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“You said you would eat my pussy.”
My lips curl into a smirk, and I run the tip of my nose over the fabric straining across her clit. “I said I wanted to, not that I would.”
She groans. “What’s the difference?”
Four miles.
Twenty minutes if the traffic is good, which it seldom isn’t. Most likely, I’ll have to keep her in a constant state of neediness for at least thirty-five.
I suck hard on her inner thigh, making her gasp.
“The difference is consent,” I murmur. “You won’t get a lick of pleasure unless you beg.”
She moves to sit up. This time, her eyes flash with frustration. “Seriously?”
My eyes narrow. “Do you know what I promised myself every night I spent on death row? If I ever managed to prove my innocence, I would only get involved with women who knew exactly what they wanted. So, Emberly, if you want me to make you scream tonight, you’re going to beg for it.”
She shoots me a glare from between her legs, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Her lips are parted, swollen, and utterly delicious. She paints a beautiful picture of debauchery with her curls framing her pretty face like a wild mane, and her eyes burning with green fire.
I’m going to enjoy extinguishing that flame.
“Fine, alright, whatever,” she snaps. When I don’t respond to her little tirade, she adds, “Please.”
“I’m waiting.” My tongue ghosts over her clothed slit.
“I want you to lick my pussy until I come,” she grits out.
“Say it again,” I ask, “And use my name.”
She exhales a trembling breath. “Please, Roman,” she whispers. “Please lick my pussy until I come all over your face.”
My cock leaps in anticipation. If she continues with that dirty mouth, I won’t last twenty minutes, let alone thirty-five.
EIGHT
EMBERLY
In twenty-four years, I’ve done a lot of reckless shit. Smashed a window at the age of four, cut the brakes of my art teacher’s car when I was fifteen, and moved in with a creepy cop at twenty-three.
Each of them felt necessary at the time and each had negative consequences.
But none of these compare with lying on my back naked in a locked limousine, begging the mafia boss between my open legs to eat my pussy. Roman Montesano isn’t just dangerous. He probably hasn’t had a woman since his arrest, and I’ll take the brunt of all that pent-up sexual frustration.
Our bargain is complete. He’s already helped me escape the police, and I’ve already given him the kiss he wanted in exchange. It’s time to sit up, find my dress, and make an excuse to leave. But when he pulls aside my panties and blows on my clit, the little voice in the back of my head that’s waving red flags disappears under an onslaught of pleasure.
The last memory I had of sex was unpleasant. I know that letting this gorgeous man give me an orgasm will get me into trouble, but my need for release overpowers my common sense.
“I knew you’d have a pretty little pussy,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet against my folds. “But I’m going to make it squirt.”
The muscles of my core clench. I can’t tell if it’s in response to the compliment or to the promise.
“Y-You think?” I ask.
“I guarantee it, baby.”
He circles my clit with his wet tongue. I’m so sensitive that I swear I can feel every taste bud. The pleasure is slippery and hot and velvet, and before I can even process all the sensations, he positions a thick finger at my entrance.
Whatever reservations I have about hooking up with a mafia boss dissolves under the promise of that orgasm. That’s all right. I can leave as soon as he’s made me climax.
