His Sugar Baby(32)

One of Michael’s hands wrapped over hers, tightening her grip and adjusting the rhythm. It sounded as though he spoke through clenched teeth. “That’s it. Like that. A little harder—God, yes!”

Hot fluid erupted between her flexing fingers, and his shaft jerked convulsively. His thighs were rock-hard under her elbows. Winter gasped at the blind erotic feel of his slippery pumping cock, the heat radiating off his body. The potent musk of him was overpowering. Her belly clenched on swift arousal.

Michael’s hands slid under her shoulders, and he lifted her up into his arms. He pulled her into his naked lap, where his still-hard cock pressed hot and sticky against the curve of her ass. His muscular arms wrapped around her. He touched his sweaty forehead to hers. His breathing was ragged in her ears, his breath warm on her face. “That was good, sweetheart. Really good.”

Winter’s heart raced, and the blood sang through her veins. She touched his face and whispered, “Touch me. Please touch me. I want you, Michael.”

He put her off of his lap and stood up. Then he pulled her close until her naked breasts were crushed against his bare chest. His hands slipped down to her bikini-clad butt, squeezing almost painfully, before he set her aside. “Why don’t you get cleaned up first while I do a few laps in the pool? That way you don’t have to wait on me. You can take off any time you want.” He patted her on the backside and brushed past her.

Winter yanked off the blindfold and spun around. She was alone in the bedroom. Michael had walked out, just leaving her standing there. Her thoughts tumbled with hurt and disbelief. He hadn’t bothered—what she had been feeling, wanting hadn’t been important to him. Michael had taken his own satisfaction at her expense. She felt the rejection keenly. Damn him, damn him! Damn him for putting her in her place.

Winter showered, dressed, and hurried out of the house without saying good-bye to Michael. She doubted that he even noticed her exit, she thought bitterly. He had still been swimming laps when she had marched out to the patio to retrieve her canvas bag. She threw the unoffending bag into the car and got in.

It had gotten dark. She switched on the headlights, gunned the cantankerous engine, and sped away. It wasn’t until she was halfway home that she remembered again the phone conversation with her ex-husband. She thumped the steering wheel with her fist. Angrily, she swiped away tears. Men are such shits!





Chapter Eleven



Sweetheart?

Michael adjusted the speed of the treadmill and picked up his pace. The soles of his running shoes slapped out a steady rhythm. He had joined Darryl at the gym for an hour workout, hoping to work off some of his frustration. So far, it wasn’t working. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran in rivulets down his chest and back, soaking his T-shirt.

Sweetheart! Where the hell did that come from?

He had not called Winter in two days. Hearing that word come out of his mouth the last time they had been together had stunned and shaken him. He had wanted only to back away and run from her, and he had. Even though she had begged him. Even though he could feel how hot she was for him, Michael reflected grimly. He could have gotten her off with his fingers again, and by then, he would have been ready to sink himself into her.

When she had knelt between his legs, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had been mesmerized. She looked like a beautiful slave girl, bare-breasted and on her knees before him, smoothing lotion into her hands. His fingers had curled round the edges of the chair on either side of his hips, his nails biting into the wood. It had been all he could do not to snatch her up and ram her down onto his straining cock.

Just the thought of having her in his arms made his engorged shaft harden even more painfully. He swore savagely under his breath. He couldn’t run in that condition. Scowling, Michael stepped off of the treadmill.

“You done already, bro? What kind of * run was that?” On the neighboring treadmill, Darryl paced easily. A fine sheen of sweat glazed his dark skin. He had pulled the bud of his iPod out of his ear to make his comment.

“Shut up, Darryl.” Michael grabbed the towel from round his neck and mopped his face, throwing a glare at his friend. Darryl shrugged and fiddled with his iPod, casting him a couple of shrewd glances. But Michael didn’t notice. His brows drew together as he brooded. There was just something about Winter, he thought irritably. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. By this time, six weeks into their affair, he should be tapering off into the disciplined routine that he had always enjoyed before. He would work hard, get a little stress relief, and be good until the next time he decided to work sex into his demanding schedule.

But with Winter, it was like his self-discipline was shot to hell. He was finding himself thinking about her while at work, and they were not mildly erotic thoughts. Oh no, Michael scowled. They were the kind of thoughts that gave him raging hard-ons. Like now, for instance.

Michael tried to adjust himself, still scowling. He had never put his private lavatory at the office to such frequent use. It was freaking embarrassing. He was acting like a randy college kid.

In his mind he could see Winter’s contorted face in the throes of orgasm, hear her throaty moans, feel her—New beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Michael wiped his face again with the towel. Maybe it was just a matter of his needing to get Winter out of his system. Maybe he just needed to be with her more frequently. Then he’d start feeling better, more in control.