The First Taste(45)

“You asked me that already, and the answer is still probably.” He hands me the condom, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls my body flush with his. “You have that effect on me.”

“There’s no time for that,” I say, trying to wriggle free.

“For what?”

“Wooing. I’m already here, and the clock is ticking.”

“There’s always time for wooing,” he says, holding me to him. “God, you look so f*cking good in this dress. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you.”

“Oh. Are those your eyes I’ve been feeling?”

“Mine and every other man’s in the room.”

“You’re one to talk,” I say. “As if you don’t know how well you clean up.”

“I don’t know,” he teases. “Tell me.”

“You look . . . presentable. It’s a nice change.”

He barks out a laugh and smacks my ass. “You can’t resist messing with me, can you?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Good. Neither can I.” He captures my mouth with a sudden kiss, and though it alarms me how quickly I melt against him, I don’t try to stop it. He works fast, gathering up the long length of my dress until it’s bunched at my hips. Spurred into action and trying to keep up with his frantic kiss, I reach down the front of his pants. With just one touch, I moan into his mouth. “You’re so hard.”

“You have that effect on me,” he repeats. “Put the condom on me, then hold up your dress.”

I push his underwear down just enough to release him and do as he says. I’ve barely grabbed the fabric of my dress when he spins me around. He wraps his arms around my front, pressing his pelvis to me, undeniably solid against my lower back. Walking us forward a few steps into the room, he asks, “What exactly should I do with you?”

“Anything,” I answer breathlessly, “just do it fast.”

The room is predictably lavish with a California King, plush club chairs, and ornate curtains. He stops and bends me over the side of a wooden desk.

“Spread for me, babe,” he says. “Pull your dress up higher.”

I drop my clutch next to me and bare my ass to him. With a throaty noise of approval, he runs both hands up the backs of my thighs. When he reaches the apex, he pulls my thong around my thighs and tests me with his fingers. My thoughts scatter.

“Wet,” is all he says, apparently as engrossed as I am.

He’s reduced me to a puddle within minutes, and I’m barely concerned that I’ve lost any control I might’ve had. “Please.”

He parts my lips with his fingers and presses the head of his cock against me. “I’m going to do this fast,” he warns and plows in all at once, jolting me forward on the desk. I groan as he seats himself there with a few small, firm thrusts, his belt buckle digging into the back of my thigh. He pulls me upright by my biceps, and it’s as if I’ll split in two from having him so deep.

With my back against his front, he says into my ear, “Fast but hard. I’ll f*ck you until you can’t feel your legs, Amelia.”

I whimper, a sound I’ve never heard myself make. “Do it.”

“Then, later tonight, I’ll bring you back here,” he releases my arms to cup both my breasts in his large, calloused hands, “and take you so slowly, you’ll beg for fast and hard again.” He moves one hand over my eyes, covering my mouth with the other. Instinctively, I arch my back, pushing myself harder onto him. “I’ll blindfold you with my red tie so you can only guess where I’ll touch you next,” he says. “I’ll love every inch of you. How’s that sound?”

I plead with him against his palm, unintelligible appeals to stop talking and f*ck . . . me.

He draws back, then slams into me. When I cry out, he asks, “Like that?”

I hear the smile in his voice and nod.

He uncovers my eyes and mouth to gently hold my throat. Skating his other hand down my stomach, he slips his fingers over my clit and moves them in small, wet circles.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his breath hot against my cheek.

My desperation for release reaches a new level. “You.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“To come.”

He begins to move inside me as fast as the angle will allow. What he lacks in speed, he makes up for in depth, in his hands loving my clit. I have the urge to spread my legs, but my underwear traps my thighs. My knees tremble, sending a quiver up my entire body. His hand on my throat should scare me; it gives him complete control. Instead, it possesses me, makes me feel owned and secure—as close to loved as I think I’m capable of feeling.

“I can’t hold back anymore.” He releases me completely and pushes me down by my upper back, mashing my breasts against the cool wood. For a few desk-rattling minutes, he holds my hips and f*cks me like I’ve offended him.

“I could come already,” he grates out. “What do you need?”

“Anything,” I say, close but not quite there. “Pull my hair. Slap my ass. Anything.”

He closes his front over my back, covers my mouth again, and growls in my ear, “You want to go to the edge?”

I open my mouth to beg for it, but he shoves his finger in my mouth. “Suck.” I close my lips around him, and when he says more, harder, I comply. He removes his finger and saliva dribbles down my chin. Just as I’ve registered his hand between the crack of my ass, he’s rimming my tight bud with a slippery fingertip.