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Her lips part. “Yes, I do. Tell me how you like it. Tell me how to be the best you’ve ever had.”
Chest aching at her pure fucking sweetness, I tell her, “Play with my balls while you suck me. And you don’t have to take me so deep if it’s uncomfortable. You can wrap your fist around the base of my cock and just take me down to there, maybe give a little squeeze as you drag your lips back.”
“I can do that,” she says, curling her fingers around my shaft as she takes me into the warm, wet heat of her mouth again. Her other hand cradles my balls, rolling them gently in my swollen sac as she finds her rhythm. In just a few minutes, my breath is coming faster, and I can’t stop my hips from jerking forward as her mouth sinks over me.
She moans and sucks me deeper, making me grip the back of the couch for balance. “Fuck, Sydney, you’re so good. You make me feel so fucking good, but if you don’t stop soon, I’m going to come in your mouth.”
She hums around me and continues to destroy me with her lips and tongue, making it clear she’s up for whatever comes next—pun intended. But as hot as that is, I need to be inside her. I’ve been dreaming about burying myself between her legs all day. Not even the best blow job can compare to being joined with her, watching her face as I fill her and fuck her and make her come for me.
I fist my hand at the base of her neck, gripping the silky strands hard enough to stop her when her head bobs back the next time. Her gaze jerks up to mine, her lips parting, letting the tip of my furiously swollen length slip from her mouth. “Something wrong?”
“No, I just need your pussy, baby,” I say, my voice shaking with how much I need her. “I need you so fucking bad. Go get in bed. I’ll be there in five seconds with a condom.”
“Make it four,” she says, before my feisty girl rises and jogs toward my bedroom in nothing but her lace panties.
“Those panties better be on the floor by the time I get in there,” I call after her. “And your hands should be behind your knees, legs spread. I want to see every inch of your pussy, butterfly.”
I hurry to grab the condoms I bought today from my briefcase, my gaze catching on the flowers and their butterfly decorations for a beat. The realization that it’s ironic that Angela sent butterflies—my pet name for Sydney—in the arrangement zips through my head, but I don’t linger on the idea for more than a second or two.
I’m too eager to get to the bedroom.
Later, I’ll remember that moment and wish I’d done a better job of connecting the dots, but right now my focus is all on my girl.
And when I get to the bedroom to see Sydney naked with her legs spread for me, baring her slick, swollen sex, all I’m thinking about is how fast I can be balls deep in her gorgeous body.
“Is this how you wanted me?” she asks as I join her on the bed, rolling the condom on as I move.
“Yes. Perfect.” I lengthen myself on top of her. “Now wrap your legs around my waist, baby.” She obeys and I whisper, “Good girl,” into her ear, making her moan even before I fit my cock to her entrance and glide inside.
I make her come twice before I lose myself in her heat and end up having her again in the shower when she decides to join me halfway through. I’m taking her against the slick shower wall, in fact, when the first message comes through.
And the second and the third.
But my phone is in the other room. I won’t realize what’s going on for another fifteen minutes.
I have no idea that our lives are in the process of imploding or that our time in the shower is the last peace either of us will know for a while.
twenty-nine
SYDNEY
After our shower, I wrap up in one of Gideon’s cozy robes, borrow a pair of his socks—I’m not about to wiggle into hose right now—and head out to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water while he gets dressed.
On my way to the cabinet, my gaze lands on the flower arrangement again and my nose wrinkles.
It’s a beautiful gift, but it gives me an icky feeling for some reason, and not just because it’s from Gideon’s ex-wife. There’s something ominous about the almost obscenely large roses and the bulbous eyes of the butterflies on their wiry stalks. And this is coming from a woman who loves butterflies enough to spend her summers counting them in a swamp.
Deciding to ask Gideon if he would mind moving the flowers to the entry table, so they aren’t looming so large while we have dinner, I fill my water glass and go looking for my phone. I’m fairly certain I dropped my purse somewhere between the door and the couch and, sure enough, I find it a few feet from the hall closet.
I pluck it from the marble tile and wander back into the living room, smiling as I spot my dress and sweater puddled on the floor. I tidy up, folding my things and draping them over the back of the couch, then set my glass down on the coffee table and pull out my phone. I settle onto the overstuffed cushions to check food delivery times, but before I can open the delivery app, I see a series of missed calls and texts from Noelle.
My stomach twisting with guilt—hopefully the woman I sent to help is doing a good job and Noelle isn’t upset with me for bailing—I tap on her messages.
By the time I get to the second line, my stomach is in free fall.
Oh my God, Sydney, text me right now! Right now! Or pick up the phone. I’ll try calling again.
Shit, honey! Is your phone on silent? Please, you have to hear me. I’m willing you to hear me texting you.
