Is it the dairy? There was no way I could’ve made him take a lactose pill before he drank my drink, but I still feel guilty. Responsible.
No, don’t feel sorry for him. Harden your heart.
Dear Santa,
Make me as black-hearted as him!
He prowls toward me, a pout on his perfect lips. He still looks hot, but maybe that’s just because my butthole is still tingling.
“That’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch,” he says.
“I know,” I hiccup. “Your favorite. I’ve always wanted to taste it.”
“You have tasted it.” His eyes glow. “Remember?”
Oh no, he didn’t. He didn’t just bring up that night. We never talk about that night.
I’m saved when he changes the subject. “Have you eaten?”
“Does the Baileys count as breakfast?”
“No.”
“Then nope.”
“Put the bottle down,” he orders, and my breathing grows heavy as my pussy throbs. I love it when he gets stern.
“Make me.”
His nostrils flare as he inhales. I’ve always found his nostril flares to be incredibly sexy.
“Give it to me.” He holds out a hand.
I set the bottle to my lips. “You want it, come take it.”
Another nostril flare. I squeeze my thighs together.
I see the moment he makes his decision. He looks stone-faced, almost resigned. But then a mischievous light enters his eyes.
Oh no. I only see that look of victory when he’s decimated his enemies. Bankrupted a rival.
He starts undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
He removes his remaining cufflink and strips off his button-down shirt. He’s wearing an undershirt, but the thin cotton does nothing to disguise the taut muscles underneath. His arms are so defined, and he has corded veins.
Corded veins!
“I’m doing as you instructed.” He toes off his left brogue, then the other. “I’m making you.” He strips off his socks before his hands go to his belt.
“Wait,” I cry. I’m out of breath, and I have this feeling that if he continues stripping, something dreadful will happen, but the rest of my body is celebrating.This is even better than Fantasy No. Sixty Nine!
He holds my gaze the whole time he takes off his pants. “You know, you’re right.”
I blink at him. He’s standing in front of me in an undershirt and boxer briefs that show off his muscular limbs. Dark hair dusts his thighs.
I’ve waited years for him to admit I’m right, but now that it’s here, I can’t focus on enjoying it. I can’t focus on anything but the bunched muscles of his shoulders or the sculpted quads. He looks so slim underneath his suits!
