He sinks to his knees in front of me, tugging at his bow tie and undoing the top
button of his shirt. With messy hair from where I’ve held onto it and flushed
cheeks, he looks up at me. His hands run from my ankle to my
knee, then back down again, and yep, still close to melting territory. “You sure?”
“Do you have a pen and paper for me to draw you a map?”
I’m making jokes. Why am I making jokes? Why do I find how unimpressed with
me he looks right now so funny? And hot?
“I don’t joke about consent, Anastasia,” he says softly, leaning forward to kiss the
inside of my knee.
“I’m sure.” I don’t know why I’m sure. I’m sure I shouldn’t be sure. I shouldn’t like
how he looks hooking my leg over his shoulder. I’m definitely sure I shouldn’t be
enjoying his tongue running up the inside of my thigh.
He pulls the material of the dress to the side, and when I put on this dress earlier,
this is not how I saw the evening turning out. I hear a groan of approval when his
mouth gets closer to the apex of my thighs, and he realizes I’m not wearing any
panties.
The anticipation is killing me. I know he’s doing it on purpose, getting closer and
closer, but not doing anything meaningful.
I’m about to open my mouth to tell him to hurry up when his tongue runs between
my folds, circling my cl*t slowly. A loud, desperate moan echoes around the room.
I don’t even realize the noise came from me until I feel his shoulders move
because the jacka** laughs.
Fingers tickle up the back of my thighs until they can’t go any farther. His huge
hands sink into my a**, squeezing at the same time he sucks my cl*t into his
mouth in a way that makes me feel like I’m floating.
I’m a wreck. A writhing, moaning, shaking wreck. Shit. I don’t even need to be
looking at his face to realize how arrogant he is right now, not that I could—it’s
buried pretty deep between my thighs.
Sinking my hands into his hair for something to hold on to, a satisfied groan
rumbles in his throat and the butterflies in my stomach freaking multiply.
I want to say something smart, sass him in some way. Not give him the
satisfaction of knowing he’s turned me into a whimpering mess in a matter of
minutes. Back arching away from the door, eyes rolling to the back of my head,
hair pulling mess.
One of his hands moves from my a** cheeks, and when I look down, a pair of
brown eyes are staring back at me. They stay burning into me,
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