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“Change your mind, Peach?”
“No,” he grunts.
“Then why are you fighting me?”
His breathing is heavy, and his neck is a thousand degrees hotter than the air in the room. He smells expensive—priceless. He smells like mine.
I lick a stripe up his bruised carotid, and he shudders hard.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Get your cock out.”
I watch his trembling fingers struggle with the drawstring on his fancy joggers, finally shoving them past his ass and letting his erection spring out. He’s wet at the tip, and not for the first time, I wonder what he tastes like. Because I really do think it’ll be like caviar. And I fucking love caviar. Tangy and alkaline, the way it pops on my tongue. But I’ve never had the good stuff before—just the kind they put on sushi.
I bet he tastes like the good stuff.
My mouth fills with saliva, and I spit on my palm before taking him in a grip firm enough to make his knees buckle.
He shouts out an urgent cry as I stroke him, keeping my hot breath on his smooth neck.
The only cock I’ve ever touched is my own, and while that feels good and all, I’ve never noticed the weight or texture of it on my palm the way I’m noticing all these things about Olivier’s. And then there’s the heat.
His dick is as perfect as the rest of him. Long, smooth, flushed, and heavier than it looks. Thick like his round, plump ass and his deceptively lean but sculpted chest. He’s all man, but like an elevated version of a man. Carefully cultivated with no expense spared. He’s sexy without even trying. Beautiful by design. All seduction despite his show of resistance.
An angel mid-fall from grace.
I explore the firm silk of him, slowly jerking the loose skin over his shaft, brushing each new drop of precum I milk out with my thumb. He squeezes his eyes shut and slams his own head back against the window. I briefly wish it were a window washing day—so the men on floating scaffolds could see what The Heir looks like when he’s on the verge of falling apart.
But this is all for me. This is mine.
I’m not sure I wouldn’t beat the shit out of anyone else who got to see him like this. I worry about myself sometimes. More often lately than not. Whatever it is I’m feeling for him is as powerful and invasive as it is fucked up.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been forced to share everything my whole life. Maybe it’s because if I disappeared from this city right now, no one would notice because I haven’t left my mark. I don’t even own a parking space, but this man—he fucking belongs to me right now. I’m in complete control, and it’ll take more than a freaky fiancée to keep me off him.
I vocalize this beneath his ear. “Mine.”
“Oh, shit…”
“And that makes you what?” I ask as I give him a few good strokes.
He groans and sags, clutching at my biceps to keep himself standing. “Y-yours.”
“All mine,” I say again.
“Fuck, Drew…”
I love it when he says my name like that. Like it’s breaking him in half. I press my forehead to his temple and breathe into his ear, hungry for his release and his sounds. Hungry for the taste of his flesh, but I need to know he’s taking this seriously. Because I’m dead serious. I need this. It’s better than Prozac, better than a long run, and far superior to meditation and self-help books. This is my therapy. My coping mechanism. The only thing that makes me feel like myself, although who that is, I’m not so sure anymore. But I’ve tapped into some part of me that’s always been there—something brutal and broken and greedy.
Despite how slowly I’m jacking his cock, he’s acting like I’m rushing him to a finish. His hips move, thrusting himself into my twisting fist. “You’re gonna make me come,” he says sounding both shocked and helpless. “Unh…fuck…so close…”
He leans his head hard against mine, making it nearly impossible for my mouth to resist the urge to suck skin.
But I manage. Somehow.
“Fuck…fuck…”
“Give it to me, Peach. Let me see all that rich, juicy cum.”
