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“Wider. Relax.”
The next thing I know, he has my clit in his mouth.
“Naughty girl,” he rumbles teasingly. “No underwear? Living life on the edge, I see. Brave move.”
I can’t even joke at this point because his tongue swipes over the sensitive skin, oh-so-gently massaging the sensitive bud, and oh, God, I’m trying so hard to be still. He’s sucking on my clit, teasing it, doing things to it that make my head fall back and my back arch.
One swipe later, I start panting.
Two swipes later, my thighs start shaking, and when he sucks it into his mouth, hard, sending pulses throughout my whole body, I can’t stop a low groan from escaping my mouth.
Three sucking motions later, I’m ready to erupt. We’re talking a volcanic explosion, massive, earth-shatteringly violent, and downright cataclysmically cosmical.
Making sense of things is a challenge right now.
I want to ignore the noise outside the door so badly. But suddenly, he’s back in a standing position, and I follow his lead, standing (all wobbly), while I adjust my top over my chest and he’s helping to smooth my dress down.
The door opens, and an elderly lady with an elegant white bob walks in, her walking stick in hand. We nod at her innocently, and she gives us a warm, cute little smile and proceeds to the ladies’ room in the back.
Once we hear the click of the door behind her, he leans in, and I’m so glad his hand reaches back below my dress and softly starts rubbing my clit, around and around, rumbling, “Once we get home, there’s no mercy.”
My hips buck against his hand as I’m hovering on the edge while he continues to brush his finger against my swollen, aching clit. I can feel how soaked I am for him and let out a desperate whimper.
I’m so wet.
I’m so close.
I’m so very close.
“It won’t be sex,” he rumbles in that low voice against the shell of my ear, stroking me. “It won’t be love making. It’ll be hard fucking, and you’re gonna take that cock like a naughty little thing.”
I nod, fully agreeing. “Sounds like a perfect plan.” At this point, I would have agreed to paint the entire hotel lobby pink and fill it with real flamingos strutting around.
He circles my clit one last time, pinches it, then removes his hand. “I propose that we scarf down dessert and make a swift exit.”
“Yep, my plan exactly,” I manage to breathe out.
My clit protests loudly, screaming, please please please continue.
He gives me a quick kiss, licks his finger clean, reaches up into his hair and dishevels it a bit (the part that hasn’t been disheveled by my thighs), giving me a smirk.
“Good. Let’s go.” Oh, I get it. He’s planning to straighten his hair as we’re walking toward our table, in perfect line of sight of Richard.
I smile. “Okay.”
Sean reaches for my hand, and when his fingers find mine, the touch sends a delicious shiver racing down my spine. He leads me toward the exit, fingers interlaced, then we’re out the door. We’re holding hands, like a real couple. It’s not just the firm touch of his hand or the cute wink, it’s the side-glance when he squeezes my hand and his thumb softly brushes over my knuckle. He’s acutely aware of his actions and what they do to my heart.
Oh, no. This is bad.
Very bad.
Worse than I thought.
I might not only break my cardinal rule.
I might commit an unforgivable act.
I might be falling in love with Sean Blackwood.
