Page 155 of Lethal Legacy

I walk down the corridor, checking each room, but I can’t find it. I try the handle on one door, but it’s locked. I frown, trying it again.

That’s weird.Oddly enough, now that I think of it, I’ve never seen that door open.It must be some kind of storage thing.

Eventually I find my robe under the bed, crumpled up from the last time Roman tore it off.Oh well.I smile to myself.There goes that idea.

My phone buzzes.Five minutes away.

I grab one of Roman’s shirts from the closet and throw it over my lingerie, undoing most of the buttons. I finish the look off with a scarlet tie, then prop myself on one of the dining chairs, put my stilettoed heels up on the marble table, and wait.

The elevator dings a moment later. Roman strides into the dining room, then comes to an abrupt halt when he sees me. A dark smile replaces his rather grim expression.

“Nice tie.”

“Thanks. The man who chose it has really good taste.” I hold up the Scotch bottle. “Drink?”

“Hmm.” He looks me up and down. “I’m not sure what I need more right now, Scotch or you.”

I swing my feet off the table and walk slowly toward him, dangling the bottle between my fingers. “You could always have both at the same time.”

“Tempting.” His arms whip out and pull me against him. He’s already hard. He kisses me so thoroughly that I almost drop the bottle, and when his hand roams beneath my ass, I feel the first moisture slick my thighs. “But,” he says, pulling back and giving me a wicked grin that says he knowsexactlyhow wet I am right now, “I’d rather savor both, I think. Make me a drink while I shower?” Slapping me lightly on the ass, he saunters down the corridor, throwing pieces of clothing to the floor as he goes, throwing a sly glance over his shoulder.

Bastard.

I pour him a Scotch and figure two can play at that game. By the time he comes out, I’ve lost the shirt and tie and am seated on one of the barstools, legs crossed demurely.

“Mean.” He takes the Scotch, eyeing me slowly up and down. My breath catches. I love this, the game before we begin. Every day it’s different. Every day it blows my fucking mind.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel, and I can already see the rigid outline of his shaft pushing against it.

“I made tapas.” I indicate the plate on the bar.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

I giggle. He’s staring at my breasts, pushed indecently high by the corset. Tossing off his Scotch, he moves toward me and tugs the scarlet ribbon holding the corset together, sucking in his breath as it falls away. “I’d far rather eat you.”

I moan as he lowers his head to them, pushing my thighs apart with his hands so he can stand between them. He holds me steady on the stool, which is good, since the moment his mouth hits my nipples I’m in serious danger of falling off. “Mmm,” he mutters around first one, then the other. “You taste delicious.” He pushes my breasts together, his tongue roaming across them, driving me mad. “I swear these get better every time I touch them.”

I reach for his towel, and he steps just out of reach. “Not yet.”

He lifts me up onto the bar in a swift movement and spreads my legs wide, placing his thumbs just beside the lacy edge of my underwear. I push my mound toward him, aching for his thumbs to move closer. “Always so impatient,” he says, shaking his head, but the dark fire in his eyes betrays that his own control is starting to crack.

I love this too. Love watching him begin to lose it. But he’s proven, over and over, that he can hold on way past when I lose it. And I’ve paid for trying to best him by spending hours being held on the brink of orgasm. I’m in no mood for that tonight.

“I’ve been thinking about fucking you all day,” I murmur in his ear. I feel his muscles go taut against me and smile to myself. “I’ve been thinking about your cock—”

He covers my mouth with one hand. With the other, he pulls my underwear off. “No more talking,” he warns me in a low voice. “That’s cheating.”

So much for my careful lingerie planning.

I give a burble of laughter behind his hand, which turns into a moan as his mouth hits my wet, aching center. My legs go over his shoulders and my head goes back, his fingers dipping into my mouth as he licks me slowly, with the devastating precision that always completely undoes me. His tongue skirts the swelling button at my center, lathing each side but never giving me exactly what I want, until I’m squirming and moaning under his attack. My hands are in his hair, urging him closer, but the corded muscles in his neck says he won’t be pushed anywhere he doesn’t choose to go. I’m already so close to orgasm it will only take a swipe of his tongue to get me there.

“Mmm.” He pulls back just as I’m about to tip over the edge. The towel is bulging to breaking point. I reach for it eagerly, but Roman steps out of the way. He pours himself another Scotch and takes a mouthful, staring at me spread across his bar. I swell under his eyes, my whole body aching for him.

“Bedroom,” he orders.

I slide down the bar and head down the corridor, still wearing my heels. I cast him a backward look, just to pay him back for the one he gave me when he headed for the shower. He follows me down the corridor, eyes dark and intent on my ass, Scotch still in his hand.

I turn when I enter the bedroom, reaching again for the towel. He lets me grab it this time, and I tear it away, moaning as his cock surges up to his abdomen. I take it in my hand, slowly pumping him, so swollen between my legs that it’s almost impossible to move without groaning.

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