Page 31 of Unethical

Dangerous.

Disgustingly sinful.

He’s so good with his mouth that I can almost forget he’s a felon. A murderer. A sociopath. But at this moment, the most dangerous thing about him is his skill with my body as he forces me to come on his face.

“Good girl,” he growls, sending a flat stroke of his tongue along my entire slit and making my body lurch.

“This is so wrong.” I sigh as he stands and leans over me.

“Keep playing with me and you’ll start to realize that being wrong feels so much better than always doing what’s right, I promise you that.”

With his warm cock resting against my pussy, he kisses me, and I feel more guilt with his mouth on my lips than when his head was between my legs. He wrestles with my tongue as much as he does my morals.

He pulls away and looks down at me as he grips his cock and rubs it down my slit before pushing inside me. I moan against his shirt, burying my face in the fabric. His cock stretches me, and the familiar fullness fills me. He pushes to the hilt inside me, my clit grinding along the skin of his pelvis.

I’m so sensitive. My nerves are on fire as he rubs me with every thrust of his hips.

His hand rises and wraps around my throat, his fingertips digging into my neck. “I’m going to worship you, doc. You just need to shut your pretty mouth and let me. I’m going to make you come, fill and mark you as mine, and you’re going to fake your notes to the court so I can keep fucking you the way you won’t admit you like.”

I moan against his harsh words. I can’t admit how much I like what he does to me. I can’t admit that toanyone, including myself.He could ruin my career, take my life when he’s done with me, but as he spreads my thighs wider so he can fuck me harder and faster, I can only think of how he’s making me feel.

“Don’t come inside me,” I tell him. His thrusts have grown ragged, and I know he’s close.

He moves his hand from my neck to my chin, squeezing roughly. “I will always fill you up, because my sin becomes one with yours when I come inside you.”

He fills me with a stutter of his hips, and panic washes over me, just like the first time. Then he pulls out of me and puts my panties back in place.

“Now I want you to finish your day and sit in front of each and every client with my come dripping from you.”

And despite how wrong I know it is, I also know I’ll do exactly what he wants.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Maxim

Sarah’s car rolls up to the stop sign at the end of her road. I’m hidden on the street adjacent to it, watching. Waiting. As soon as I spot her, I start my car and prepare to follow her.

When I’m not in an appointment with her or watching her from outside her home, I’m following her as she goes through her day-to-day activities. What else does someone like me have to do besides obsess?

The same day every week, Sarah goes grocery shopping at the same store at nearly the same time. Every other week, she goes to the dry cleaners with her pretty pencil skirts, dress slacks, and blouses. Same day. Nearly the same time.

This woman is so regimented.

It’s really sad, actually, and I can’t help wondering if she experienced an ounce of spontaneity in her life before I came along. Since entering the picture, I’ve obliterated her normalcy. I’ve infiltrated her job, her home, her sleep, and her routines.

I’ve infiltratedher.

But now that I’m finally getting a molecule of compliance out of her, what do I do about the masked version of me? I created him because I wanted to get closer to her without risk of discovery. Now I can’t ever let her find out that we’re one and the same.

Sarah pulls into a mall parking lot and slots her car near the entrance to Macy’s. This mall is in its death throes, and the large clothing store is one of the few venues left to stand vigil.

I continue past her car, driving up the row, then back down. Vehicles periodically block my view of her, but she eventually gets out of her fancy car and heads inside. I find a parking spot near hers and follow her, of course.

A blast of stale mall air rushes toward me as I enter the building. The scent of perfume mingles with the overwhelming odor of new clothes.

It doesn’t take long to find Sarah once I’m inside. She stands in front of a wall of shirts, her delicate hands moving the hangers across the racks as she looks at each tag to find her size. I hang back and observe her as she continues on, and she eventually settles on several shirts and a pair of jeans.

When does she wear jeans? I’ve never seen it. Maybe I’m fostering a new, more carefree Sarah. She’s already ruined her career. Why not say fuck it to her stuffy business attire?

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