Page 150 of Naughty Nelle

As I continued to suck his dick with accelerating speed, he began to stroke my pussy harder and faster, alternating between up and down motions and circles. I was soaked and my clit was on fire. And deep inside my core, I was getting off on my vibrating egg. It was all too much. I wanted to whimper. Actually, shriek, but I couldn’t because his cock filled my mouth and was suffocating my vocal chords. It was so not fair that he got to moan and groan.

I went down on him again, and this time he held me there, with his hand on my head. On my next rapid heartbeat, he roared out a savage sound, and with a violent shudder, his cock exploded in my mouth, spurting his molten release deep inside my throat. Syrupy, it tasted sweet and salty like his dick. And oh so delicious!

“Swallow,” he ordered.

I gulped down the hot cum as he pulled my head back by my ponytail, forcing me to release his cock from my mouth. My eyes met his, and I rolled my tongue around my cum-coated upper lip to let him know that I had enjoyed my appetizer.

With a squeeze of my clit, he thanked me. The orgasm that was building in me erupted like a volcano, and I could finally let out the cry that was begging for a release. God, I sure hoped this part of the limo was soundproof.

While my heartbeat slowed, Ari zipped up his fly over his glistening mound of flesh and returned to the seat, sitting so close to me I could feel his heat.

“Saarah, look at me,” he said, his voice all breathy.

I turned my head toward him. He looked more devastating than ever. I couldn’t help running my hand through his tousled golden locks. Inside me, the little egg was still vibrating, prolonging the burst of ecstasy I’d just experienced.

He traced my lips with his forefinger. “I hope you enjoyed your appetizer.”

“It was very tasty,” I managed with a small smile.

A satisfied smile of his own spread on his luscious lips as he poured champagne into two crystal flutes.

“I hope you enjoy French food just as much.”

“Sure,” I said stupidly. The closest thing to French food I’d ever eaten was Knorr’s French Onion Soup mix.

“I’m taking you to a little French restaurant in my neighborhood. Have you ever eaten moules marinières avec frites?”

I didn’t even know what they were.

With a wink, he clinked his glass against mine. “To another delicious meal.”

The bistro Ari took me to was small and intimate. Tables with red-checkered tablecloths and votive candles were lined up against mirrored walls. Since it was early, we had the place almost to ourselves. Ari insisted we sit side by side, our backs against the mirrored walls. His thigh pressed into mine as he ordered from the menu, which was written entirely in French. A chilled bottle of expensive champagne was brought immediately to our table, the waiter pouring each of us a glass.

Although the vibrating egg was deliciously distracting, I was feeling more relaxed in his presence. For a change, I started the conversation.

“What were you doing in the city today?”

He hesitated. “I went to see my shrink. We have a weekly standing appointment on Tuesday afternoons.”

My mind flashed back to my conversation with his Ice Queen sister. She had mentioned that Ari had been in years of therapy as a result of his bitter divorce. Loosened up by the champagne, I was ready to venture into dangerous territory.

“Why do you need to see a psychiatrist?” I asked, feigning innocence.

He took a sip of champagne. “My ex-wife fucked me up. I have major commitment issues.”

No kidding! I was dying to know if he talked to his shrink about me but instead asked, “How long were you married?”

“Three years. The first year was a fairy tale. The last two a nightmare from hell.”

I was making progress, getting him to open up. “How did you meet?”

His eyes grew distant as if they were going back in time. “We met in St. Tropez. I was vacationing there with my family. My father was gravely ill, and I had just graduated from Columbia’s Business School. We knew it was going to be our last family vacation with him. She was there on a shoot—she was, at the time, a fashion model at the peak of her career. She worked mostly in Europe.”

Inwardly, I cringed. I knew he was the supermodel type. I was a far cry from any cover girl and wondered again what he was doing with me. A wave of insecurity swept over me.

He continued. “My parents and my sister didn’t care for her, but I was obsessed with her. I proposed to her one month later. Sadly, my father didn’t live long enough to see us get married.” His voice grew watery, and he took another sip of champagne. “In retrospect, maybe that was for the best.”

Although I was dying to find out her name, I did not dare ask. He wasn’t offering; I wasn’t asking. Instead, I braved another question.

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