Page 54 of The Wrong Husband
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Connor
"What are you—" She gasps as I slide down her body and press my face into the apex of her thighs.
A shiver runs up her body. Her breath hitches. "Connor, the balloon operator?—"
"He’s called the balloonist. He can’t see or hear us. He’s also signed a non-disclosure agreement, so he won't talk about this trip to anyone."
A small smile curves her lips. "Are you always this thorough?"
"You ain’t seen nothin' yet." I grab her hips to hold her in place. "You smell decadent."
She whimpers.
The sound turns my blood into a river of lava, my cock a volcano swelling with the pressure of the shifting tectonic plates deep below the surface.
I glance up into her flushed features, her parted lips, the red streaked across her cheeks. "If you want me to stop, tell me. Now," I order her.
She blinks, then in the next breath she raises her hips, bringing that sweet, delightful flesh between her thighs closer to my mouth.
"Good girl."
She shudders, the anticipation flowing up her body like the tips of waves flush with the promise of a tempest. One I intend to surf and harness for her pleasure, and my own. I squeeze the tops of her thighs, pulling them apart. She groans. And when I fasten my mouth around the ripe fruit of her cunt, she cries out.
"Connor." She digs her fingers into my hair and tugs.
The pain ricochets down my spine and clamps around my cock, making it swell. It’s a preamble, a taste of how incredible it’s going to be when I’m finally seated inside of her. But first, I need to tease her, to taunt her, to show her the power of pleasure, the rightness in making her come. The absolute ownership I have over her body—only, she doesn’t know it yet. I’m going to teach her what it's like to revel in the kind of sensual gratification the poets have written about, and icons have sung about.
Something tells me, my hard-working doctor has drowned herself in work because she hasn’t been satisfied in other aspects of her life. Which is where I come in. The thought of anyone else holding her, kissing her, loving her, brings out my inner beast. My chest swells with anger. My lungs feel like they're on fire. I intend to wipe away the memory of anyone who came before me. So that she only remembers my touch, my feel, my scent, the way I tug on her pussy lips and make her jolt. The way I lick my way down her slit to her forbidden hole, wetting the fabric covering her center.
"Connor, please," she cries. "Please. Please. Please."
With a wicked grin, I fasten my teeth around the button of her clit outlined through her yoga pants and panties, and tug. She bows off the floor of the hot air balloon, the action making the basket rock gently. She moans, spreading her legs further apart. "Help me, Connor."
"What do you want?"
"I want—" She swallows. Then, as if unable to voice the demand trembling on her lips, she throws her arm over her eyes. "I want to come," she mumbles under her breath.
I sit back on my haunches, and after a second, she peers out from under her arm and stares at me with a panicked expression. "What are you doing?"
"What do you want me to do for you, Doc?"
"I told you, didn’t I?" She presses her lips together.
"I need you to say it louder, and slowly, please."
Her eyes flash, then she lowers her arm, her fingers bunched into a fist. I merely tilt my head, enjoying the flush deepening across her cheekbones. She seems like she’s going to refuse, then she tips up her chin. "I want to come. I wantyouto make me come."
"How?"
She stills.
"How do you want to come? On my fingers? My tongue or my—" I lean in slightly. "Cock?"
"On your—" She swallows. "On your cock."
"Hmm…" I nod. "That’s good. But you haven’t done anything to deserve it yet."
