Page 96 of Obsession

I take another bite of the ice cream as a bead of sweat drips down between my breasts. He watches me intently as his phantom touch moves to my nipples and my clit at the same time. Dropping the spoon with a clang against the table, I bury my face against his chest to muffle a cry that’s trying to escape my lips.

He jerks my head up by my ponytail and looks at me with glowing eyes. And then he picks up the spoon and feeds me a bite. I start contracting and have to clamp my mouth down tight on the spoon so I don’t cry out. That’s it. Almost there, he coaxes.

“Damion,” I beg.

“Give me what’s mine,” he commands, his eyes never leaving mine.

I take the spoon and feed him a bite as his phantom touch works my clit while my entire body vibrates. It’s sensory overload, and I can take no more as I throw my head back against the banquette as I orgasm. I wish I could say that I did so quietly, but well, yeah.

He snakes his other hand beneath the table, tracing circles through the desire on my inner thigh as I try to will my body to stop shaking with aftershocks. “You missed a lick,” he says in a guttural tone as he brings his finger to my mouth. I give it a suck and then bite down gently. “Not the best deal I’ve ever made, but close,” he says with a look so sexually charged I might ignite into flames.

He adjusts his rock-hard cock and stands, extending his arm to help me up. It takes me a second, as my limbs don’t seem to want to cooperate. “Baby, you need me to carry you?”

I flip him the bird and he laughs. We make our way to our room and play out the rest of the dream, sticking to the original script.

The next morning, Damion slips out of bed and returns with a bag of beignets and café au lait. We make a mess with the powdered sugar, then have a wonderful time in the shower cleaning up.

I’m sad our trip has come to an end as we make the drive home. Damion parks my car at Memphis Magic and we get out. I see a construction crew working on the second floor of the building next door. “What’s going on?” I ask one of the men.

“You’re Aubry Brooks?”

“Yes.”

“Wait right here.” He returns a moment later, unrolling blueprints for an apartment. An apartment identical to the rudimentary design I drew in my notebook.

“But how?” I sputter.

“Compliments of Mr. Zazel.”

“Shit,” Damion says quietly, gritting his teeth.

---