Page 81 of Coldhearted King

“Cole, I—”

He shakes his head, cutting me off before reaching for the wine and raising it to his mouth. He takes a sip straight from the bottle, then he tips it toward me. “Drink.”

Relaxed Cole is gone. Intense Cole is back. My belly twists in anticipation, and I reach for the bottle. He shakes his head again, then presses the rim to my lips. When I part them, he tilts it until a trickle of delicious liquid fills my mouth. I barely have a chance to swallow before he’s gripping the back of my head and dragging me to him. His tongue meets mine with an urgency I match.

It’s almost one a.m. I should be tired after a long week at work and already having sex with him once. But I’m not. Instead, I’m filled with a strange energy that traces its fingers along my nerve endings, waking my body in a way only he has ever done.

I thread my hands through his hair, rubbing the tips of my fingers along his scalp, and he groans against my lips. Before I know what’s happening, he’s slipped his shirt off my shoulders and I’m naked in front of him. He breaks the kiss, his gaze sweeping over me, causing my nipples to furl into tight, sensitive peaks.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he growls. Then he stands, shoves our plates aside, and lifts me onto the countertop. I gasp when the cool marble meets my skin, my eyes immediately going to the wall of glass surrounding us.

“If anyone’s watching, let them. Let them see how I make you mine,” Cole says, and I shudder as the part of me that craves being reckless and free pushes against my restraint.

Then he’s pressing me down, and I’m letting him, my heart thundering as his big hands spread my thighs. My eyes are closed, breath spilling from my lips in frantic bursts. Then his mouth is on me, hot and wet, and he eats me like he’s a starving man, his tongue spearing into my opening and wringing a gasp from me.

His fingers replace his tongue, which traces a path to my clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves already swollen with need. He flicks it and then sucks it between his teeth. I’m so close, my hips buck against his hold. Just before I lose control, he stops and I cry out with frustration, my eyelids flying open.

Cole is staring down at me, his eyes hot and hungry. Then he picks up the almost empty bottle of wine and tilts it so a small stream trickles over my pussy. I almost shriek at the sensation, but before I can say anything, he’s sinfully lapping at the liquid covering me.

I squirm. “God, Cole, that feels so good.”

With a hand under my ass, he tilts my hips up, and then the bottle’s cool glass brushes against my inner thigh as he pours another trickle over me. This time, with the way he’s angled me, I feel it pool at my entrance. His mouth covers me, and he drinks. The thought of what he’s doing is such a turn on, and even with no direct stimulation against my clit, my orgasm barrels closer. But it’s not quite enough to push me over the edge.

I thrust my fingers into his hair, tugging to get him where I need him the most. With one final flick of his tongue, he moves upward. My breath shudders out of me as he latches onto my clit, sucking it between his lips.

And then the smooth rim of the bottle presses against my entrance and I gasp, shooting almost upright. “Cole?”

“Lie down,” he growls, and I obey, collapsing against the bench. The tip of the bottle eases into me and I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or aroused. My body decides for me, and my internal muscles clamp down around the neck. The cool hardness of the glass feels incredible inside me, especially when Cole doubles down on my clit.

He thrusts the bottle, but not hard enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough to give me some pressure and friction where I’m craving it. I imagine what we would look like if anyone saw us: me, laid out naked on the countertop with my legs spread, and a shirtless man with his head buried between my thighs, fucking me with his mouth and the neck of a wine bottle.

The mental picture and the physical sensations are enough to catapult me over the edge, and I cry out as my climax hits. My channel clenches around the bottle and my clit pulses against each lash of Cole’s tongue. By the time it’s over, I’m a sweaty, shuddering mess. Finally Cole stands, pulling the bottle from me. All I can do is lie bonelessly on the countertop and stare up at him as he gives me a dark, sensual smile. He raises the bottle to his lips and tips it up, the strong column of his throat moving as he drinks most of the remaining wine inside it.

His arm slides under my back and tugs me upright, holding the bottle to my lips. “You taste fucking divine,” he says.

I open my mouth and let him pour the last drops of wine onto my tongue. He sits down, pulls me onto his lap, and kisses me again so that we’re sharing the taste of the wine and me. My body quakes almost as much as my heart and mind. Cole is too much for me. Too much of everything I’m not. And yet the feeling he gives me when I’m with him like this and can let go is addictive.

Too addictive.

The way his mouth claims mine, the possessive grip of his hands on my body—none of it feels casual or temporary. I don’t want to move from where I am. I want to stay here, pressed against him like this, without reminding myself that this must end.

But I can’t, so I gather myself and pull away. When I try to slide off his lap, he tightens his arms around me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I should probably go home.”

He feathers his lips down my neck. “Stay,” he murmurs against my skin.

“What?” I lean back to meet his gaze.

His brow is furrowed, as if he’s not sure of what he’s saying. “It’s late. You should stay.”

“You...want me to stay the night?”

He doesn’t bother to answer my question. “I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear.” He lifts me off him and disappears down the hallway to his bedroom. I trail behind. He’s never asked me to stay before. I never really expected him to. I assumed it was a way to keep the reality of our non-relationship front and center in my mind.

But now...now I’m confused. I enter his bedroom and find him rummaging around in a drawer. He turns toward me and holds out a white T-shirt that will be far too large for me but nicer than sleeping in the one I was wearing all evening and will have to wear home tomorrow.

I take it from him, my fingers brushing his, and a little curl of warmth blossoms in my stomach. I do my best to suppress it. I don’t want to give in to the temptation of thinking this means something.

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