“Can I touch you, Millie?” he asked.
I let out a longwhooshof breath.
“I think I’m gonna pass out if you don’t,” I said.
Then he dropped to his knees.
And I knew this was way more than just a contract.
SIX
Millie
The first thing he did was press his mouth to my core.
I didn’t even have to ask—not like I had with every other boyfriend, fling, every other man who’d ever seen me like this. He just…wanted to taste me, even through my panties, maybe evenmorethrough that pink lace. His fingers pressed hard into my ass cheeks as he yanked me forward, big hands holding my hips, his tongue darting out to lick a long line from my entrance to my clit.
My hips bucked.
“Oh god—” I gasped.
“Fuck, been thinking about how this sweet pussy tastes since I met you in that waiting room,” he growled. He started licking me over and over sucking on my clit through the mesh. I wassoaked, dying for him.
"Gage—"
"Stay still," he said, against me.
I could not stay still. My hands found his hair—dark and thick and slightly damp, smelling like shampoo—and I gripped it and he made a sound low in his throat that I felt everywhere.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties and pulled them down and off, looking up at me from the floor. His eyes were completely dark and his mouth was wet.
I had never in my life been looked at like that.
Like I was the thing he'd been waiting for.
"Perfect," he said, low.
Then he put his mouth on me properly and I stopped being capable of thought.
He was thorough.
God, he was thorough. Like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to want. His tongue moved over me slow, then faster when I pulled his hair, then slow again right when I was getting close. I made a sound that was embarrassingly desperate and he did it again on purpose, the bastard.
He had been thinking about this since the waiting room—he'd said so—and I believed him because he ate me out like he'd been planning it, like he knew exactly where to put his mouth and for how long and when to back off and when not to. I was a stranger he'd met three weeks ago in a surgical mask and he was on his knees on the floor of a cottage getting me wetter than I'd been in years.
"Please," I said. Again. Still. I'd lost count of how many times.
He slid two fingers inside me without warning and curled them and I grabbed the back of his head with both hands and held on.
"There she is," he said, low and satisfied, like he'd found something he'd been looking for.
He worked me with his fingers and his mouth at the same time and I was embarrassingly loud about it—sounds I hadn't made in years, sounds I'd forgotten I was capable of, filthy desperate sounds that bounced off the limestone walls of this tiny cottage—and he responded to every single one of them like he was taking notes.
"Gage—Gage I'm going to?—"
"I know," he said. "Let me feel it."
I came with his fingers deep inside me and his mouth on my clit. We were still standing in the kitchen—I hadn’t gotten a chance to get him to the bedroom, even after all that time staring at the bed, wondering…
