Page 65 of Pucking Daddy

"Tell me to stop." His voice is gravel and smoke. "Tell me this is insane and we're risking everything."

"It is insane." I pull his shirt free of his waistband. "We're risking everything."

"And?"

I find his belt, fingers working the buckle. "And I've been thinking about this since I left that bar."

His exhale shudders against my collarbone. "Zara—"

"Stop talking."

He obeys.

His hands slide beneath my blouse, palms hot against my ribs, thumbs brushing the underwire of my bra.

I arch into the contact, already aching, already desperate. His suit jacket hits the floor. I yank his shirt open, buttons scattering, my nails raking down his chest.

"Christ." He hooks his fingers in my underwear, dragging them down my legs.

The cool air hits my exposed skin, but his hand follows immediately—fingers sliding through slick heat, finding my clit with devastating accuracy.

My moan echoes off the walls.

"Quiet." His breath is ragged. "Unless you want an audience."

I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. He strokes me in slow, deliberate circles, watching my face, learning exactly what makes me gasp and shiver.

When he slips two fingers inside me, my back bows off the counter.

"You're soaked." His voice drops to something dark and satisfied. "How long have you been this wet?"

"Since you—" I choke on the words as his thumb presses harder. "Since I saw you on the ice."

His laugh is rough. "Is that so? Or are you lying to me?"

"Fine. Since you walked into that kitchen and looked at me like—ah—like you wanted to devour me."

"I did." He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss. "I do."

The sound of his zipper is obscenely loud. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his cock, feeling him pulse against my palm. Hard and thick and straining.

"Condom," I manage.

"Wallet." He doesn't stop touching me, fingers still teasing, as he retrieves it one-handed.

Watching him roll it on—quick, efficient, his jaw tight with restraint—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

Then he is there, pressing against my entrance, and everything else ceases to exist.

"Look at me."

I meet his eyes as he pushes inside—one long, relentless stroke that fills me completely. The stretch burns and sings, and I hear myself make a sound that isn't quite human.

"God." His forehead drops to mine. "You feel—"

"Move. Please, move."

He does.