won’t be able to finish what you started?"
He snickers. The bastard snickers—with his dick in my mouth. Sheesh, men! They can be so naïve. So full of their own ego, they can’t see the truth when it stares them in the face. That I am going to make him regret every little insult he’s thrown my way since I walked in there.
"You make up your mind yet, Buttercup? Either get out so I can complete this on my own or—"
I cup his balls and squeeze.
His big body freezes. I bring up my other palm, begin to knead that gorgeous well-hung part of him. His dick thickens and the muscles under his belly coil, ripple like there’s some kind of internal struggle that holds his guts hostage.
"Are you sure, you want to do this?" His voice is so low, so harsh, a tremor courses through my veins and my toes curl. I lean in just a millimeter more, enough for his shaft to slip further down my throat. A growl rips out of him, "Last chance, Amelie." His voice is strained.
I peer up into his features. His jaw tics; a vein pops at his temple. The pulse between my legs beats in tandem. I lean back on my haunches, so his shaft slides out to the edge of my mouth. Then wrap my lips around his head, squeeze his balls at the same time.
"Jesus, fuck," he swears.
A thrill runs down my spine.
I knead his balls and the muscles in his stomach jump.
"You’ve done it now." He digs the fingers of his uninjured hand into my hair, and tugs. Pinpricks of pleasure race across my scalp. "I am going to fuck your face now."
4
Weston
The hell am I doing? I’d meant to haul her to her feet and throw her out of the house, so I could get on with the quiet time I’d hoped to have over the holidays. Instead, I can’t stop myself from tugging down on her hair. She flinches, raises her head, and the sight of those pink lips wrapped around my cock—bloody fuck—lust spirals through my veins hot and hard. Fuck. "I am going to do this my way, Buttercup. You understand that, hmm?"