“I knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, licking slow, “when my house felt better with you in it. And how fucking dangerous it is, knowing you did that without trying.”
No. Nope. No more of that kind of talk. Go for my pussy, Doctor, not my heart.
“Suck my clit and stretch me open, Doctor,” I growl, fisting his hair and grinding on his mouth. “I need your cock.”
“Trouble isn’t an insult, Mia,” he says, soaked in need. “It’s an addiction. It means I’m obsessed. That I’d ruin myself just to keep tasting you. And when I have to go without, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”
He devours me with his tongue up in one long, masterful lick.
“But go ahead,” he huffs a dark little laugh, eyes on mine, “shut me up by begging for my cock. That’ll work every fucking time, baby.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
mia
He doesn’t giveme a break though. Just stays right there, beard glossy, breath heating the wetness between my thighs.
“You’re shaking, baby,” he rasps, tongue gliding across me, taking his sweet fucking time. But when he flicks my clit, he’s sharp. Deadly.
“Pressss—” He licks pure voltage into me, and I jolt.
He smiles, looking entirely too pleased with himself. To be fair, he cracked some secret code and now owns the patent to my orgasms.
“Yes, Mia?” He kisses the spot gently this time.
God, his words and breath down there are more than I can take. I need him inside me before I come again.
“Cock. Now.”
But instead, the man rests his cheek on my thigh. Like it’s a goddamn pillow. No rush. No shame. No survival instinct.
“You’ll get it, baby. I’m nowhere near done with you.”
“Yeah, I gathered that part from when my legs forgot how to leg, and yet, you continue to show me no pity.”
His thumb traces a lazy path up my inner thigh, too casual for the timing and shameless in its confidence. “You have a list, Trouble. I plan to make a dent in it. What have we ticked already? Fingering. Blow job. Both ways, huh? The balls.”
I snort. “That’s one way to go. Death by checklist.”
I expect him to laugh. Maybe kiss my thigh and finally give me what I want. But instead, he parts me again and settles back. Does he think I’m his last meal?
“Preston…”
“Shhhh. No talking.” His breath skates over my clit. “Unless you’re reading that list or answering to me.”
May this be known as the first time I’ve let a man shush me.
His tongue flattens against me, unhurried. Not teasing now. Worshiping. His fingers grip my thighs tighter when I squirm.
“I already made you come,” he murmurs, tonguing lower. “Now I want to feel you beg.”
I grip the sheets. Not because I’m dramatic, but because I’m about to levitate.
He licks up the rest of the mess I made, chasing every drop, pressing his tongue flat to gather the last of me, then swallowing on a low, rough sound. Only then he circles my clit with the tip of his tongue in precise spirals. One arm slides under my thigh. Then the other. He hooks his hands over my hips, locking me in place.
I whimper. It’s involuntary. So is the way my hips buck.
He moans rightintome. Filthy bastard. My head thrashes from side to side.
