And I amnotabout to be kicked out.
. . . I hope.
“Morning,” I murmur, feeling shy, which is absurd considering the filth this man was whispering to me last night.
He leans in, presses a lazy kiss to my lips. “Good morning,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice gravelly from sleep.
Edward Cavendish—in his glorious morning state—is now very much making his presence known, solid and insistent and pressing into my stomach.
I blink, then giggle. “Well, that’s quite the morning greeting.”
He exhales through his nose, not looking remotely ashamed. “Unpreventable, I’m afraid.”
“I see.” I nod sagely, attempting to contain my glee. “A totally involuntary reaction, is it?”
“Yes,” he replies, voice clipped, but I don’t miss the way his lips twitch.
“So this has nothing to do with me, right?” I tease, shifting slightly—just enough to watch his jaw tighten.
“You? No, not at all. You’re entirely irrelevant in this scenario.”
I press my hand down between us to palm his cock, andoh, hello there, Daddy. Thick. Hard. So, so ready.
I’m already feeling the heat pooling between my thighs. Honestly, I think last night left me too damp to ever fully dry off.
He groans as I start to stroke him.
“Is it inconvenient?” I muse. “It’s the one organ you can’t control. That must be frustrating for someone like you.”
“Approximately sixty percent of your organ functions are autonomic. Your heart, digestive system, respiratory system—”
“Edward,” I interrupt, my grin threatening to take over my entire face. “You knowexactlywhat I’m talking about.
“I do. And you’redeliberatelytesting my control of said organ.”
“Why is the head shaped like that?” I ask innocently, biting my lip.
“Evolution isn’t always elegant, darling. It’s designed to maximize stimulation while ensuring efficient . . . delivery. It’s like a plunger, actually. Though that’s perhaps not the most romantic analogy.”
“Oh my god,” I laugh. “This is getting alarmingly BritShop. Next, I’ll be doing a live demonstration of its features. This is very useful information though. My other . . . recent courters were dumb as fuck.”
“Useful? Where exactly do you plan on applying this newfound knowledge?”
“Dinner parties and whatnot.”
Edward bites his lip, his breath hitching slightly. “Christ.”
I continue stroking him, reveling in the way his breath catches. “It’s quite a good shape for blowjobs actually. When was fellatio invented—the ’80s?”
“Actually,” he starts, voice gritted, “historical evidence suggests . . .”
Oh, this is happening.
The man is about to give me a lecture on the history of blowjobs while my hand is wrapped around his cock.
And I love that for me.
“Oral practices date back to ancient civilizations,” he manages, though his voice is noticeably rougher now. “The Greeks and Romans were particularly . . .” He inhales sharply as I work him, his entire body tensing under my grip. “. . . comprehensive in documenting such activities. Shakespeare was likely familiar, though he”—a sharp exhale—“expressed it through clever wordplay.”
