I bite my lips with a smirk.
Then, after tangibly hating the words that are coming out of his mouth, he says, “Alright. You can have the couch.Ifwe get some disinfectant.”
Even as the couch is being wheeled into the penthouse, Ransome looks miserable. He tips the guys moving it and they leave.
“I think I tipped them more than the couch was worth,” he mutters.
“You are such a pessimist,” I say as I place the vase on the table.
“I’m a realist,” he says. “And this couch is… difficult.”
“How so?” I ask, rounding the table. He’s still just staring at it like it’s a stray dog and he doesn’t know how to get it out of the house.
“It doesn’t go with anything,” he starts.
“It’s boho. It’s not supposed to go with anything. That’s the point.”
He arches an eyebrow as his skeptical eyes dart over to me. “The point is for it to be ugly?”
I shove him playfully, surprising both of us. I immediately wonder if it was a mistake, but as he loses his balance and lands on the couch, I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s comfy, right?”
Ransome’s back is rigid, like he can’t believe he’s even touching it, let alone sitting on it.
“About as comfortable as the chairs in a dentist’s office,” he mutters, and I laugh again. “Also, what even is this material?”
“It’s velvet! Isn’t it fancy?” I clap my hands together.
“Leather isfancy.Diamond studs arefancy.This is… scratchy.” His nose crinkles as he says the word.
I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ. You know what? Here…” I say as I drop to my knees.
Then I undo his belt.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Convincing you that this couch can beverycomfortable. Satisfyingly so.”
Before he can say anything else, I have his hard cock in my hand, already pulsing with anticipation. I smile to myself. As disgruntled as he is, he’s turned on.
Of course he is.
“Amara,” he starts but I shush him. Then, while looking up at him through my eyelashes, I open my mouth and slowly take him in. My tongue slides over the tip, down the shaft, until he is deep in my throat.
His own throat rumbles with a groan.
“Fuck me,” he lets out, spanning his arms out across the couch to grip the back of it in his fists.
“Yes sir,” I purr.
I run my tongue up and down the length of him softly, then with more intention, until his abs flex under his shirt. Even beneath the fabric, I can see the ripples.
I flatten my tongue, adding friction to each swoop, then point the tip and tease him in all the spots that make him growl.
“You are driving me crazy,dorogoya.”
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, but I know the answer.
