Page 88 of Inheritance
His fingers curled tight in my hair, but he still didn’t move.
I did.
I pulled back until only the tip remained, then took him in again—deeper this time, angling just right. He grunted, hips lifting slightly.
I set a rhythm. Slow. Intentional. My hand stroked what my mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently as I moved. I let him feel every inch of pressure, every flick of my tongue, every quiet hum that vibrated through my throat.
He cursed under his breath, something broken and reverent. One hand clenched the arm of the chair. The other guided my pace now—barely, but it was there.
I looked up at him without stopping. My lips stretched around him, eyes steady, unblinking.
He groaned, gripped my hair, pulled my head back, but I wasn’t done apologizing yet, I fought against his strength, mouth open, desperate for more.
His grip loosened, and my hair slipped through his fingers.
I hollowed my cheeks. Slid deeper. Let spit wet my chin. Let my arms fall to my side, sucking him fast and deep, all the way to the base of his cock, hands free.
I took a deep breath as I pulled back with a wet sound. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, still kneeling.
His cock bobbed in front of me, hard and slick and aching.
His grip snapped tighter. I felt the tremor in his fingers, a warning more than a command—he was right at the line, fighting every instinct to push my head down until every inch of him was down my throat again.
I took him again, slowed my pace, pulling back until I could swirl my tongue around the head, tasting him, teasing the sensitive underside. A shudder ran through his thighs. He exhaled one fractured breath that sounded like a plea.
I tightened my fist at the base and worked him with long, deliberate strokes while my mouth worked the tip—alternating suction with soft laps that made his hips jerk against the chair. His other hand abandoned the armrest and slid into my hair, not guiding but anchoring, needing the contact.
“Fuck—Sophia,” he rasped. His voice had rough edges now, the kind that only came out when he was seconds from losing control.
I pressed my tongue flat and took him deep again, letting the tip glide down my throat, swallowing around him until I felt him throb hard. I pulled back until just his head was in my mouth and hummed a giggle, vibration buzzing through every inch of him.
He choked on a groan, head tipping back against the leather. The chair creaked under his grip as he tried—and failed—to stay still. His hips lifted, just a fraction, showing me how close he was.
I rewarded him, fingers massaging the base in slow circles, mouth tightening around the head on every upstroke, tongue flicking the spot that made his breath catch.
“Slow… down.”
But I only eased back a beat, lips sliding off with a soft pop before taking him deep again—luxuriously slow, like sinking into heat.
His curses turned guttural. I swallowed him again and again, my cheeks hollowing, saliva slicking his cock so each glide was wetter, dirtier, faster.
When I felt the heavy pulse near the base and the tell-tale tightening beneath my palm, I eased back to the tip and feathered kisses down the shaft—light, almost innocent. The contrast made him groan like the air itself had teeth.
His breathing stuttered; he was seconds away. One more lick, one more tight seal of my lips, and he’d tip over.
I tasted that tension on my tongue, felt it in the quiver of his muscles.
“Stop,” he grit out—voice raw, authority booming. “Stop—now.”
I pulled back instantly, obeying, breath warm against his slick skin. A thick drop gathered at the tip; I licked it away, slow and deliberate, before letting go of him entirely.
His cock stood hard and quivering, wet from my mouth, veins pronounced, eager for more. He stared down at me, chest heaving.
“Get. Up,” he said, voice a rough command.
I rose. My knees tingled from the marble, my pulse beating everywhere at once.
He caught my wrist, spinning me so my back pressed to the desk. Papers rustled beneath me.
