Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(59)

Then he shudders and groans, long and low. His hand tightens in my hair.

He whispers harshly, “I’m close. I want you to swallow every drop, then lick me clean.”

I can’t speak, so I open my eyes and say yes silently as I stare up at him.

He drops his head back, moans my name, and shudders again. His hand around my throat is hot and shaking.

When he erupts, it’s with an abrupt hip thrust and a shout toward the ceiling.

His cock throbs against my tongue. Tears stream down my cheeks. I have to take shallow breaths though my nose as I swallow. He takes his hand away from my throat and cradles my head as he continues to come, pumping his hips and moaning lustily. “Ahh—ahh—ahh—”

He collapses against the mattress with a final shudder, then heaves a sigh.

As for me, I sit up a little on my knees so I can start cleaning.

I lick him lovingly from base to tip, thinking I’d probably be doing this even if he hadn’t ordered me to. His thick cock is worthy of countless hours of worship. It’s a thing of beauty.

Maybe instead of abstracts, I’ll move on to nudes.

I giggle a little when I picture my living room walls crammed with paintings of Kage’s erection.

He rolls his head to one side and gazes at me with hazy, half-lidded eyes. He caresses my face. In a husky voice, he says, “If I had a more fragile ego, I might not take it so well that you’re laughing when your face is two inches from my dick.”

I give him a few more licks, then crawl up his body and lie on top of him, draping my bound arms over his head and snuggling my face into the crook between his neck and shoulder.

“I was just thinking you’d make a great nude model. If I brought you into sketch class, my students would die.”

Winding his arms around my back, he nuzzles my hair. “Your classes have nude models?”

“No. The kids are too young for that. But you’re inspiring me to start teaching night school for adults.” I tilt my head and smile up at him. “I could make a lot of money charging admission if you were on the ticket.”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “You don’t need to worry about money anymore, remember? By the way, why haven’t you started taking draws from the trust?”

I crinkle my nose. “Can we please have a few minutes of uninterrupted afterglow before we start talking about money?”

He cups my face and softly kisses my lips. “You might be the only person I’ve met who doesn’t care about it.”

“Oh, I care about it. I just don’t want to feel like you gave me a ten-million-dollar payment for services rendered.”

After a moment, he starts to chuckle. Short, silent chuckles that shake his chest. “What if I said it was only a fifty-dollar payment, and the rest was a tip?”

“If my wrists weren’t tied together, I’d smack you a good one, you jerk.”

He rolls me over and presses me against the mattress, smiling down at me, so handsome, it hurts.

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep you tied up for good.”

“You have to let me go sometime. I still need to clean up that shoulder of yours.”

His warm eyes flare even warmer, until they’re smoldering hot. “I have a better idea. Let’s get cleaned up together. In the shower.”

Without waiting for a response, he rolls off the bed, picks me up, and carries me into the bathroom.





23





Nat





I always pictured the reality of shower sex being less like it is in the movies—glamorous, sensual—and more like two baby elephants rolling around awkwardly in a tiny kiddie pool as they’re sprayed with garden hoses: trunks flying, legs tangling, everything a chaotic, weird-looking mess.

Kage simplifies things by pressing me against the shower wall, pinning my arms behind my back, and fucking me standing up.

When the echoing cries of our pleasure have faded, he drops his forehead to my shoulder and exhales.

“I wish I’d met you years ago,” he murmurs, softly kissing my wet skin. “You make me want to be a different man.”

The sadness in his voice tightens something inside my chest. “I like the man you are.”

“Only because you don’t know me well enough.”

He withdraws from my body, then turns me toward the warm spray. Standing behind me, he squirts a dollop of shampoo into his hand and massages it into my hair.

It feels so good, I’m almost distracted by what he just said.

Almost, but not quite.

“So start talking, then. What is it I should know?”

The sound of the water can’t drown out his sigh. “What do you want to know?”

I think for a moment. “Where were you born?”

“Hell’s Kitchen.”

Never having been to Manhattan, I don’t know much about its different neighborhoods. But I do know that Hell’s Kitchen isn’t considered high-end. “And you went to school there?”

His strong fingers massage my scalp, working the shampoo through my hair. “Yes. Until I was fifteen and my parents were killed.”

I freeze in horror. “Killed? By who?”

His voice gains a hard, hateful edge. “The Irish. Their gangs were the deadliest in New York then. The biggest and best organized. My parents were shot in cold blood in front of their butcher shop on 39th Street.”