Page 78 of Gilt

“He tried.” I leave it at that.

“Did he…touch you?” Jameson asks in a strangled voice.

“He tried,” I repeat, “but I kneed him in the balls.”

“That piece of shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d react this way, and the last thing I need is another member of my family charging you with assault.”

“That man isn’t your family.”

He doesn’t have to tell me that twice.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

I shake my head quickly. Maybe when I’ve had a chance to process the things Hans claimed happened between him and Becca, I’ll need to talk about it. For now, I’m more than happy to pretend that it’s all lies. I need to pretend because missing my sister is hard enough without worrying about whether or not I knew her at all. My thoughts flash to Hans unbuckling his belt and I swallow against a bit of bile that rises in my throat.

I got away, but I almost hadn’t. The idea that he might have forced me to do that to him when I never have before only makes it worse.

Without thinking, I jump to my feet. Jameson drops back to his heels and stares at me.

“Stand up,” I order him.

“Duchess?” But he complies, and I kiss him hard on the lips resting my palms against the ridges of his abdomen. The contact gives me the courage I need to slide one of my hands lower, past the loose waistline of his jeans to the warm, rock-hard bulge that seems as eager for this as I am. But as soon as my fingers sweep over it he pulls back, circling my wrist with his hand.

“Duchess, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

My eyes narrow in annoyance. “I’ve already had one guy try to tell me what to do with my body tonight. How about you let me make my own decisions?”

It’s logic he can’t argue with, but before he tries, I drop down on one knee and then the other, sliding both my hands to the button of his jeans. I unfasten it, then I slide the zipper down until I can draw them off his narrow hips. I might be the one on my knees, but I feel powerful. My newfound courage surges through me, and I tug his boxer briefs down to his ankles.

It’s not the first time I’ve touched a dick, but it’s the most face time I’ve ever had with one. Until this moment, the whole process seemed pretty simple: take off pants, put in mouth, suck. Now that I’m getting a chance to study Jameson West’s most impressive asset—and that’s saying something—I wonder if I’m in over my head.

It’s different than I remember. Strained, veins bluish with trapped blood, and long—so long that I am wondering how it will fit in my mouth.

And, for that matter, anywhere else.

“Duchess,” he whispers in a hoarse voice. “You don’t have to.” He rakes his hand through my hair gently, reminding me exactly why I want to do this. I wet my lips with my tongue then I lean forward and lick. In the back of my head something Josie told me once comes to mind and I giggle.

Treat it like an ice cream cone.

“You’re going to give me a complex,” he warns. “Is it funny?”

I bite my lower lip and peer up at him. “No,” I breathe. “It’s delicious.”

“Then feel free to have another taste,” he says with a smirk. I take him up on the offer, running my tongue up and down and swirling it over the broad tip until I’m brave enough to lower my mouth over him.

The hand on top of my hair fists as a low growl of pleasure rumbles from his chest. “That’s it, Duchess,” he encourages me. “Oh fuck, just like that.”

I bob my mouth up and down, my confidence boosted by the dirty words spilling from his mouth. “Your hand,” he grunts. “Use your hand.”

I grip it firmly, and he reaches down guiding my fingers along his length in unison with the rhythm of my mouth.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he warns me in a strained voice, but when he nudges my head to push me away I hollow my cheeks and suck harder until a strange heat floods the back of my throat. It takes a little effort to gulp it down, but I manage with a couple gags. Apparently, I won’t be going pro at blow jobs anytime soon.

He hauls me up by the elbow, his eyes half-masked with pleasure, and kisses me deeply. When we break apart he takes a deep breath. “Oh my God, that was ...”

“Not God,” I stop him, “Just Emma Southerly.”