Again. Again. And each time, I bow up off the bench for just a touch, a taste of whatever he’ll give me.
His laugh turns wicked because he knows exactly what he’s doing. I have a sudden fear. Is he toying with me?
“You’ll let me come now, right?”
No answer. Just the warm hint of a mouth close to where I want it.
“Please. Please, sir. Touch me. Please.”
“I jerked myself in bed last night, picturing you on this bench. Begging.”
“I… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what, sweetheart?”
“For… for wanting it so bad.”
“Don’t be sorry for that.” The words are puffs of heat, teasing my sensitive flesh. I spread my legs wider, arch higher, for just one touch of his lips. His tongue. He could bite me and I’d be happy.
“I’m not. I think it’s mesmerizing, how hard you’re trying to work your body on my face.”
A long, lazy hum brings his lips right where I want them. Almost. Almost. So close, I’m dying.
“God, you smell good. Ripe and warm and sweet.” Another tease, more heat, a hint more contact. The man’s an expert at pushing me to the brink. I hate him for it. I want it. I need it.
“Maybe you don’t need to come right now.”
I sit up straight. Pissed as I’ve ever been, and the bastardlaughs at me before his face goes stern. He walks up behind me, wraps a hand around my throat, and tugs me back without a hint more pressure than that.
The anger of a second ago turns into something else. Almost frantic. I’m desperate, needy, Sméagol with my precious. I’m dying to bargain. “I’ll do what you want,” I tell him. “Anything.”
“Oh, baby. No. No, no, no, no.” He’s beside me, that hand stroking my throat, the hint of threat more forbidding than a choke hold. His other hand’s traveling down me, over my clothes, like he’s got all the time in the world, and we’re not in a rush to see this through before lunchtime is over. “No. You don’t give consent like that. Not when I’m standing here, hard as nails, thinking about all the ways I could take you. Here.” He caresses my throat. “Here.” An insinuating nudge of one breast toward the other has me picturing him between them, the way I’d struggle to make it good. The way he’d use me for his pleasure. The way I’d let him.
A light slap on my hip, under the edge of the bench, to my ass, which he palmshard. “I’d take you here.”
Finally—oh god, finally—he’s spreading me wider, stepping between my legs, and dipping his head down, down, and his mouth lands on my lips, and…
“Higher. Please. Lick my clit.”
He laughs, slaps my inner thigh, and tongues my opening.
“Sir,” I beg. “Please. General.Grant.”
Another lick. Another. “I don’t think so.”
“What? What? You can’t—”
“I can.” He steps back. I crane my neck to watch him unzip his trousers and pull himself out, step close to me, and—holy mother of all gods—take himself in hand. “I’m coming on this pussy,” he warns, his look telling me to speak now if I don’t want that or forever hold my peace.
“Green,” I whisper, which puts a smile on his mouth.
A dozen strokes, and he’s doing exactly what he threatened. It is mesmerizing, the way he loses it, right at the end, his hair a mess, sweat beading at his temples. It’s when our gazes connect that the switch fully flips.
The first hot jet stripes my inner thigh. He grunts with every warm pulse, his eyes flicking from my face to where he’s painting me with his pleasure.
I strain for contact. I’m so close, it wouldn’t take much at this point.
Finally, he finishes with a long, satisfied sigh, and I want to scream from frustration.
