Page 84 of Until I Own You

Dirty girl.

I eye her champagne glass. Her lipstick has transferred.

Once again, I am thinking about her mouth on my cock.

I grab my champagne, knock it back fast, then push myself out of my chair.

Bridget’s brow furrows.

I step next to her, place a hand on her shoulder, my fingers following the line of her collarbone.

My body concealing her from sight should anyone be looking at me, I slide my hand so the tips of my fingers are placed at the base of her throat, reminding her of her collar. Of her promise. “Follow me.”

She does a double take to the table. “But lunch–”

I raise my eyebrow.

Bridget rises to her feet, her expression needy and intent on being the best girl she can.

I lead her through the restaurant to the black, marble-floored hallway leading to the single occupancy bathrooms. I open one of the doors and gesture for Bridget to step inside.

She is flushing all the way down her neck but does not question.

As she slips inside, I keep lookout to make sure we won’t be spotted, and no one will come knocking. And once we are in the clear, I get into the bathroom after her, closing and locking the door.

When I turn, Bridget is leaned up against the bathroom vanity, her fingers clinging to the black marble countertop, bright bulbs haloing her.

She is an angel. My angel.

Though I have come here with a different intent, I can’t resist her.

I close the space between us, cupping her head in my hand and kissing her as deep as I can.

Bridget gasps as I press her against the vanity. Hard. Not to hurt. But to show her my need.

I slide my tongue into her mouth, let it roll with hers.

For someone so inexperienced, her kisses indicate otherwise. Graceful and passionate.

The act of oral service is a lesson.

But sometimes a man cannot wait for a lesson to present itself.

Sometimes, he must act because the woman before him is so beautiful and so submissive and so eager to please him.

And he has waited so many years to have her.

No woman has ever made me lose control.

Bridget is the one exception.

I rip my mouth from hers, my hand gripping her hair tight.

Our noses are smashed together, we breathe as if trapped.

“Get on your knees.” A demand. A plea.

“Yes, Sir.”

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