Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(16)

I roll my eyes. “I can’t believe you just referred to yourself in the third person.”

“I’m talking on behalf of all men on earth. Now get back here and sit on me.”

I swallow a lump in my throat as I walk towards the beautiful man, his masculine thighs spread wide and waiting for me. Climbing on top of him, I take his wrists and hold them above his head.

He smiles wickedly back at me and lets me hold them in a lock, although we both know he could easily break free. “You’re in control,” he murmurs. “Do what you want with me.”

With one hand still holding his wrists, I take his length in the other and run it up and down my entrance, circling its tip around my clit.

“Do you like that?” he whispers. “I love feeling you on top of me.”

I give a curt nod. If I keep massaging myself, I’m going to come. Forcing myself to stop before I’m past the point of no return, I position his cock directly over my opening. I lower down onto him, first the tip, then letting his entire length in.

A low growl rumbles in his throat and his hands clench, but he doesn’t break them free.

I spread my legs further, so I swallow him whole then start hitching up and down.

Damn. This man is the best chair ever.

His face contorts as I thrust aggressively in an optimal position to stimulate my clit.

“Too fast,” he says in a stuttered breath, watching me jut up and down. “I won’t last.”

I ignore him. I control the pace, the depth, the pleasure. He’ll come when I want him to, and right now, I’m speeding towards climaxing so fast I feel dizzy.

“Elena” he groans, “I can’t stop it.”

I clamp down tightly on him, owning him. With a final choked groan, his whole body goes rigid, and his seed pumps into me, tipping me over the edge. I shudder over him, and I moan so loudly I’m sure the reception staff heard me ten floors below. “Oh. My. GOD.”

His hands flop down, and he falls back into the armchair as I ease him out of me. Sweat glistens on his forehead.

He runs a finger down my nose. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’ve reeled me in now.”

I swallow hard, taking in his words and meeting the eye of a man who I know always gets his own way.

I’ve reeled him in? He’s got me, hook, line, and sinker.





6




Elly

“I don’t have any posh restaurant-appropriate outfits,” I whine to Megan. We have laid out all my clothes in the suitcase as well as the bits and bobs I bought here on the island, like sarongs.

The situation is dire. When I was leaving this morning, Tristan asked if he could take me to Botrini's.

A real date.

I'm a bundle of nerves and excitement, not just for seeing Tristan again but also for eating something other than a street gyro.

Megan shrugs. “I dunno why you’re so worried, he seems to prefer you with your clothes off anyway.” She holds a colourful beach sarong against my chest. “Maybe we could make a top out of this?”

“Do you have a sewing machine lying around here you’re not telling me about? I’ve got twenty minutes. I can’t make a nice top out of a bloody sarong.” I rummage through the tops and hold up a white vest top. “Blue jeans, white top. It’ll have to do.”

She nods. “At least it’s nice and tight. It’ll make him think about you naked. That’s the aim, right?”

I tug on the jeans, fraying at the ankles and knees, and pull the white top over my head. I’ve overcompensated with makeup, opting for a bold power pout with deep red lips and a sultry feline eye flick.

I'd have preferred more time and resources for this date considering the most heart-stopping man I’ve ever met, with a body that won’t quit, has only seen me in a gaudy yellow bikini and jeans.

I’m well aware that my days are numbered. A man like that isn’t going to hang around this island all summer for a fling with a backpacker. This will be my last night with him.

“He’s on the street.” Megan is perched at the window. “Oh, he looks scrumptious. You are in for a treat tonight.”

My heart goes from resting to racing, just knowing he’s in the vicinity.

She lets out a low loud wolf whistle.

“Megan, the window is open.” I fix my hair over my shoulders one last time and blow her a kiss. “Wish me luck!”

“You don’t need luck. He’s a done deal.”

I strap my ankles into the only dressy heels I have with me and trot down the stairs.

“Bring me back some leftovers please!” she shouts after me.

Outside, Tristan is leaning against the railing, having what seems to be an animated, angry conversation on the phone. His expression is thunderous. When he spots me, it softens, and he puts his finger up to signal he’ll be off the phone soon.

His forehead wrinkles into a deep scowl as he tries to keep his tone controlled. What is going on with this man? I’m not stupid, I know there’s stuff he’s not disclosing to me, but I can’t exactly ask him to bare it all after two days.

“Sorry.” Tristan strides towards me. He looks delicious. He’s in jeans and a crisp white shirt that sculpts nicely over his superheroic body parts.

I’m going to enjoy this meal this evening.