“Bastian, I really don’t think now is the time to?—”
“Did you clean it properly?”
“Yes, Dr. Hale. I managed to apply basic first aid all by myself.”
He looks up at me. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
I’m torn between two reactions. One isaww-level sweetness at his concern for a tiny little shaving cut. The other is… less wholesome.
I opt for Reaction #2.
“Bastian,” I breathe, “if you don’t make me come right now, I think I’m going to die.”
He chuckles. “That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”
Then he dives back in. He seals his mouth around my clit and sucks andholyfuckingshitballsI see so many stars.
He adds one finger, then two. The dual sensation has me climbing fast.
“Bastian—I’m?—”
“I know. I can feel you. Come for me, Eliana. Let me taste it.”
Welp, that does the trick.I explode with a guttural gasp. I can’t stop myself from clamping my thighs around his ears while I hold onto the roots of his hair for dear life.
He doesn’t stop, though. If anything, he becomes more insistent. “One more,” he demands. “Give me one more.”
I’m spiraling in every direction at once. This is all just batshit crazy. My billionaire boss is kneeling in front of me in a vintage movie theater, eating me out to the most drool-inducing orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.
It’s so fucking wrong.
It’s so fucking right.
It’s so fucking—ohmygod I’m gonna come again.
It shouldn’t happen that fast, it defies logic, and yet it is happening, itdoeshappen: Bastian licks and kisses and sucks just right and the explosions are consuming me once more.
My back arches hard enough to give my chiropractor anxiety. Again, I bear down on the sides of Bastian’s head so hard that I have to wonder if suffocating him is a genuine possibility.
But I truly cannot make my muscles obey any command that isn’tmore, more, MORE.
A sound rips from my throat that I’ve never made before. It echoes through the theater, bouncing off the walls and probably alerting every living soul within a three-block radius that someone is having averygood time in here.
My toes scrunch up so hard they cramp. My fingers twist in Bastian’s hair, and I’m definitely pulling out strands, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he groans against me like his pain is his pleasure.
The whole thing is almost too much. It’s not the gentle, rolling kind of orgasm I’ve given myself with my vibrator at home. This is violent. Consuming. It feels like Bastian is pulling my soul out through my pussy and swallowing it whole.
Colors explode behind my eyelids, gold and crimson and electric blue. For a terrifying second, I think maybe this is it, maybe my vision is finally giving out, that the mother of all orgasms is robbing me of my sight ahead of schedule.
But then the colors fade and I can still see the ornate ceiling above me, still see the vintage light fixtures, still see Bastian’s blonde hair between my trembling thighs.
Still here. Still seeing. Still alive.
Well, mostly. Barely. Kinda.
He keeps working me through it, drawing out every last aftershock until I’m literally begging him to stop.
“Bastian—I can’t—it’s too much?—”
