Provocative Professions Collection (29 page)

He inhales audibly, his face mere centimeters from my pussy, heated puffs of his breath tantalizing the slickened flesh. "I will never tire of this scent," he rumbles, then pushes his face into me, one leisurely lick from opening to clit and back down again. "Or this flavor. I won't tell you it's like honey." He laughs. "It tastes like pussy; fresh, unused, and only mine. Juicy, womanly pussy," he says, jarring me with the friction of his staccato and stubble, triggering prickles of need racing rampantly through me.

I tug against my trapped arms and scoot ever forward, bringing us closer together.

"And greedy," he mumbles into my wetness as I shudder.

"I want to see you, touch you," I whine like a petulant child, far too young to be forcing herself harder upon his tongue.

"Come on my face, Beauty, and I'll untie your hands, but the blindfold stays on. Understand?"

"Yes, yes," I wail, eager to take even the tiniest crumb he offers.

Like a starved beast, he devours me, gentle then harsh, desperate then taunting, fast and yet slow. His long velvety tongue spears into me time and again until I'm quivering, then he switches, fingers gliding in to curl and stroke my upper wall as his teeth and tongue dance with my clit.

It's magical. I've had three lovers and only one of them ever attempted this act. He failed then, and now I know he was downright pitiful at such a pleasurable act…nowhere near the same realm as the man in front of me.

I soar as though above my own body, and even blindfolded, I clearly picture in my head the top of his soft, wavy brown hair, thrashing as he brings me to the pinnacle.

"Awww," he hums, mouth wholly consuming me, no part left neglected.

Tremors threaten to overtake me. The slide of his masterful tongue accompanied by the smooth strokes of his fingers have me brazenly erupting, a raging outpour, falling limp and forward, my brace as I ride the delicious wave.

Either I'm really appreciative of all his "studies" now, or the man was born the natural God of Go Down. Either way, I'm a grateful recipient.

He stands, taking my arms from around his neck and untying me. As he massages out the stiffness in my wrists, arms, and shoulders, he offers me a taste of my pleasure, zealously finding my mouth with his. The slight tang on his tongue does nothing to deter me, rather opening my mind to something else I find lewdly arousing.

"And now," his hungry growl thunderous, "I take." The last syllable is joined by an unyielding, single thrust, punishing steel into lubricious velour, fully piercing the depth of me.

"Cond—"

"Already on," he grunts, bucking in and out of my pulsing center mercilessly.

My hands are free
registers and I quickly get acquainted, running them wildly over wherever they land. Ripping open the shirt, hindering my frantic exploration, over his expansive, toned chest, a light sprinkle of hair tickling my fingertips. I explore southward, moaning and licking my lips as I imagine the sunken dents of his abdominal muscles I tangibly pleasure in.

Each brutal dive into me displacing, I latch onto his broad, thick shoulders for leverage, wrap what I can of my legs around his waist, and arch back with a slight tilt up, guiding him to hit where I need him most.

With no way for my mitts to possibly reach, I rub my calves over his ass, flexed hard as granite. A blind girl, which I am, knows a glorious body when she feels it. He's magnificent. And I'm sure of his endowment, stretching me almost painfully so, no area—top, bottom or sides—left uncaressed with each thrust, thick as he is long.

"Amelia," he hums, the sound of anguished pleasure. "Amelia, fuck me back, get there for me."

His deep, sultry timbre and explicit demands awaken a second storm low in my pelvis and I meet each plunge, rolling my hips, gripping and releasing around his thickness.

"Beauty, catch yourself, hands back." He grabs under my ass, pulling it up and off the desk so I fall flat onto my back. His thumbs alone push my thighs even further apart.

I'm as wide open as possible.

"I can't get deep enough. You'll feel me forever, Beauty."

"Yes, more." I reach for my clit and play it, my orgasm instantly brewing, fiery and fast.

"Feel that. Goddamn!" he howls, strained and raspy. "Go. Now. Come!"

Euphoric gratification flows out of me, harsh and primal but soothing and indulgent, his name a constant shriek as my entire body convulses. The instant I crest, then start to descend, he abruptly pulls out of me, rubber snapping barely a second later.

He firmly grabs my head. "Coming in
you
somehow," he barks, bumping my lips with the wide head of his dick. "Suck this cock, Amelia. Hard and fast, take my seed,
now
."

Fumbling, disoriented, I find him…hell yeah,
built.
I stretch my mouth, let my jaw go slack, and insist his release. Brutally rolling his balls with one hand, pressing rhythmically into his taint with the other, I bob all the way down and back up the longest, thickest dick I've ever felt. My tongue pokes into the hole, swirls once, then I deep throat him, again and again.

"Fuck, Beauty, ah fuck, you're unbelievable." His compliment is strained and gravely as his powerful legs shake and that perfect cock swells in my mouth. "Coming for you! Suck it all down. Swallow it."

He holds both sides of my head still, vigorously fucking my face. "My mouth, my Beauty," he pants, spurting hot, thick ropes of heaven down my throat. "You suck me like you know it, you love it,
my cum
."

I slide off him slowly, quickly licking the perimeter of my lips and flexing my jaw. I've never swallowed, but nothing could have kept me from blowing this man's mind. The taboo, animalistic passion and lust clogging the room catapulting my desire to make sure
I'm
the rendezvous he remembers.

The sound of his zipper punctures my ears, my senses on high alert, which makes it almost painful when I hear him move away, then return to dress me.

"You all right?" he asks quietly, one hand stroking my hair.

"Mmmm, more than," I whisper.

"Can you still feel me everywhere? In every part of you?"

I lean into his hand, longing for tender afterplay. "Yes."

"Good." He delicately suckles my lips. "Count to 100, remove the blindfold, and your driver will be outside the door."

"Wait," I mutter, collecting my thoughts.

"Goodbye, Amelia. Thank you."

I shiver as his once-comforting body heat disappears.

Chapter 16

What the fuck was that?

I've never felt so used and insignificant in my life! Especially not while tingly, exhilarated, and satisfied at the same time. I'm torn. Is he the most callous bastard on the planet or simply perpetuating the allure in his enthralling game of slow seduction we've been playing?

Doesn't finally fucking like banshees end the scheme?

Wait…maybe finally fucking like banshees
does
end the scheme. As in he got what he wanted and now he's done.

The possibility infuriates, humiliates, and disappoints me simultaneously. I spent more time fearing him than enjoying him! I'd
just
started to play, let my guard down, and he moved his Bishop to Queen Five, ending it before my panties had time to dry!

In an embarrassed daze, I remove the blindfold, tossing it to the ground, and gather myself, donning a brave face before opening the door. Sure enough, my "driver" awaits and I glumly trudge behind him, once again sliding into the back seat.

The ice in the bucket is now nothing more than a tub of water, the champagne open and no doubt stale. The ambiance has vanished, nothing remaining but a chauffeured journey of shame.

Beats the walk of shame, I suppose.

My door's opened for me when we arrive at my building and I ignore his offered hand to help me out, stomping my way to the sanctity of my apartment. Locking up and feeding Lucy, I speed down the hall, ripping the suffocating dress from my used body and throwing it in the trash, stepping under the showerhead with no test of temperature first.

Once the water provides a cloak, I let the tears fall.

"
Goodbye, Amelia."
I replay his words, the sobs flowing harder. That "
Thank you"
held such finality, making it clear exactly what this was, a one night stand, nothing more.

He was done.

My legs buckle and I slide down the shower wall to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and dropping my head. The spray of the water is a distant distraction, one my mind decides to ignore.

I'd known better, fought it, ran myself through a tumultuous gamut of emotions for a painful, degrading ending. Numb, I reach up for the bar of soap and scrub my skin until it's raw.

Unable to feel even remotely clean, I climb out, pull on the most modest sleepwear I own and fall into bed, restless yet exhausted.

Every move, roll, shift I make is a painful reminder, the twinges in my muscles recalling the battering they'd just endured.

I can't help but check my phone, unsure if it's from a habit I've acquired recently or a glimmer of hope I've yet time to shed. One look kills that optimism, the screen blank. Not even a "did you made it home safely" text.

It's official, I know nothing about men.

The next day I awake like a machine, re-programmed and solely focused on doing anything to keep my mind from racing back to
him.
Between preparing a five-star breakfast which included squeezing my own juice by hand, then happily chatting while enjoying it with Mr. Abbott, who I actually invited over, I knew I was in a bad way.

No matter how many war stories he told, my thoughts traveled to Elliott. The moment the final bite of toast entered Mr. Abbott's mouth I was ushering him out, throwing around a pitiful excuse about being late to meet a friend.

Total lie, but I did leave the building to make it look convincing enough. Not for a lunch date with girlfriends, but to hit the gym. Something I never do, despite my membership.

After an hour of sweating my ass off battling the elliptical, attention trained on each of the hot guys lifting across the room, I feel nothing.

Gorgeous bodies, charming smiles, and most importantly, seemingly normal, yet not even a flicker of interest sparks. They weren't
him
.

Shit!
I hop off the machine in mid-motion, ignoring the stares now cast my way as I bustle to the locker room, ready for a shower, not even needing a cold one after all the testosterone in that room.
What's wrong with me?

Why am I so affected by a guy who clearly used me? I need help. Serious therapy, which if I remember correctly, is conveniently covered by my insurance plan. Maybe I'll give it a try if this irrational mood continues.

After my shower, it's barely past lunchtime and I'm far from ready to return home, so I do the unthinkable, driving straight to the bookstore I've been avoiding. It's disturbing, but I'm almost hoping to run into Reid. He'll get my thoughts off Elliott.

I'd rather be terrified of a man standing in front of me than moping over an asshole living in the shadows.

Unfortunately, luck once again proves not on my side. The clerk's a perky coed who's as pretty as she is sweet. Oh, and did I mention she's one of those enthusiastic people who likes to flaunt giant rings on their fingers, gushing about finding the perfect man?

Yeah, where's creepy ass Reid when I need him?

I bypass the romance section and the mystery rows with a sarcastic laugh—I have enough of that in my life—detouring straight for biographies. I snatch Elizabeth Taylor's and Natalie Wood's then scurry to the register.

What can I say, misery loves company.

Monday at work, I'm on edge throughout the entire day, avoiding my mail cubby like the plague. Elliott hasn't bothered to message, so I assume he won't feel compelled to leave a note either and by the end of the day when I'm forced to gather my mail, I'm proven correct. There's nothing but usual office work.

My hand clutches my chest, tears welling from the stab. Head down, I hurry back to my desk, drop the mail, and rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.