Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
‘Aye, and I’ll have your heat in my hands again. And again. It’s what happens when you’ve had a taste of heaven.’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ I answer. How am I supposed to keep this serious when he keeps saying stuff like that?
‘You don’t believe me? Then maybe I should tell you about all the ways I plan on fucking you. I won’t stop at a bit of oral next time.’
‘A b-bit of oral,’ I stutter. ‘Is that what that was?’
‘Well, I’ll admit when you took me into that hot little mouth of yours, that was nearly all. I had to stop myself from wrapping your hair in my hands. From fucking your face.’
From wings to hooves, my heart begins to gallop. How can that sound like something I might enjoy? I cross my legs under the table, squeezing my thighs together to gain a little relief.
‘Ah,’ he says as though making a discovery as he leans in. ‘You like the sound of that, don’t you?’ To people sitting nearby, he could be remarking on the weather because his expression is so bland. Sitting across from him, I find it hard to miss the smirk lurking in the corner of his mouth. The teasing gleam in his dark eyes.
‘Raphaela.’ He draws out my name over so many syllables because holy rolling r’s! Why do I love the way he says my name? I hate my name, ordinarily. ‘I do believe you’re a wee deviant.’
Lightning quick, the image of him and some faceless woman fills my head. She’s limp against the island, and he’s pounding her from behind. Knowing he’s probably been in that position must make him a bit of a deviant, right? But in imagining the scene, what does that make me?
‘I-I might be. I just don’t happen to know yet.’ His expression falters for a beat, reading between the lines I’ve just set out for him. I don’t know if I’m a deviant. Join the dots to find out why. ‘But it doesn’t matter because it can’t happen again,’ I add quickly. ‘My behaviour was highly unprofessional. I was . . . was slightly dizzy from a hot bath, and your whisky didn’t help.’ Both glasses. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘I know what that feels like.’ Leaning back in his chair, he rubs his bristled chin. ‘Because I was out of my head last night. But not on drink. On the taste of you.’
‘I’m the last thing you need,’ I answer quietly, looking away.
‘The next time I touch you, I’ll do it properly. I expect there’ll be a bed in the equation because I’ll be spending a good amount of time between your legs. Getting my fill. Feeling you writhe your sweet pussy against me.’ Maybe my look is questioning, or greedy, because he continues. ‘I’ll drink you in. Feast on you. Kiss and fuck you with my tongue before you lick the taste of yourself from my lips.’
‘Y-you can’t keep saying things like that,’ I say, pushing my hair behind my ears and sitting straight. What’s needed here is a little professional detachment.
And a dry pair of knickers. I could drown a squirrel in these.
‘And I expect you to return the favour. And the flavour.’
‘You . . . ’ Did he just say what I think he said?
‘I’ve had some blow jobs in my time, but last night was something else.’
Despite my fluttering heart, my tingling senses, and my raging hormones, I realise this relentless assault isn’t going to stop. So I change direction.
‘Well, I suppose that’s one good thing that came out of my engagement.’ I swallow a mouthful of my cooling coffee, my eyes sliding away.
‘You were engaged?’ he asks, not without the taint of displeasure. Or maybe I’m imagining things.
‘Yes. I dated a man who turned out to be gay. For four years, actually.’
‘Bisexual. He can’t have been—’
‘Trust me,’ I interrupt firmly, ‘he was. He barely touched me. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that he knew how to give a good blow job, so I guess that’s the one thing I can thank him for teaching me.’
‘Gay?’ he asks, picking up on completely the wrong thread I’d dangled for him. ‘And he didn’t . . . ?’ Thankfully, he stops what could be construed as a crass line in questioning. ‘Four years is a long time to go without—’ Or social mores be damned.
‘Without sex?’ I add briskly, placing my cup back on the saucer. Where it clatters, unfortunately. Damn shaking hands. ‘In our relationship, one of us did have an active sex life. For the record, it wasn’t me.’
‘Not for four years? It seems strange that—’
‘Well, that’s me in a nutshell. Strange. I mean, who else goes to Paris, the city of love, and f-fails . . . ’ I clamp my lips shut. ‘Yes, well. You don’t need to hear that.’