The noises tearing out of him are raw, primal. My nails dig in, about to rip the leather right off the seat. We hit a red light, and he adjusts himself.
“There. Now we can both die happily.”
His fingers plunge back in. Straight where my body already knows his name. He rubs me like he’s signing a love letter.
“We’re four minutes away, baby.” He pumps deeper, circles faster, and I grind right back, synced to every filthy beat he sets. “I’m not stopping you until you come, and I’m not changing the route. So, unless you want to give the valet the show of his life, stop fighting it and let go.”
I squeeze his fingers at that idea. Hard.
He feels it. Of course he does. I catch the smug bastard grinning.
“You like that, don't you?” He pinches my clit, and my moans reach far beyond the confines of this car. “What is it that made you tighten around me like that? The risk of being caught? Or do you get off on being watched?”
“Oh, God,” I say, instead of yes to both; my orgasm within reach now.
“Do you like the idea of having people stare at what they can’t touch?” His fingers slam back inside me, slapping my clit, and I meet every thrust. “Because I’m not fucking sharing, Mia.” He fucks me hard. Punishing. Well, supposedly. I’m loving it. I haven’t shown him the list and already I’ve learned something new: clit slapping. Delicious.
He fucks me as deep and rough as the position allows. I’d let him do anything right now. Let him bruise me just to feel him everywhere later.
“They can look, but they don’t get to touch. You hear me?”
It gets me off when he talks like that.
“Fuck, Pres. I’m close. Don’t stop.”
“Such a filthy girl. Come for me, and we’ll do every single thing you’re fantasizing about right now. I’ll make every dirty dream of yours come true.”
I believe it.
So I come, screaming as his palm hits my clit just right, not sure I can make any sound coherent or understandable right now.
His words do things to me I can’t explain within reason.
“I’ll give you everything you want, Mia,” he growls.
I’m spent, but still bouncing on his hand, shattered and blissed out, while he watches with a kind of reverence I wasn’t prepared for.
“Preston, I…”
I want to tell him he’s the orgasm whisperer. That nothing—no toy, no ex, not even my own damn imagination—has ever made me feel this good. But the words die a quick, tragic death the moment he sucks me off his fingers like it’s his new favorite flavor.
Hell, I don’t lick caramel sauce like that. I don’t look at anything like he looks at me. I could watch this scene on a loop and never get bored.
“We’re here.” He adjusts my skirt just in time as the car goes up the valet ramp. Waiting for us is an elderly man with a smile too kind for this moment in my life. He opens my door, welcomes me to the hotel with a cheerful nod, and I'm instantly consumed with a mix of guilt and shame.
Preston, of course, is unbothered. He laughs all the way around the car, hands over his keys, a generous tip, and a thank-you like he didn’t just finger-blast me into another dimension.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, he leans in close. “Goodthing you came all over my fingers, or you would’ve put that poor man in his grave.” We both laugh, loud and reckless, but that easiness is cut short when he laces his fingers through mine.
“Pres, what if someone sees us?”
I try to slip my hand free, but his grip tightens, trapping me. His eyebrows rise and say,not happening.
“It’s Wednesday morning. Nobody we know will be here. You’re lucky my hand’s on yours and not back inside you. So be a good girl and say, ‘Thank you, Doctor Jett.’”
“Ha. You’ll have to do better than that to earn a thank you, Doctor.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
