One Bossy Offer (70)

“No. There’s nothing to pull off with my teeth today and I’m not fucking waiting,” I growl.

With the way her face heats, I almost skip straight to plunging my cock inside her again, but I won’t miss the opportunity to taste her again.

“Miles... what are you doing?” she whispers when I stop too long, admiring the scene as my hands rub her thighs.

“Massaging you, kitten. Soothing sore muscles the best way possible.” My tongue flicks up her opening then.

I lick her, suck her, and breathe her in, working my face against her opening until she’s smothering my senses.

Yes.

Goddammit, yes.

I know what a greedy fuck I am, but this pussy is straight black magic.

I’m spellbound as I wear her down, already drunk on her taste, lashing my tongue against her clit and holding it with my teeth. My fingers delve inside her, finding the soft spot on her wall that makes her tense and hold her breath, hold on until a whimper slips out.

Let go, kitten.

Give it all up for me.

The fight goes out of her as her legs fall open, wider than before.

I don’t have to fight her this time.

My tongue brushes over her in maddening circles, both of us hypnotized.

My body grows harder with every noise she makes, every cry spilling out of her, but I won’t take her like I did last night.

The morning is too gentle, and the long day ahead makes me want to savor this woman, to try to do the impossible and get my fill.

When she’s close, I let up, teasing her with feather-light kisses down her opening. Right before I part her legs and plunge my tongue in her depths.

“Ohh, Miles! Oh—God.”

Even as her nails spear my shoulders, I lavish and soothe her.

I was too rough last night, and this is my apology made flesh.

This is also how I lie to myself, pretending I’m not already hopelessly addicted to this pussy and the alluring siren it’s attached to.

Fuck her for taking over my life.

But fuck me entirely.

I’m the dolt who invited her in, and right now, I can’t fathom ever regretting it.

With a messy whimper, she slings her legs over my shoulders and arches into my strokes. Her breath comes faster, like she only needs the slightest friction.

I’m happy as hell to oblige.

Her fingers tangle in my thick hair, pulling my head closer, begging me to finish her.

Come for me, kitten, I ask without words.

I write my name over her clit with my tongue just as her hips start thrashing.

Then I’m snarling, claiming her with my mouth so fully her scream rips through my house.

We’ll calm the dogs later, who run up to the shut door, barking up a storm and whining.

A brickbat to the face couldn’t tear me off her right now.

And nothing will stop her from being blown to the seven winds.

I’ve never enjoyed watching a woman come apart this much before.

Her legs convulse for an eternity as I pull her to my face, making her ride my mouth, my dusting of a beard, holding her prisoner until she’s gasping and limp.

When I’m finally sure she’s completely spent, I come up and kiss her, hovering over her.

She takes the slow, deep kiss I offer.

“Taste yourself, woman. Only way you’ll ever understand what you do to me,” I whisper.

She’s too flushed, breathing too hard to answer.

I smile like the madman I’ve become.

We kiss in heady silence until the oven dings.

“Breakfast.” I stand up with a knowing look over my shoulder, loving how she laughs. I point to a door on the other side of the room. “My closet is over there. Wear whatever you want until the clothes are dry. I’ll feed the dogs and throw your stuff in the dryer once the scones are out.”

When she walks into the kitchen a few minutes later, this time she’s wearing my old USMC t-shirt. I’m not sure who looks more surprised, me or the Dobermans, who look up from the small antlers they’ve been gnawing.

“How do you take your coffee?” I ask.

“White.”

“White? That’s a new one. Are you fucking with me?”

“Um, we already did that, but... It’s easy. Just pour heavy cream until it turns white and add sugar.”

“Okay, one glass of sugar-milk with a dab of coffee coming right up.” I wink at her.

“Dick. But I love the way you don’t hide your art here.” She turns her breakfast stool, studying the paintings on the walls like we’re at a museum.

I follow her gaze to where it stops on the Celtic owl painting beside the breakfast bar. One of the few creations I’m genuinely proud of, once a gift for my mother’s sixtieth birthday.

“Oh, wait. Isn’t this like the one on your shoulder?”

Nothing slips past her, the little minx.

I grin. “Good eye. They’re similar designs. I did the painting first and liked it so much I took a picture and asked for a recreation at the tattoo shop. Celtic designs get pretty intricate because of all of the knots, but the artist pulled it off.”

She blushes and smiles. “I agree. I thoroughly examined you. I noticed the eagle tattoo on your other shoulder. Is that from your paintings, too?”

For a second, I hesitate, working on the coffee.

“No. It’s from my days in the Marine Corps. Played a big role in making me the man I am today,” I tell her, unsure why I’m even thinking about revealing the other part. “My late mother, she loved owls. I keep them around for the same reason you have your grandmother’s gardens and bee boxes.”