Page 113 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“Suck,” he says.

I lean forward and take his fingers between my lips, tasting myself on his skin. His cock presses hard against my foot hanging off the counter, and I curl my toes around the heat of his dick through his slacks.

He goes back to me with his mouth.

Fucks me with his tongue this time, pushing it inside me as deep as he can, his nose against my clit. I’m sobbing softly with pleasure, my hands fisted in his sandy hair, pulling.

“Don’t stop,” I scream when it hits me. “August, please⁠—”

The second orgasm crashes through me harder than the first. My whole body locks up. My back arches off the counter. His mouth doesn’t leave me. He drinks me down through every pulse, every clench, his tongue relentless.

He gives me a long beat to recover. Kisses the inside of my left thigh and then my right. He kisses the soft curve of my pregnant belly, his lips warm through the thin cotton of my blouse.

Then he goes back down for a third time.

This time he takes me slow. Sucks my clit gently. Works one finger inside me, then two. His other hand spreads flat across my belly, palm warm and heavy. He keeps me on the edge for what feels like forever. Teasing. Building. His tongue circles my clit until I’m writhing above him, begging.

When he finally lets me tip over, the third orgasm is a long, slow, rolling release that washes through my whole body from my toes to the crown of my head. I gasp quietly. Eyes closed. Hands holding his head. Belly pressed up under his palm.

He kisses me one more time between my thighs. Lifts his face. His mouth is wet. Swollen. His glasses are fogged. He stands and kisses me, and I taste myself on his tongue.

“You were so good for me,” he whispers against my mouth. “So perfect. I’m going to take you somewhere more comfortable now.”

He lifts me off the counter and into his arms. He carries me into the back room like I weigh nothing, even though I’m six months pregnant.

The back room is dim. The single warm lamp on the worktable throws a soft glow across the zinc top. He carries me to the velvet armchair and sits down in it with me still in his arms.

He works his slacks open. Pushes them down. His cock is hard and flushed and leaking against his stomach. Thick. Veined. The head is slick.

I gasp at the sight of him.

He cups my hip with one hand. Lifts me gently. I brace my hands on his shoulders. He lines himself up against my opening. Looks me in the eyes.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

He lowers me slowly down onto his cock.

I’m impossibly wet from his mouth. My pussy opens around his cock in long, slow stages. He’s huge inside me in this position. The angle makes him feel even bigger than usual. He sinks deeper as I go lower. I pant against his shoulder.

My nails dig into the fabric of his t-shirt.

“You’re inside me. All the way,” I cry out, starting to ride him.

He kisses my shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you. Let me fuck you, Lia.”

He grips my hips with both hands and lifts me slowly off his cock. Lowers me back down. I gasp. He does it again. And again. Fucking me by lifting me up and down on his lap while I sit straddling him with my arms around his neck and my pregnant belly pressed between us.

I don’t have to do a single thing. He moves me on him at his own slow, patient pace. His arms are working. His shoulders bunch under his t-shirt. Sweat gleams at his temples.

“You feel perfect,” he growls against my throat. “So wet. So tight around me. Taking my cock so good. Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so hard.”

He picks up the pace, lifting me by the hips and jamming me over his fat cock. Over and over, stretching me wider and wider.

My cries get louder. The wet sounds of my body taking him fill the back room. The velvet armchair creaks softly under us, the old springs groaning.

He fucks me up and down on his lap until I come a fourth time around his cock with a sobbing, wrecked sound into his neck. My pussy clenches around him, pulsing, slick flooding between us.