Page 221 of Wait for Him

"Good girl."

Oh, fuck. Okay. We may have discovered a thing.

By the time he's done arranging me, my ass is in the air, my face pressed to the bed, my arms drawn down between my legs with both wrists cuffed to the bar. I am completely and utterly at his mercy, a sentence I have never once been able to think without my chest seizing.

The first slap lands across my ass, his bare palm sharp enough to pull a breath straight out of me.

Holy fuck.

"You've never looked sexier than you do like this."

Another slap lands on the opposite cheek, the crack carrying through the boom mic and out across the room.

My face burns, and not from embarrassment.

Jesus Christ, I like this.

Jackson's hand moves over the skin he just struck, and when he speaks again, his voice is closer.

"Fuck, I can't wait anymore. I need a taste."

The flat of his tongue runs from my clit to my opening, dipping, swirling, and then his hands grip my ass and whatever restraint Jackson brought onto this stage disappears.

"Your pussy is fucking perfect."

He licks and sucks and moans against me with absolutely no dignity, and God, I've missed that. Jackson has never been quiet when he wants something. I strain against the cuffs as my body starts trembling, my moans carrying through the club through the fucking microphone I personally paid to have installed.

Excellent planning, Rosalie.

I should be mortified.

I am so far from mortified I couldn't find it with directions.

The pleasure keeps building until my legs are shaking against the bar and every muscle in my body is pulled tight. I swear I feel him smile against me right before I lose it.

"Fuck!"

The orgasm hits hard enough to make me forget there are people watching. I fight uselessly against the restraints while Jackson keeps going, dragging it out until I'm shaking and trying to catch a breath I can't seem to hold onto.

"That's one."

I feel him move away, and then his voice lifts toward the crowd.

"How many should we give my girl?"

Oh, he's fucking loving this.

Numbers start flying from somewhere beyond the lights. Five. Ten. Somebody yells twenty, and I make a mental note to find that person later and revoke their membership.

"You hear that, pet?" Jackson's hand slides slowly over my back. "They're enjoying this as much as I am. Now give me a color."

"Green, sir."

"Hmm."

He moves toward the stand, taking his time while I lie there restrained and impatient enough to start considering crimes. When he returns, I feel his hands on me again.

"Let's get you prepped." Then he's back on the bed behind me, and his tongue passes over my ass in one languid stroke.