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Should I be having sex with my fake husband? The man who is also my blackmailer and using me in his big plan of revenge. Is this normal?
“Kiss me, Bunny.”
I do, my hands come up and grip his face as he holds me in place. His chest pushes against my breasts, holding me still. My lips part, and I take control of the kiss. He lets me. Whiskey pulls away from my entrance, and his cock comes to rub on my clit, up and down as our tongues dance a dance they’re familiar with.
I’ve never had this much passion or attraction for a man before.
Never wanted someone, and not wanted someone, all at the same time.
Our lips pull away, we both breathe heavily, then he pushes me against the wall. His hands leave my back, and they search my body. Roaming me as if he’s figuring me out.
My mind is telling me to stop this.
For god’s sake, don’t have sex with him.
But my body is screaming for relief.
Whiskey was the last man I slept with. I haven’t been with anybody since him, and I want him again. Very badly.
Pushing on his chest, I find he goes back with ease.
Face rigid, he looks up at me, long eyelashes with flour on them wait for me to speak.
Taking a few deep breaths, I stand and pull my skirt back down. I let my eyes drop to his chest, which is hard and all muscle and dusted with a smattering of hair. That perfect V he has showcases his cock ever so beautifully, like it’s ready to explore my vagina.
His cock’s so hard and angry and waiting for me to invite it in.
My vagina throbs at the thought.
I know I want him.
But should I do so? How do I keep my dignity intact?
I look back up at him. “If you want me, this isn’t the right way to have me,” I say.
I have to play a game as well. The same one he plays with me.
Deception.
“What’s the right way to make both our troubles”—he looks down at my pussy—“disappear.” My mouth opens. “I know you want me just as badly as I want you, rich girl. I can smell you.”
“You want to fuck me the day before our wedding?” I ask him.
Whiskey nods his head. “I don’t care what day it is. And yes, I want to fuck you.” He looks down. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
My eyes follow his.
“I’ll hate you even more if we do this.”
“Get out,” he says, shaking his head and turning around in the shower.
I do as he says, stepping out and taking his towel with me.
Turning back to look at him, I see his head on the tiled wall as the water rushes over his back, washing the flour down the drain—and any hopes I had with it.
CHAPTER 22
WHISKEY
