He groans and pulls back just enough to scan me again. “You're really trying to kill me, huh? Dressing up for the occasion like this?”
I didn’t. But I let him believe I did. In reality, I only dreamed as far as fooling around on that balcony, where no one could see us, and I was still dressed in that fantasy.
I picked an outfit that made me feel hot and hopeful. A high-waisted skirt to play up the curves, flatforms so I don’t trip over myself trying to seduce him, and a top with just enough cleavage to enter revealing territory if you’re looking from the right angle.
Say, over six feet tall. Say, Preston Jett.
“Open those pretty thighs for me, gorgeous.”
I inhale his words, wishing I could taste them. Hisfingers graze my entrance, but there’s not enough room for him to explore. Not yet.
I’m not letting a seat stop him. I scoot up, edge my knees higher, fisting the sides of my skirt. I want to see every goddamn thing he does to me.
“You know you’re spoiling me, right?” he says, circling my clit with the slick he’s already found. Like I’m a present he gets to unwrap anytime he wants.
Spoilinghim? I’m being finger-fucked in broad daylight, riding around New York City, andI’mspoilinghim? I’d laugh in his face if I wasn’t too busy maintaining what little composure I have left.
“Always so wet for me,” he groans, voice thick with awe and filth. “I’m tempted to finger you in the middle of the day just to prove it, just to feel how ready you always are for me. Fuck, I want to finger you in the middle of the night too, while you’re fast asleep, if I’m being honest.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I’d like that,” I confess.
My breath catches as two fingers push inside, my core clenching like it’s been waiting all morning for this. Because it has.
New images flood my brain: him bending me over the kitchen island, whispering “Don’t stop cooking” as his fingers work me open from behind. Him waking me up slowly, murmuring in my ear while he fingers me before I’m even fully conscious. Him touching me because I’m his to touch, even in sleep.
He’s right. The list is growing, and all he’s doing is finger-fucking me in a car.
Do I even know how to spell somnophilia?
Not sure. But I want to know how it feels.
And also, how do I extend my visa? I haven’t even fucked him yet, and I already know I need more time to do this properly.
“First things first. Where are we going?” he asks.
“The Hyatt.”
He commands the car’s GPS to take us there and then drives his fingers deeper into me. Fuck, it feels so good. And so wrong. I’m embarrassingly wet for him, so they slide right in, no resistance whatsoever.
“Damn, Pres. You work me so good.” I rock against his hand, a slow grind, forward and back, inviting him further in. He accepts the invitation with a third finger as his plus one.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you ride me,” he grunts. “All flushed and needy. You’ve got that look, baby. Like you’re ready to beg for more.”
I reach for him, my palm pressing against his zipper.
He tuts. “I’m the designated driver, baby. Gotta limit my distractions.”
Then he circles my clit as if I needed any clarification as to what his distraction is at the moment.
“You’re in averygood mood today, Doctor.”
“If you must know, I had a spectacular evening last night.” He licks his lips and picks up the rhythm as if the memory’s getting him worked up.
“If that’s what it takes, eating pussy, I’ll give it to you. I’ll leave the door unlocked every night.”
“First of all—” He pinches my clit hard. Oh lord, if that’s supposed to be punishment, he’s got it all twisted. That’s pure reward.
