I wish he could fuck my throat, hard and fast, the way he would if we weren’t bound by this predicament.
Leaning down, he cradles the sides of my face. He’s trembling. “Okay. If you need to stop or for me not to finish, pinch me hard, and I’ll try. You already feel so good.”
I expect him to straighten, to put some distance between us and hover over me with that charming sex-god bravado of his, but he doesn’t. It morphs this awkward debacle into an intimate union. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Stuffing that down inside me with my depraved craving to be decimated, I keep to my mission. Kneading, sucking, swallowing, moaning.
He kisses my hair, his lips lingering there, and he swells inside my mouth as he attempts to smother his euphoric groans, so I know my efforts are paying off. That alone eases the ache in my tongue.
His sin-and-spirits fragrance washes over me, rendering me dizzy with lust. My legs shake, and I squeeze my thighs together, longing for this to be a different scenario, where I’d get my turn. Not the time.
“That magic mouth, baby. I kind of like the pain.” His husky tenor rips through me as his breath staggers out. “I’m so close, Tess. You’re a goddamn dream. I’m gonna come.”
His grip on my face, his sweet declarations, his trembling arms, and his gentle kisses of praise sweep me up in another wave of emotions.
I murmur encouragement, which is all he needs to push him over the edge. And as he spills into my throat with guttural groans, a sense of pride fills me too. One I’ll need to reconcile later.
Salt and musk burst on my taste buds, my throat rebels, a small cough croaks out of me, and an agonizing twinge darts through my tongue as he jerks from the release. Not my most graceful blow job. But under the circumstances …
“Fuck,” he rasps, brushing my hair back between pants. “That was … mind-numbing. Give me just a minute, and I’ll try to free us.”
His hold on me never sways from being delicate and reassuring, like he’s safeguarding a treasure. And it pisses me off. This wasn’t supposed to bethat. Although what I intended it to be makes me a raving bitch. It’s disturbing how messed up I am.
Slowly, he starts to soften, so I shimmy my fingers inside to unscrew the ball on the underside of my tongue. It takes about a minute because the angle is still awkward, but it finally works.
“You got it. Good—”
His praise is cut off by a thumping bang on the door.
“Shit,” Maddox hisses before returning his attention to me. “Ignore that and slide your tongue off the bar carefully.”
Again, it isn’t quick or smooth due to the position. And the incessant pounding, Cash’s voice filtering inside, and Maddox’s phone blowing up render this one of the most anxiety-provoking moments I’ve ever experienced, but I manage.
Once I’m free, Maddox sets to work, using the bar as leverage to dislodge the other end of my barbell from his ring before tucking himself away and catapulting out of his chair.
“C’mon,” he whispers, reaching behind a wall monitor to press a button, pulling a door camouflaged by screens forward, and ushering me inside.
I didn’t get much of a chance to survey his office, but the numerous monitors have me wondering what he watches. Maybe I know.
We end up in one of their covert tunnels. I’ve been in a couple of the passageways over the years, but only brief jaunts with Jax and Rena. Employees aren’t permitted to use them unless it’s an emergency or they’re escorted by a Noire or executive staff member. Most of us only know where a few of the concealed entrances are.
Even after all these years, I’m in awe of what they’ve created. They might be kings in New Orleans, but that’s only a glimpse of their power. They’re creating a city that’s completely their own, furnished with safe rooms and getaway routes and airtight alibis, a one-of-a-kind service that people come from all over the world for. It’s daunting, maddening, and oddly comforting.
Noticing that I’m frozen, gaping at the old brick corridor, Maddox threads his fingers with mine and tugs me along while sending a text and then dialing someone.
“I need an immediate escort for a staff member.” He pauses as a deep voice echoes through his earbud, and he tows me through the turns and ramps of this route, which all look the same to me. “I want three on her, plus a driver. Yeah.”
He peers over his shoulder at me. “You’re off tomorrow and this weekend, right?”
“Yes,” I confirm, wondering again what his motivation is for knowing my schedule.
There was the mention of Mardi Gras on his call. That’s not an odd topic because a lot of our members visit during that time. But it twisted something inside me when he immediately switched to his Bluetooth. Then again, I’m not generally permitted to be in one of the owner’s offices, certainly not while they’re on a call, so maybe that was just him being diligent. And the family the other guy mentioned, the Makarovs, are sovolatile that the staff is required to check in more often when they visit. There’s only a handful of members that put the resort on high alert like that. Maybe Maddox just didn’t want me to hear anything that could compromise my safety.
But what’s the reason for the guards escorting me home?
“They’re to stay until she’s scheduled to return to work and follow during any outings. We’ll discuss pickup and drop-off at that time.” He’s silent for a few seconds before adding, “Meeting you at the safe-harbor tunnel, near emergency, in two. Jax will intercept you with her purse.”
He ends the call, but stares at his phone, replying to what seems to be a string of texts. That intimacy that cloaked us back in his office has completely disintegrated. It’s for the best. I know that, but my stomach is up in my throat.
