Page 121 of His Pretty Little Duet

"Such lovely manners… But you have to do something for me first."

I smirk, thinking about taking his cock into my mouth, sucking him until he is the one who is raw with me. "I'll do anything for you, Sir."

A soft smile settles on his lips as he knows this to be true. I mean those words to my core. I'd do anything for this man. I've forgiven him for lying. For using me as bait to try to lure my father out of hiding. For hiding the truth from me.

Because he is my thorns.

The only person in this entire world to believe me, to care for me, to hold me accountable, towantme.

His smile flattens. "You covered the mirrors yesterday, sweet girl," he says, and I cast my eyes down to hide my shame. "You forgot to take the sheet in the dressing room down before you left the room. How long have you been doing that?"

Fuck.Henchman Jeeves—my personal henchman/butler/rat.I know he's meant to watch me, keep me safe, but he doesn't have to share all my fucking secrets.

I mumble, "HJ is such a dobber."

"Boltonis paid to be...a dobber." His finger goes to my chin, and he lifts it until I'm anchored in his crystal-clear blue gaze. "And you know this." He suddenly stands up, a wall of muscles erected before me and so close, so perfect, I struggle not to reach out and roll my fingertips down the rippling plane. I crane my neck to keep eye contact. "Come," he orders, offering me his hand to take.

"That was the whole idea, Sir, but I'm still waiting," I say, my teasing cadence laced with false strength.

His lips tick in a corner, but he says nothing, turning to guide my defiant feet towards the dressing room.

What does he want?

For me to look at myself in the mirror?

I can do that.

I only covered the mirrors because there are so many, too many, and I'm stuck in this house, and they are like shadows following me around every room, and I'm constantly glancing over my shoulder and?—

He sits me on the ottoman in front of the mirror, that entire bullshit spiel halting on my tongue as I stare at the girl from the incident reflected at me.

My brows pinch into a scowl.

She's like a train wreck—I force a smile at the reflection of the breathtaking man towering over me in nothing but his black cotton pants because I can’t trust myself to speak to him right away.

He drops down—the deadliest man in the city on his knees for me—blocking the mirror for a moment with his head. Hiseyes heat. "Now lean back on your hands, spread your pretty white thighs, and watch me worship you."

He slings my legs over his shoulders and dips his head. The mirror comes into view, the girl in the reflection already painted in the crimson glow of arousal just as his mouth sucks at my flesh.

Instantly, I mewl around, assaulted by my reflection and by the eating motion of his lips.

His touch soothes.

And I’m whole.His.

His tongue presses in through the walls clinging with needy desperation to the steady penetration. I want to squeeze my eyes shut so I can focus on him. Avoid the sight of me. I want to grab his head, but I can't stay upright if I don't brace on both hands.

My backside rocks and lifts, so he slides his hands beneath each cheek to control me as he relentlessly fucks between my folds with his tongue, as he mouths me, as his lips rhythm crash sensation with sensation. Plunging through and out. Then massaging the supple soft lips as he withdraws only to spear me again.

My nails dig into the ottoman.

I do as he commanded, watching myself in the mirror with Clay Butcher on his knees between my thighs.

My eyes grow heavy when he slows down, flattening his tongue and licking up and down, then dipping in, only to lap over that quivering flesh again.

It's meticulous.

Like everything he does. As soon as a part of my pussy wants attention he is there, reading the pulsing muscles like I'm connected to him through tangible waves of sensory information. Like I'm an extension of…him.

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