Page 27 of Protect Me

She doesn’t want him.

She wants me.

There’s not a chance in hell that she’ll be a good girl for me this evening. She’ll be a very bad one. And it could get us killed. Not that she cares about that. But I kinda do.

Kind of.

She sure knows how to make a really awkward dinner more uncomfortable by eye fucking me at the table as she sits so close to her future husband. Every so often her gaze leaves Antonio’s and meets mine as she takes a sensual sip of wine. It’s not how any girl drinks wine unless she wants you to envision your dick touching those lips. And believe me, I am. My dick hardens at the thought of it, and I move my black fabric napkin to my lap to hide it.

Stop, I mouth, and she throws me a sinister smirk. She’s willing to get us killed just so she can get my dick hard beneath this fancy fucking table.

Dinner is served, and the staff puts plate upon plate of food in front of us. I’ll admit, this shit looks delicious. One thing rich people can do is serve the best food. They probably have Gordon Ramsey back there, for fuck’s sake.

I lift my fork while everyone else waits for Mr. Vendetti. It’s probably some respect thing, but I’m starving and I don’t have respect for any of these people. I start eating because who the fuck cares? I’m not one of them, even if I’m babysitting one.

Mr. Vendetti walks into the room, commanding the attention of everyone but me. He starts talking about the impending nuptials, and I chew louder in hopes of drowning it out. I don’t really want to hear about it. I don’t care about the fancy decisions they need to make. A horse and carriage? A champagne fountain? Millions of dollars in rich-people bullshit to create a fake fucking wedding where the bride-to-be would probably rather drown herself in that champagne fountain than marry Antonio. Isn’t there something better to do with that kind of money?

I scoff, and Isabella kicks me under the table. Why? Scoffing isn’t kosher but her single-focus mission to keep me hard at this miserable dinner is a-okay? I can’t wait to get back to her swanky mansion, and I never thought I’d say that.

The conversation drags on about the wedding, but the sounds become background noise when I feel Isabella pawing at my lap as she slips her hand beneath the fabric napkin. I grab her wrist, trying to keep a straight look on my face. We are not doing this here. She has a death wish, I swear. Her fingertips curl along my hardened length, teasing me.

Fucking A.

I scoot my chair a little closer to the table and loosen my grip on her wrist. She rubs the palm of her hand along my length, putting pressure on my head as she passes it. The subtle touch causes the most intense pleasure. Maybe it’s because we’re in a room of people I hate, or maybe it’s the risk, but every touch is electric and dangerous.

Her fingers move to my zipper and ease it down. She pulls my cock from the slit in my pants and strokes me. The huge, flared wooden table keeps my lap hidden beneath it, but as her hand wraps around me and begins stroking, I’m trying to keep my emotions hidden too. I’m trying to keep my face still and expressionless as she swirls around my head. A moan settles in my throat, wanting to come out and spill across this fancy plate. But a moan would get us caught. I curl my fingers around my fork, digging my nails into my palm. She’s going to be in so much trouble for this. If we make it out of here alive.

I’m going to come. Each stroke brings me closer and closer. Somehow she keeps her upper arm so motionless except for the little flex in the muscle. Thank god. But the groan that wants so desperately to leap from me is making me restless. Uneasy. Not sure if I can come without making a single peep, especially when she’s pulling so much pleasure from me with her touch. This girl strokes a dick once and becomes a fucking expert.

I draw my hand to my lips, setting my chin on my palm. My lips part as the head of my cock twitches, and I spill my load on her pretty little hand in front of her future husband. I try to hide the soft exhale as I finish coming. Right in front of their faces, she cleans my pleasure from her skin with disturbing confidence. She draws her hand away, wiping it off with her napkin as if she was simply removing a bit of grease from her fingers.

I wait for the moment I can tuck myself away before zipping my pants again. She’s in so much trouble. No matter how good that felt, she can’t do shit like this. I won’t die in a place like this. She may be used to the death and destruction inside walls like these, but I’m not. And I’m not willing to lose my life for emptying my balls in her hand. Maybe her pussy, but not her hand.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Isabella

I drop my face to my fist as we pass familiar areas, and Vance remains silent on the drive home. His lips are drawn tight in a frown, and I’m surprised he’s not in a better mood. He got to get off, unlike me.

“That was stupid, Bella. You know that, right?” he finally says.

I shrug. “No one noticed anything. Relax.”

His dark eyes jump to mine. “Yeah, but if they had, we’d both be dead. Why is being a dirty fucking girl worth more to you than your life? Or my life.”

My eyes narrow. “Because I don’t want to make my future husband come. I want to make you come.”

“You think I didn’t want to slip my hand up your skirt and fuck you with my fingers until you came in front of your future family? But I didn’t, because I’m old enough to realize that I can do that for you at home, when we aren’t in a place with far more guns than I have on me.”

I scoff. “I’m not a child, Vance. I’m old enough to realize it too. But I needed to put my hand on you. The flame of jealousy in your eyes drove me crazy.”

I wanted his jealousy to pour out of him and onto my hand. The frustrating pleasure on his face made me hunger for his come.

Not mine.

His.

“You wait till we get home, little girl. I’ll show you the real definition of need.”

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