Page 45 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Goddamn, Ingrid.”
“What?” I ask, rising up, horrified.
He runs a finger down my slit. “Prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen.”
The declaration is insane, and coming from another man I may have laughed in his face. But Jefferson Parks looks like a starving man in front of a buffet.
He spreads me apart with his fingers and then licks.
I fall back on my hands, letting him meet me in the most exquisite way. Slow, deliberate strokes, circling, tracing, teasing every sensitive nerve. I cry out softly, and he hums against me, like he’s tasting the sound, drinking it in.
His fingers join in, gentle but insistent, coaxing me higher and higher. He watches every expression, every twitch of my body, every hitch in my breathing, adjusting and responding to my reactions. My chest rises and falls–my breath something foreign and slightly humiliating. My nipples peak, every nerve ending on fire. I’m lost in the sensation, in the deliberate, attentive rhythm of his mouth and hands.
“Oh, God,” I gasp, clutching his shoulders as he continues, careful and patient, every motion designed to drive me closer.My thighs tremble, my nails dig into his back, and his name falls from my lips like a prayer.
“Almost there, Angel?” he murmurs, a smirk on his pretty lips. “You ready to come for me?” His eyebrow lifts. “Soak my face.”
That’s all it takes. I shatter, wave after wave crashing over me, my body shuddering in his hands. He doesn’t stop; he rides it with me, pushing my legs wider, covering my pussy with his flat, wide, tongue. Guiding me, letting me collapse against him as I quiver.
When it finally ebbs, he lifts his head, breath warm against my skin. His long fingers linger at my hips, thumbs brushing over my spine. “You okay?” he asks softly, voice low, raw with emotion.
I nod, still shaking, leaning into him. “If you call surviving an earthquake okay.”
I’m still gaining my wits when he slides my panties back up my legs. He helps me off the desk and I step close to him, the heat between us unrelenting. My hands trail upward, slipping under his shirt, over the hard ridges of his abs, feeling every flex of muscle. He shudders beneath my touch, a ripple of power passing between us that makes my pulse spike.
I pull back just slightly, my eyes locking with his. A spark passes there–something daring, something urgent–and I know exactly what I want. I slide my hands down his chest and grip his shoulders, guiding him backward until he hits the nearest chair. The motion is decisive, instinctual, as if I’ve already claimed him.
His eyes widen for a moment, surprise flashing across his face, before darkening with approval, raw desire mirrored back at me. I don’t give him a chance to speak. My fingers rip the shirt over his head, tossing it aside like it was never there, andI press my mouth to his bare skin, tasting the heat, inhaling the strength, claiming him just as fiercely as he claimed me.
His chest tastes of salt and heat, his heartbeat hammering against my lips. I trail kisses across the lines of muscle, over his collarbone, down the center of his chest. He groans, low and wrecked, when my teeth scrape lightly against his nipple.
By the time I’m sinking to my knees in front of him, his breath is coming fast, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair like he needs the anchor. My fingers fumble with his belt, tugging it loose, popping the button of his jeans.
“Angel–” His voice cracks on the nickname. His hand dives into my hair, not pulling me away, not pulling me closer–just holding, shaking with restraint as his abdomen dips. “This isn’t what I came for.”
I glance up at him through my lashes, my palms pressing against his thighs as I lean in closer, crowding the space between us. “You’ve been very patient with me,” I tell him. “And very giving. Let me do the same for you.”
His jaw flexes, his gray eyes burning like storm clouds about to split open. His hips twitch, his breath hissing out between clenched teeth. He looks ruined already, and I haven’t even touched him where he aches.
And God–there’s nothing more intoxicating than knowing I can bring him there.
Reaching into his pants, I swallow at the size of him. He’s big. I knew this, just from the overall size of him. From the way I’ve felt his want pressed against me every time we kiss. But when I free him, it takes a minute to process.
He’s thick and heavy in my hand, the heat of him searing against my palm. I stroke him slowly at first, savoring the way his chest heaves, the way his head tips back and a groan tears from his throat. His restraint is unraveling, thread by thread, and I want to watch every piece snap.
I lower my mouth, brushing my lips over the flushed tip, tasting salt and skin. His thighs tense beneath my hands. “Jesus,” he grits out, his voice raw. His grip in my hair tightens like he’s fighting himself, like one wrong move will shatter his control.
I part my lips and take him in, inch by inch, until he’s filling my mouth, stretching my lips. His breath stutters, breaks, and then his other hand finds the back of my head. Not forcing, not demanding–just firm, like he needs the connection.
I set the pace, slow and unhurried, sliding my mouth down, hollowing my cheeks, swirling my tongue around the sensitive ridge. He swears, low and guttural, hips jerking despite himself. Every time I pull back, I stroke him with my hand, wet and glistening, before sinking down again.
His body bows forward, muscles straining, as if he’s being undone from the inside out. His voice drops into rough, desperate murmurs–my name, pleas, curses.
“Your mouth, I knew it was something special, butfuck.”
His hips rise off the chair, fucking into my throat.
I love the dirty little things he says, the things that make me want to take my clothes off. To feel him inside. Every sound makes me ache, makes me want to push further, to ruin us both.
