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“Say it again,” he growls. “Say it while you’re riding my face.”
Chapter6
Rufus
Clover’s breathyvoice pantingMisteris all I’ll need to come, I swear to Christ.
I spin her around, then crowd her against the window. “Hands here,” I order, needing to be in charge, just so I don’t absolutely lose it.
Clover.
In my apartment.
Clover, in my fucking arms.
My Clover, my clever little assistant. If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.
My fingers find her zipper, and draw it down, the rasp of it almost as loud as her trembling breath. Both make my cock ache with anticipation.
As soon as the zipper opens past her waist, the dress slips from her shoulders. She’s helping me, but her hands immediately return to the window where I told her to press them.
The dress pools on the floor, leaving her almost naked between me and the city. She’s not wearing a bra, just panties and heels that make her legs look endless and her ass…
Fuck.
Her ass is spectacular. Round and soft, her cheeks spill out of her panties. Begging to be bitten. Begging to marked and spanked and—
“What do you like?” I growl. Because that matters more. That’s all that matters.
Her breath hitches. “Anything.”
That’s never the answer. I palm one perfect ass cheek and squeeze. “Would you rather I ask you as we go?”
She nods. “Please.”
I slide my hand around her waist, palming her soft belly as I tug her hips up and back. Slotting my cock against the cleft of her ass. Even through my dress pants, she feels incredible. The shape of her was made for me.
“This isn’t your cock yet,” I rasp. “How many orgasms should little Clover have before she gets Mister’s cock, hmm?”
A shudder rolls through her body. “Umm…”
“Five?”
She squeaks. “Five?”
“At least,” I say, sounding pleased with myself.
“You’re joking.”
“I would never joke about something as serious as your pleasure,” I promise her.
My hand skates up her belly to get my first feel of her breasts. Small but full, they’re perfect points that fit in my hand, and I need them in my mouth.
“Stay just like that,” I order, letting go of her long enough to shed my jacket and the tie she already loosened.
The rest of my clothes are staying on so I don’t fucking ravish her before she’s been pleasured enough to make her fall in love with me.
Clover isn’t leaving this apartment—isn’t putting on that dress again—until she agrees to be my fiancée, for real. And the only negotiating tool I can reach for at the moment is my deep, year-long craving to make her feel good.
