Page 98 of Pucking Daddy

I alternate between long, slow licks and quick flicks against her sensitive bud.

My jaw aches from the effort, but I don't care. Her pleasure is the only thing that matters right now—chasing it, drawing it out, making her fall apart piece by piece.

"Jaxon—Jaxon, I'm—" Her hips buck against my face, grinding into my mouth. Her fingers tighten in my hair until my scalp stings. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

I won't. I have no intention of stopping.

I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit.

She's tight, clenching around me, and I curl them to find that spot—the one that makes her cry out loud enough that I'm grateful for the partition and the soundproofing.

The car hits another bump, and the motion drives my fingers deeper. She screams, her back bowing off the seat.

"That's it," I murmur against her flesh, the vibrations making her shudder. "Come for me. Let go."

I feel her orgasm before I hear it—the rhythmic clenching around my fingers, the way her thighs shake against my ears.

Then the sound hits me, a broken wail that she tries to muffle with her own hand. I reach up and pull her fingers away, wanting to hear every note of her release.

Her juices coat my chin, my cheeks, my fingers. I work her through it, easing the pressure of my tongue but never quite stopping.

Her hips twitch with every aftershock, oversensitive and trembling.

When I finally lift my head, her eyes are closed. Her chest heaves. Her fingers have gone slack in my hair.

I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh—tender, almost reverent. Then another, higher up. Her eyes flutter open.

"Jaxon." My name comes out slurred, satisfied.

"Hey." I crawl up her body, bracing myself on my elbows above her. The leather sticks to my palms. "You okay?"

She lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “Actually… I’m more than okay.”

I grin. “I aim to please.”

I brush a strand of hair back from her face, slower now. Careful.

“Hey,” I say again, quieter this time. “We’re here.”

It takes her a second to process that. I see it in the way her gaze sharpens, the way reality settles back in.

“Already?” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us sounds particularly happy about it.

I help her sit up, my hands lingering at her waist a fraction longer than necessary. She smooths her dress, fingers slightly unsteady, and I force myself to lean back, to give her space.

To get my head back on straight.

I step out first, then offer her my hand. She takes it.

The elevator ride up is… quiet. My thumb brushes over her knuckles once, absent, instinctive. She doesn’t pull away.

The doors slide open into the private vestibule.

We step out, the space hushed and secluded, and for a second, neither of us moves.