Page 51 of Lennox Lane

She narrowed her eyes and said, “I have ten minutes to show you exactly how much I appreciate you being my stalker.”

Lennox lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, looking far too pleased for a man still in danger.

“Yes, ma’am. Please show me.”

Lane hated that his response to her turned her on. Mostly because she saw a future that terrified her. A man wasn't investing half a million dollars a year into her food bank because he was bored.

Before she could get to deep into her thoughts, the sheet covering her had slipped to her waist. Lane felt the morning air cool against her skin, but her eyes were on Lennox—on the way he watched her like she was the only thing in the room worth memorizing. The donation still hummed between them like a live wire of generosity that had stripped something raw open in her chest, and she wanted—no, she needed to show him exactly what that did to her.

She moved before she could second-guess herself. Sliding down his body with the kind of deliberate slowness that made his breath catch. Her hands found the waistband of his boxers, and she pulled him free with a casualness that belied the heat coiling low in her stomach.

"Look at us," she said, her voice dropping to that register that always made his jaw tighten. "Locked in tight. I'm seeing you on soft, Lennox."

He huffed out a chuckle, head falling back against the pillow. "Everyone loves noodles, baby."

“I don't care about everyone." She wrapped her fingers around him, watched his body react as she stroked once, twice. "But I do."

Then she took him down—slow, wet, relentless—until she felt him hit the back of her throat, and his hips jerk upward with a helplessness she knew he hated and loved in equal measure.

"Lane." His voice was rough, wrecked already. "You don't have to—if this is about the food bank, if you're trying to⁠—"

She pulled off with a wet sound that made him groan, looking up at him with eyes that dared him to finish that sentence. "Shut up," she said, and it was almost tender. "Fuck my throat so you can stroke me from behind while I show you one of my favorite tricks."

His laugh this time was disbelieving, delighted, dark. "Yes, ma'am."

He threaded his fingers through her hair—not pulling, just holding, guiding—and she relaxed her jaw and let him move. The rhythm he found was filthy and possessive. She took it, eyes watering, hands braced against his thighs, feeling herself grow wetter with every thrust. Every muttered curse and every time his breath hitched like she was destroying him.

When she felt him tense, close, she pulled back, and he let her. His chest heaving. His dick slick and straining.

"Arch it," he said, the command in his voice making her shiver. "The way I love."

She turned to present herself to him and looked back over her shoulder. He was staring at her with something that looked like worship wrapped in maddening lust—lust so pure it should have scared her. She bit her bottom lip, watching him watch her as his gaze heated further.

He smacked her ass once, sharp, then spread her open with rough hands. "Show me," he demanded. "Show me that trick."

Lane reached back, fingers finding where she was soaked, and dragged her wetness backward. She circled her rim once, twice, feeling him still behind her, watching, then she pushed two fingers inside herself and twisted.

The sound he made was guttural.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, and she did it again—slow and obscene. The stretch and burn made her clench around nothing. "You—fuck, Lane, you're gonna kill me."

She smiled, wicked, and kept working herself, in and out, the rhythm making her thighs shake. "You like that?"

"You such a nasty little bitch for Daddy," he said. There was warning in it, possession. "My good girl. You do this with anybody else—any other nigga—and their blood's on your hands. You understand me?"

She should have been frightened. The threat was real, the violence in his voice edged and sharp. Instead, she felt herself clench. Felt more wetness spill from her and she moaned—loud and unashamed.

"Lane," he growled.

"Yours," she gasped, and meant it, hated it, loved it. "Only yours."

He pulled her fingers free and replaced them with his tongue. He was eating her pussy like he’d been starving, and she was a meal prepared just for him. She cried out with her face pressed into the pillow, as he ate her with a desperation that made her toes curl. His fingers slid back into her pussy, curling and stroking as she was sobbing. She was incoherent, the dual sensation too much.

"Put it in," she begged, voice broken. "Please, Lennox, I'm gonna—put it in, I'm about to cum⁠—"

He rose behind her, lined himself up, and slammed home to the hilt.

She came instantly—hard and violent. Her body clamped down on him as she screamed into the mattress. He didn't give her time to recover, just started fucking her through it with deep and punishing strokes that hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. She was creaming all over him. Wet and messy, and he was cursing, praising, threatening, loving⁠—