When I find the exact combination that makes her thighs tremble, I stay there. I don’t change a thing. I suck and lick at her relentlessly, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. Consistency is its own form of devotion. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them upward, and feel her inner walls clench around me, hot and tight and greedy.
But I don’t let her finish. Not yet.
I pull back just as her breathing reaches its peak, withdrawing both my mouth and my fingers. Her hips chase me and find nothing but air. The sound of frustrated protest that escapes her fingers is magnificent—half sob, half curse. Her pussy is glistening, swollen and pink, begging for my return.
“What’re you—” She gasps. “You came all the way here just to edge me?”
“So you want me.” My smile is wicked.
“I will fire you,” she responds flatly, removing her knee from my shoulder, crossing her legs.
“From fixing up your house or eating your pussy?”
She scowls at me. Her eyes are still covered, but I see the way her forehead furrows. “I want you.”
“For how long?”
She purses her lips. “Why don’t you just tell me the answer you want, Saylor. Will that speed this up?”
“So bossy,” I tease before blowing on her center. She shudders as she releases a small gasp. “Give me the honest answer.”
“You’re holding my orgasm hostage for some big emotional revelation you think I should be sharing. That’s manipulative. Big red flag.”
I rise, pull up her blindfold for a millisecond so she can see me lick my lips. I adjust the tie so her world goes dark once more. “Sure is. So walk away. I dare you.”
I wait. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Letting her body step back from the edge, letting the wave recede just enough that when it builds again it’ll be bigger.
“God, maybe it’s a good thing I’m blindfolded right now. Look, I want you to really think about what you want, Saylor. Because you’re coming on strong and I love it. You treat me like I’m the prize and you’re willing to work for it, and that’s not fair. Because once you get what you want, you will wake up andrealize that you’re way too young to worry about getting old. This age gap isn’t going to make sense.”
“Celeste,” I breathe. “I’m already awake. And I know what I want.”
I spread her thighs back apart, scoot her to my open mouth.
She’s trembling. The chair is trembling. I return to her slowly. Gently at first, rebuilding what I pulled away, and the moan she releases this time is deeper, rawer, the sound of a woman who has been edged and knows what she’s owed and is done being polite about it. She finds the back of my head with both hands now, pulling me closer with an authority that has nothing to do with her status and everything to do with a body that is finished asking and has started demanding.
I give her everything.
This time she doesn’t even try to control it. Her whole body locks, every muscle in her thighs and stomach tightening so hard she’s shaking, and when I push two fingers inside her and curl them, she makes a sound that’s not so much a moan as a wail, the kind of noise that would make grown men panic and run toward the source to see if someone is dying. She’s coming before she even realizes it, the orgasm ripping through her so fast and sharp she throws her head back and nearly bites through her own hand. I keep my mouth locked to her clit, my tongue unrelenting, my fingers stroking inside her, and she just keeps coming. The release is so intense it’s almost violent. Her legs clamp around me, her hips buck, and she lets out a cry that’s equal parts agony and relief, like a wound being cauterized.
When she finally collapses, it’s not graceful. She just melts, boneless, all pretense of composure gone, slumping into the chair with her skirt bunched around her waist and the blindfold askew. Her chest is heaving, blouse half-untucked, and for what it’s worth, despite all the lethally sexy attire and fancy makeupI’ve seen her wear, this is my favorite look. Celeste…satisfied. Celeste…happy.
I rise and kiss her, slow and gentle, her taste still on my mouth. She kisses back lazily, like she’s still not fully in control of motor function. I undo the knot of the blindfold, her hair falling over her eyes as the sash slips away.
She blinks away the intrusive overhead lights. Her pupils are enormous. Her lips are parted. Her hands are still death-gripping the armrests like the chair might eject her into orbit.
“How are those creative blocks feeling now?” I murmur.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I have no thoughts. My brain is completely empty.”
“Perfect.” I smooth my wrinkled pants and straighten my flannel. Then, she watches me pick up her underwear from the floor and tuck them into my back pocket with the deliberate calm of a man who has just performed a service and is collecting his payment.
“Saylor Evans, give me my underwear back.”
“No. Consider them collateral.” I lean against her desk. “Now. I need your apartment keys.”
She’s still gripping the armrests. “My what?”
