I arch a brow and wait for more, keeping my expression cool.
He sets his glass on the marble with a quiet clink, then braces both palms against the counter, leaning in. My gaze darts to his muscles that flex at the movement.
“What I plan to do, Gemma,” he says, his voice lethal, “is tear off that pathetic little excuse for an outfit”—he then jerks his chin toward the massive sofa across the room—“spread you open on that sofa, and make you come so hard on my tongue you forget your own name.”
My pulse accelerates like a drumbeat. I set my glass down.
“Then,” he continues, slowly rounding the island bench and walking me backward. “I’m going to lie down on that same sofa, flat on my back, and you’re going to crawl up and straddle my face—reverse.” He emphasizes the word. “Arse in the air, that pretty little pussy on my face, and you’re going to suck my cock.”
My throat dries.
“I’m going to tongue-fuck you until you’re dripping down my chin and you’ll suck me like the good girl I know you can be, and swallow everything I give you.” A devilish smile splits his face as my knees hit the back of the sofa, and I fall into thecushions. “I wonder how many times I can make you scream my name.”
God help me, I want to find out.
Max leans in close, his face inches from mine. “You like control, don’t you, Gemma?” His breath is warm against the shell of my ear. “But you’re going to give it up for me. Do you want to know why?”
“Why?” I breathe, focusing on the giant tent in his trousers.
“Because you know I eat pussy better than anyone ever has.”
Lust claws at me. I part my legs for him to step between my thighs, which are already trembling like jelly at his filthy words.
Damn, he’s good at this.
“So far, Max,” I purr, “you’re all talk.”
He laughs. “You know I’m not.”
“Then get on your knees and prove it,” I demand.
His stare doesn’t waver as he lowers himself to his knees and runs his hands up my thighs at a punishing pace. When he reaches my skirt, he finds the zipper at the side, and drags it down, the fabric loosening around my hips. He peels the skirt down my legs and tosses it over his shoulder.
My bodysuit has two buttons that clip together at the crotch, and he pops them open, rucking the lace up over my stomach.
I’m fully exposed, and the cool air kisses my slick skin, alerting me to just how wet and ready I am.
“Fuck, Gemma,” he growls, hooking his hands under my knees and dragging me forward until my arse nearly hangs off the sofa. “You’re glistening.”
I tilt my pelvis slightly and bite my lip to keep from begging.
He doesn’t waste time, burying his face between my legs with a guttural groan. His mouth latches onto me like he’sstarved, tongue licking a long strip before plunging deep inside my pussy.
“God, yes,” I cry, my head tipping back, my spine arching off the cushions.
His hands pin my thighs apart.
“Hold your legs up for me,” he commands.
I obey, replacing his hands with my own. I’m completely spread, shaking and uncaring that he can see all of me.
He pulls away, lips shining, eyes blazing. Then, he delivers a sharp slap right to my pussy, making me jolt.
I cry out, the sting shooting straight through my core.
“You like that,” he says, his voice thick like treacle. Before I can answer, he does it again—another smack right against my clit.
The pain is there, but it’s perfect. My breath shudders and I swear I grow wetter.
