Page 96 of His Pretty Little Duet

A whisper of a grin falls to a corner of his lips. “This specific one? How do you know?”

I laugh at him, and his grin grows. “‘Cause it has the little channel on the side where I tried to push the batter in with my finger.”

He watches me through his lashes as I squirm. Rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, he grips either side of my body again, the veins and definition in his forearms provoking a strained breath to escape me. It’s loud; that breath. And he looks at my lips as though he sees it still vibrating from them.

Kudos, whoever made you.

Slowly, he leans down, his lips arrowed towards mine. But then grins, twisting to wrap his lips around the cupcake in my hand, his blue eyes never leaving mine. They narrow on my sheepish face as he circles his tongue inside his mouth, and it is seriously indecent.

My temperature spikes.

“Shit,” I mutter before clearing my throat. “Is it... is it good, Sir?”

He hums around the bite, the sound familiar to the way he hums when he is touching me, fucking me, looking at me. I’m delicious, and so is my cupcake. “It is.”

Without tearing my gaze from his searing blue irises, I realise Maggie's quick exit from kitchen, muttering something about “tapioca.”

I chew on my bottom lip as I place the crumbling half-eaten cupcake on the counter.

Two of his long fingers stroke the little valley where I have my thighs pressed together. “Open for me.”

As I open my legs, he moves his hips between them, pressing his hard body to mine and squeezing my breath from me. Placing both palms flat over the black shirt, casing his tight, trim chest, I skim down the muscles pulsing beneath the lush fabric. He dips until his mouth travels down the side of my face, his lips coasting to my ear, a hum reverberating from him as he licks the shell.

I moan, dizzy from his attention. Dragging my fingers over the ribbed muscles on his torso, I realise I can’t stop touching him, and he won’t stop mauling my neck and ear even though we are in plain sight to anyone who enters. I don’t know why that fact rises to my attention. I presume what we have is private... or inappropriate.

“Are you my good girl?”

“Yes,Clay.”Getting lost in the way his lips roam around my throat, I release a long whimper. I want him. I can feel the heat spread all over my body like an acute fever. “You’re like a virus.”

I feel his smile slide wide at my throat, and there is this surreal moment where I’m not sure that this isn’t a dream. Like, am I really being kissed by the most powerful man in the District? In his kitchen?

His lips move on my skin as he says, “A virus?”

Fucking full of smooth comments today.A blush warms every inch of my being. “Yes, a dangerous one."

Just as his tongue flicks out to taste my throat, his lips freeze. Gradually, the clip-clop of heels grows in volume. He leans back, and his eyes are cutting blue rings of unbridled lust and heat. He drags his thumb along his lower lip in a menacing gesture that leaves me panting at the impure message.

In my peripherals, I see a blonde woman walk in and stop when she sees us. Quickly on her heels, a middle-aged man appears, his expression bordering on panic. “Boss, your?—"

“I don’t need a forewarning, Que.” She stops on the other side of the large marble island bench, sighing as if her life is a perpetual disappointment. She sets her purse down. “Well, who do we have here?”

For a moment, Clay doesn’t tear his eyes from mine, then finally twists, clasping his hands in front. I close my thighs. “My business,” he answers smoothly. “We discussed you would call ahead. I’m a busy man.”

She waves in my direction. “Yes, well, it appears you are very busy?—"

“Mother!” His voice is curt and unyielding, carrying across to her with absolute warning.

I wince... Andfuck me,she’s way too young to be his mother. Aunty, maybe? But at least now I know who to congratulate for making him...kudos...you?I should ask for her name or introduce?—

Clay cuts into my thoughts as he says, “You forget yourself. You will call ahead next time.”

I suck a breath in and divert my gaze to the powdered sugar on my thighs, relenting that now is not a get-to-know-the-maker-of-my-man moment. Electricity crackles around us, almost audibly, as the silence lingers longer than comfortable.

She sighs softly. “I’m sorry, darling. I was in the area?—"

“And you’re drunk.” He nods at the fridge. Then at the man dressed in all black. Without a word, Que grabs a shiny blue bottle of water and sets it down in front of Clay's mother.

Her red lips purse, silent, but her eyes flash with displeasure. “Oh, Clay.” She slides onto a stool. “I am not drunk. I had a few wines with lunch.”

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