Page 42 of Duplicity

And there it is.

I really, really hope I was right about blowjobs. I hope it’s like riding a bike, because I am seriously out of practice.

Brendan takes my hands and holds them tightly so I can sink to my knees in four-inch heels without going sideways. I hit the plush white carpet and look up at him. Holy crap, he’s tall from this angle.

‘Take me out like a good girl.’

His voice is strained, and there’s already a serious bulge going on behind those very nice wool trousers. I’m under no illusions as to the size of this guy, but his God-given blessings practically hit me in the face as I pull down his flies and rummage in the small space to find the slit in his boxers. Can I even get him out like this, or do I need to undo his belt buckle and buttons too?

Jesus, I’m rusty.

He doesn’t seem to notice my lack of elegance, though. He groans again, low in his throat, as I abandon any hope of getting his dick out this way. It brings new meaning to the analogy of trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle. Anyway, he’ll want me to play with his balls, I assume. I may as well give myself full access.

I shift on the carpet and mentally grit my teeth. I can do this. I have a degree and an MBA. I’m a professional overachiever. I can work out how to get a guy off, even if the dizzying amount of money he’s paying me to do it makes the stakes terrifyingly high. I make quick work of his belt buckle, conscious that the only sounds in here are those of leather against metal and his ragged breaths. For the most part, I’m holding mine. Belt undone, I undo the little metal hook thingy and the button and slide his trousers down. His boxer briefs are black again, his monster dick making a valiant break for freedom.

I wrench down his boxers and it springs out, hard and hot and as intimidating as a fully loaded assault rifle. JesusChrist. I glance up at him, for reassurance maybe. The expression on his handsome face gives me pause. He’s flattened his palms against the door as if seeking strength and balance, but the look on his face is feral,desperate, and I feel a weird surge of power.

He’s using me.

He’s paying me.

But look how much he wants me. Or, at the very least, wants what I have to offer.

There are dozens, if not hundreds, of women in this firm who’d be happy to suck the CEO’s dick for whatever reason, but only one of them has her mouth inches from its engorged, angry crown.

I wrap my hand around his shaft—so satin-smooth, sohard—and I run my tongue over his slit.

The man practically shoots through the ceiling. He slides his hands through my hair, cupping my jaw, his fingers taut, vibrating with tension.

‘That’s very good, love. Do that again.’

This low, commanding Bedroom Voice he’s using is so ominously hot that a spot of moisture hits my thong.

So I do it again, and he groans.

Okay, so I was right, and Athena was right. Men are pretty basic. This isn’t rocket science. When a guy is this turned on, it’s hard to get it wrong.

He tastes—good, I think. Clean. Earthy. Male. God, it’s been so long since I did this, so long since I smelt this scent and tasted this part of a man’s body.

‘Take me in your mouth,’ he orders me. I have a feeling he’s going to talk me through this whole thing, and why shouldn’t he? He’s paying for the privilege, after all, and honestly? I kind of like it. Let’s not forget what this is.

I look up at him through my eyelashes before focusing on wrapping my lips around his crown. I use my tongue to find that little notch on its underside—Joe used to go crazy when I licked that—and he moans his satisfaction. Seems to me he may want to heed his own advice around noise levels.

His hands drag along my jaw so his fingers can flex in my hair. ‘Look at you. So fucking angelic this morning with your blonde hair and white lace, and look at you now, sucking my cock like the perfect little whore. So fucking good. I’ve wanted you on your knees for me since the first time I saw you.’

I moan my agreement. It’s intentional, part of my performance for him, but his filthy brand of appreciation is doing it for me. Blow jobs aren’t supposed to be hot for the woman—they’re the ultimate act of service, of submission—but this whole fucked-up power dynamic is getting me hot and bothered, and I have no idea why.

He tightens his grip on my hair so he can use it as a kind of rein. It seems his entire body is vibrating before me, and I marvel that my mouth has the capability of undoing a man as powerful and fierce as Brendan Sullivan, but it does. His breath is harsh and noisy, his thighs are trembling.

The next time I move to take him all in, his hand forces me further down around his dick, and I have to inhale sharplythrough my nostrils to override my gag reflex. Sweat pricks me everywhere. Fuck. I claw at his thigh with my free hand as I focus on my single objective—to survive this. To take him as deep as he wants and needs without retching.

We find a rhythm. It’s messy and punishing, and I’m gasping and flailing, my eyes watering, but he seems to like that, because his thrusts and his grunts and his fingers in my hair all grow more desperate, it seems.

Until he pulls out of me with a strangled gasp, and I stare up at him through my watery eyes.

‘Jesus fuck. Fucking look at you.’ He blows out a breath. ‘Okay. Here’s what I want. Turn around and crawl away from me, nice and slow, until you get into the middle of the room. I want you to wait there on all fours so I can come and fuck you like that. Got it?’

CHAPTER 21

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