Page 74 of Wanting Mr Black

I take a deep breath. “Art, there are things from my past too …”

He presses a finger to my lips to silence me. “Shush. No more talk about the past. Only the future.” He smiles. “Where do you want to go on our honeymoon?”

Now is clearly not the right time to tell him about Theo.

I press my lips together to suppress a sigh. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, wherever we go will be a waste of money anyhow.”

“Why?”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I close my eyes.

“Because we won’t leave the room.”

“Is that a promise?” I breathe.

He tilts his head back against the headrest and looks at me from beneath his dark lashes. “What do you think? Spending two whole weeks inside you sounds like paradise.”

I feel a tug of desire because I know he’s not joking and brush my fingers across the dark scruff of his cheek. He can’t get enough of me, and I can’t get enough of him. Even when I’m pissed off and angry and we fight. He’s a weakness. Dominating, controlling, and insecure Art frustrates me, but I know it’s a result of his past. And when he’s like this and he touches me, I don’t stand a chance.

He kisses me languidly, running a hand up my back and his fingers through my hair as his tongue dances with mine. My hand sweeps across his ribs, pressing my palm against his abs, feeling the contours of his taut muscles beneath the black cotton of his polo shirt. I feel triumphant at the sharp intake of breathhe takes, caused by my hand travelling lower and my fingers curling around the tight bulge of denim at his groin. I love the fact that I turn him on with just a touch, just like he does me, and right at this moment, the control lies in my hands.

He pulls his lips a millimetre from mine, and our eyes lock. I unfasten his jeans and slip my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. He groans, and his shoulders tense as I close my hand around his rock-hard erection and watch his pupils dilate with desire. I slide off the seat and stand in between his legs. Then, I reach forward and tug down his jeans and underwear, freeing his erection. Art’s gaze is glued on me, and I’m sure he hasn’t blinked as he watches me kneel in front of him. I run my tongue across my bottom lip and note the swift rise and fall of his chest as his breathing becomes erratic with anticipation. I’m definitely in control this time.

I close my lips around the head of his cock and lick the pearl of pre-cum at the tip, tasting him on my tongue. He tenses beneath me, and I hear a thud as the back of his head hits the headrest. The long exhales of breath that follows tells me I’m having the desired effect. I slide my lips down his shaft, remembering from last time to loosen my jaw and take him all the way into my mouth.

“Oh fuck, Sophie … your mouth,” he groans, tilting his hips up, forcing himself deeper into my mouth.

I withdraw slightly to gather myself, and then I slide my tongue up his velvety smooth shaft and caress his balls with my hands. I alternate between licking and sucking, determined to prolong his climax, like he has done to me so many times.

I’m in charge now, Mr Black.

I feel his hands in my hair, and it’s pulled taut as he wraps it round his hand like a leash. His other hand rests on the top of my head, applying slight pressure as he tries to guide the pace. My defiant streak springs to the fore, and I slide him all the wayinto my mouth and pause to punish him for his attempt to regain control, feeling him swell and throb in protest.

“Don’t stop … fucking hell, Sophie. Don’t ever stop doing this.”

He’s pleading with me. Desperation hangs in the air, and I oblige, deciding it would be cruel to make him wait any longer. I slide him in and out of my mouth, swirling my tongue around the tip, tasting salty drops of his release as his grip tightens on my hair, and I take him deeper than before. He growls, his entire body stiffening as he bucks against my tongue, and I swallow him down. He releases his grip on my hair. Beads of sweat cling to the caramel skin of his forehead as he sits, panting. He looks completely worn out, like he’s just run a marathon.

I slide back onto the seat beside him as he fastens his trousers. Then, he scoops me up into his arms and pulls me onto his lap again. I lean my head against his chest and hear the thud of his heart.

“It sounds like you’re having a heart attack.”

“I feel like it.” He presses his lips to my head. “I think you’re going to need to ration how many times you do that because I’m not sure my heart can take it.”

I smile. “It’s that good?”

“It’s that good. There aren’t enough words to express what you do to me, Sophie.”

A smile creeps across my face as I nuzzle against him. As compliments go, that takes some beating.

Thirty-Seven

Iwake up the next morning, cold, alone, and with a familiar dull ache in my stomach. The bubble has well and truly burst. I yank off the bed covers and walk over to the windows, drawing back the curtains to let the overcast light in. I long to be back beneath the Ibizan sunshine, lying on a beach in Art’s arms. Speaking of which, I cast a glance over my shoulder to an empty bed. My eyes land on his running trainers neatly sat on the bedroom floor. He’s not gone for a run. Goodness knows where he’s gotten to.

The cold, hard ceramic tiles of the en suite floor chill the soles of my bare feet as I sit on the toilet for a wee while my brain ticksover at what’s to come next. I suppose I should look at wedding venues and places to honeymoon and, more importantly, break the news to Mum and Martin.

The red streak on the toilet paper confirms the cause of my stomach ache. My period. I’m not pregnant.

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