Lola & the Millionaires: Part One (Sweet Omegaverse #2)(83)

“Matthieu, I want—” I whined and rolled my hips against his, one of his hands coming down to my ass and squeezing.

“Anything,” he hissed, licking over my pulse. “Anything.”

I sucked in a breath, and it was a struggle. I was on a dangerous edge of arousal and panic, and for every delicious perfect sensation, there was heightened anxiety to match it.

“I need control,” I said, stretching and bracing my hands on the back of the seat.

Matthieu was under my shadow, eyes nearly black with desire, lips wet and chest heavy with breath. I lifted one hand and hesitated, wanting to slide my fingers into his hair. His head tilted in the direction of my hand, inviting me to touch, and his hands fell to the leather seats. My knees were on either side of his hips, my back to the partition. Matthieu must’ve turned us and pulled me onto his lap during the kiss, and I hadn’t even noticed in the haze.

“It’s yours,” Matthieu murmured, a scratch in his words and his gaze heavy-lidded. “Anything you want, Lola.”

My breath hitched. Well now I felt like I’d just been left in front of a massive buffet table of all my favorite foods. Where did I start?

“The driver can’t see, right?” I asked.

“No, but he might hear if we aren’t careful,” Matthieu said, lips curling.

That was all right then. I planned on keeping my mouth busy.

I reached down, my fingers looping around Matthieu’s wrists and drawing his palms up to the back of my thighs. “Touch,” I whispered, lowering my head to brush my lips over his. “But don’t push.”

Matthieu started to purr, but he choked on the sound as my fingers reached for the hem of his sweater, dipping underneath and stroking at the soft skin of his stomach. I kissed him again, trying to take sips of his flavor instead of guzzling the moment down like an alcoholic reuniting with their favorite poison. Matthieu’s hands were warm on my skin as his fingertips, calloused from playing the guitar, slid up between my thighs. Up and down he stroked, tempting me to sink down into his touch and let him feel how badly I wanted him.

Remember what Rake said? a warning voice asked.

I did, and that was the worst part. I wouldn’t stop. God, they would smell Matthieu all over me when I got to the house. Maybe that would be the end of all of this. Rake and Leo would see who I really was.

I still wouldn’t stop.

My fingers on Matthieu’s stomach moved down, cupping his erection over his jeans. Matthieu groaned, a purely sexual sound, and his hips bucked as I massaged him through layers of fabric. Unable to resist the call of my warmth or trying to reciprocate my touches on him, Matthieu’s hands under my skirt grew brave, pushing against the damp fabric of my underwear.

“Fuck,” Matthieu hissed, eyes squeezing shut. “Jesus Christ, what are we doing? Fuck you’re so wet, Lolotte.”

I whined at the coaxing pet name and rode his fingers, the pair of us handsy and probably louder than we should’ve been if we wanted this to be private.

“Fuck, if I’d known,” Matthieu gasped out, leaning back to catch my eyes, a perfect silvery-blue ring of color surrounding his full pupils.

Decision made, I pushed his hands away and then moved backward until I was off the seat of the car and down on the floor. Matthieu’s head shot up as I moved his knees aside to make room for me between them. His eyes were wide on my face, breaths panting.

“Are you—” He stopped on the words, swallowing hard and searching my face. He let out a long breath and smiled at me. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I sighed in relief. I really hadn’t wanted him to check on me again. I didn’t know if I was all right, but I knew what I wanted. And that was to tear Matthieu down one piece of pleasure at a time. To own him in the moment and to pretend I was in control and not just a slave to old habits.

“Un petit mort,” I quoted. A little death.

Matthieu huffed a laugh, hand reaching up to slide over his face. He stiffened and then pressed his fingers to his nose, a soft growl echoing in the small space as he smelled me there. Distracted, Matthieu didn’t notice as I leaned in, rucking his sweater up. His stomach flexed as I sucked a kiss on his ribs, my hands returning to the crotch of his jeans, one working at the top button while the other stroked the ridge of his length through the fabric.

I kissed my way down his right side and then again down his left, my hands keeping busy over his erection. His own hands were back on the seat, fingers digging into the cushions, flexing with every strained puff of breath. When I undid the zipper and reached to the waistband of his jeans, looking up at Matthieu, his vision was glazed with hunger, cheeks and throat flushed red.

He muttered something in French as he lifted his hips and helped me pull his jeans and boxer briefs down his thighs. It’d been a long time since I was in a French class, but the few familiar words I caught combined with his tone led me to think he might’ve been insulting himself.

“I want my mouth on you. My hands on you,” Matthieu breathed out as his cock bobbed free, long and uncut and red with angry arousal. He blinked slowly at me, stomach exposed and twitching as I teased my fingertips over the insides of his thighs. “This is your show. But just know I’m desperate for you.”

I swallowed at the words, at the ragged tone of his voice, and nodded once. I wouldn’t be able to resist him. I wanted those things too. But first I needed or wanted to know if he would—if he could let me have the control when it came to his pleasure.