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“And you,” she counters, “are the one that put it there.”
I move my mouth to her ear and breathe her scent, the earthy, smoky one that’s infused with the fresh spice of ginger and erotic undertones of jasmine and touch of orange blossom.
As heady as the first time I smelled her.
More, because now she’s warm, naked, and I know exactly what her skin tastes like. Her pretty fucking pussy with its perfect lips and tight hot hole. I know the taste and feel of her clit in my mouth.
Fuck, oh, fuck I can’t stand it, pressed against her, and yet, right now I can’t move. So I just breathe her in again, and trace the shape of her ear with my tongue. She’s the kind of woman who’ll make a man forget just why he stripped her naked in his office.
“But,” I say, “You’re the one without her clothes on.”
I release her and step away, picking up my computer, but it’s still off and it’s only openable by both my print and a password.
She’s not here for information. I toss it onto the armchair and grab the Yamazaki and pour some into my glass from yesterday.
“Want some?”
I expect her to dress, to try and run. I locked the door though the key’s still in the lock. But she remains naked as she walks up to me, trailing a hand over the desk with a reverence akin to the way Damon eyes it as she does so.
Her hips sway, thighs glisten, and her cunt’s red and swollen from my fingers and mouth. I lift my gaze and her perfect handful tits bounce a little, the areolae a rosebud pink, big like silver dollars, and topped with stiff nipples.
My cock aches.
She takes the glass and then a sip.
I drink from the bottle.
“That’s very expensive booze,” she says.
“I’m very aware.” I pause. “I bought it. Why were you in here?”
“Like I told you. Looking for the bathroom.”
“I know who you are.”
She waits a beat, like she’s thinking it through, like she’s trying to work out who I think she is. Or, rather, why I think she’s here.
“Seems my abilities are slipping. No one knows who I am.”
I take a deep swallow as her gaze dips to the desk, and her pulse throbs. The same way it does when she looks at me.
“Does my very expensive desk turn you on, Magdalena?”
The blush spreads over her, and I almost drop a nearly eighty-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey. This is my drinking one. I have another couple in my collection in the cellar.
Dropping this bottle would be worth her blush.
But I take one more swallow and cap the bottle, setting it on the shelf near the window. Then I turn back.
She’s just there, savoring the amber contents of the glass. This is the color of her eyes, this whiskey. The dark amber, the almost priceless quality. Her eyes. That whiskey.
I come up to her.
Take the glass. And then a sip.
“Yes,” she says.
Lifting the glass to her lips, I tip it, and she takes the mouthful and swallows it. I then take a sip and give her one more. “Why are you here?”
