Page 42 of The Waiter at Table 6

“Let me fuck you,” I groan, fisting my hand in her hair as I try half-heartedly to pull her off me. Even as I continue to fuck her mouth.

I half-expect her to keep sucking, but instead, her lips pop off my cock. She looks up at me and whispers, “Come on me.”

Fuck. She’s never asked for that.

But she’s naked and glistening, her lips swollen and eyes lust-drunk, and there isn’t a chance in hell I’m not giving her exactly what she wants. I stand, the hand not woven into her hair dropping down to stroke my length. She straightens into a kneeling position as I move, bound by my grip on her. Her eyes never leave mine.

“Open your mouth,” I growl.

When she obediently extends her tongue, I bite out a curse.

“Goddamn, you look perfect like this,” I groan, my fist sliding faster and faster over my length. “You want my cum all over you? You want me to make you messy?”

She doesn’t speak, she simply nods, her pupils blown so black, I can barely see the green anymore.

I come with a deep groan.

Her eyes flutter closed when the first drop hits her cheek, and a moan slips out when more splatters over her tongue, her chin, her breasts.

I think I’ve composed myself with a shaky exhale, but then her eyes open and her gaze locks on me as she closes her mouth to swallow the few drops that landed on her tongue.

I bite out a curse, one hand reaching down to cup my hardening dick.

Vanessa is smiling as she shakes her head. “Your refractory period is inhuman. Are you always like this?”

I wince. “Never. But you’re kneeling at my feet, covered in sweat and my cum. It has an effect.”

She laughs as she gets to her feet. I waste no time wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer, completely uncaring about the mess because I’m the one who made her messy.

Bracing her hands on my chest, she says with an amused smile, “I promise, after dinner, you can come on me—or in me—as much as you want.”

I groan, dropping my face into her neck. “Don’t talk about me coming in you. I’m barely surviving as is.”

She’s shaking her head as she gently pushes me back. “I’m going to shower and get dressed really quick. Can you pick out a wine for us?”

I nod and lean forward to kiss her. She ducks away with a laugh.

When she walks out onto the patio fifteen minutes later, she’s barefoot and braless, wearing a floral sundress that makes her look entirely too tempting. If I wasn’t admiring the outdoor kitchen on the other side of the patio, I’d probably pull her right back under me.

I force my attention to the island as she takes a seat on the couch. “Is this a built-in pizza oven?” I ask.

“Mmhmm.”

I whistle my appreciation. “This design is amazing, babe. It’s so seamless.”

She’s getting better with my compliments, because she smiles and says simply, “Thank you.”

I give up on the kitchen and walk over to her, plopping down on the cushion beside her. “So…remind me again why you don’t want to be an interior decorator?”

She shrugs. “I’m not exactly qualified for it. It’s not like interior design where I would need a degree and certificate, but building a portfolio with pictures of my own house hardly screams competent.”

My brow furrows. “Well, then how do people get into it? You have to start somewhere.”

Another shrug. “I don’t know, I’m sure there are courses and things you can pad your resume with. And networking is a big part of it. I think a lot of people get jobs based on word-of-mouth recommendations. Those jobs are what build your portfolio.”

I turn toward her with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t know rich people with more money than god that would let you design their house?”

Her voice goes cold. “None that aren’t connected to my ex.”

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