“That’s it, baby.” He adds one more finger and the pressure is sublime. “Roll those perfect hips. Fuck my hand.”
“Zane!”
Shouting his name sends him wild.
He finger-bangs me faster, deeper, just what I need. I meet his thrust, riding him faster. Color swims across my vision as his mouth trails back to mine. And when he seals it over my mouth, pushing his tongue in to tangle with mine in the filthiest kiss I’ve ever experienced, a low whine builds and builds in my throat.
“Good girl. Come for me, Ruby. If you’re not going to make me eat, then feed me the juice.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Zane Draven gets me to explode all over his hand and his piano keys in his Hollywood mansion, shrieking like a banshee in the best release I’ve ever had.
I’m sure all told, I barely lasted thirty seconds from start to finish before he wrung an orgasm out of me that I’ll feel in next Tuesday’s bones. But I don’t even care.
I’m panting, boneless, wrecked on his piano, eyelids heavier than lead but cracked open enough to watch him lick my come off his fingers with almost embarrassing relish when?—
The door swings open.
“AHEM.”
Freddie’s voice cracks like a teenager.
The attorney coughs so hard I think he’s choking.
Zane snarls over his shoulder without even looking. “Jesus. Get. The Fuck. Out.”
Freddie holds up a stack of contracts like a white flag.
“Before or after she signs these?”
I am still sprawledacross Zane’s piano when Freddie clears his throat a second time and I sit up so fast I nearly slide right off the damn thing.
My hair is still a mess.
My shirt is wrinkled, my skirt is around my waist and my underwear is… well,compromised.
I jump down, straighten myself and force my voice to come out steady. “Okay. Contracts. Yes. Absolutely. Professionalism. Love it.”
Freddie’s mouth twitches.
Zane’s doesn’t, not even a millimeter.
His eyes track me as he continues to lick his fingers, then his lips, like he’s imagining dragging me back onto that piano and going for round two, or pushing his luck for a full course instead of the appetizer I just gave him.
When I shake my head frantically, he sighs.
Then he slides his sticky fingers—oh sweet Lord—into mine and he walks us into the living room.
He pulls out a chair beside me at the table, pats the seat.
“Sit.”
I arch a brow. “I’m not a dog.”
He smirks. “Never said you were. But I like you close. And we need to practice closeness. You know…for the sake of the music video?” He winks.
Kill me.
Or kiss me again. Either one works.
