The Interview
: Chapter 22

“You’re smiling,” Whit’s low voice rumbles. His palm flat to the table, his other bands my back.

“Better than tears.” I feel his mouth curve against mine as his hands slide under me, lifting me to the tabletop.

“Different to tears,” he says on a sigh.

I tip my head back as his hot breath slides down my neck as though testing where his lips might like to land. But I’m not really smiling, and there are tears, the bittersweet kind that I’m blinking back. What have I done? Why couldn’t I have just said, thanks for the memories, but I think I might become a slut someplace else now.

Because I can’t resist him.

Because I don’t want to hurt him.

Because I’m not cut out to play these games, would be my guess.

His teeth grip the tendon between my shoulder and neck, his hand resting at the base of my throat to gently press me back. My palms fall to the tabletop behind me, his shirt sliding from one shoulder like a slattern. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, but he doesn’t speak or touch me except where his hands rest.

“You’re looking at me like I’m a bottle of wine you’re about to taste.”

His laughter is dark, hot, and velvet. “Hope springs eternal, my darling?”

My cheeks burn at how suggestive I’d sounded. “I didn’t mean…” My words trail off as his hand slides down my body, his palm pressing against my pussy.

“Fine wine, Amelia, should always be given time to breathe as a prelude to taste.”

His fiery gaze travels over me, lingering on my face. His appraisal feels like hot syrup sinking into all the secret places of me.

I am so in trouble.

Best make the most of it, a little voice says.

God, I love that little voice.

“Lift up.” He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties before pulling them down my legs. “You are entirely too lovely,” he says as he slips his thumb inside and presses it to my clit. “And it’s a little too early for wine.”

Leaning closer, his lips stroke mine, his tongue skimming my bottom lip. He swallows my cry, my body bowing as I something ice cold and wet flows down my body.

“Oh, oh!” Champagne cascades down my chest, spilling over my hips and between my thighs. “What was—” Sensation rushes to the surface of my skin like a greeting as Whit licks at the rivulets with the flat of his tongue.

“Too early for wine, but not champagne.” He looks faintly wicked as he puts down his glass, and his tongue swipes my nipple, lapping the cold sting. The contrast of his hot mouth following the shock of ice-cold bubbles makes me shiver and moan.

“You might’ve warned me.” My complaint is halfhearted as he moves the full flat of his tongue over the equally sensitive curve of my breast.

“And spoil the surprise?” He yanks the shirt down my arms, simultaneously hooking the chair leg with his foot, dragging it closer. He drops to the seat and presses his palms to my knees, spreading my legs wider. Electricity pulses through me in jagged, silvery jolts as his tongue licks the inside of my thigh. “Take off the shirt,” he suggests oh-so reasonably. “Let the sun dry your skin.”

That’s true. It’s also true his suggestion is a ruse as I replace myself twisting at the cold, cold pull of his fingers at my nipple. Fingers cold from the bottle—no, the glass of ice. Ice that’s now on his tongue.

“No!” I press my knees together as best I can, considering Whit’s hand is still between them. Along with my warning, I hold out my finger the way you would to still an unruly child.

Ice cube balanced on the tip of his tongue, he almost shrugs an innocent, what? Me?

“No,” I repeat firmly. “I’m a Florida girl. I don’t do—”

A cold thumb presses to my clit. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

“It’s not so bad, see?” Husky voiced, Whit begins to circle his thumb, massaging that tight bundle of nerves. “It’ll be even better when you let me…”

“Oh God, yes…” My legs fall wide, his dark head bending to my lap, the touch of his lips cool but warmer than his thumb. Less of an invasion. And getting warmer by the second.

“I’m starving, darling.” The sound vibrates through me as he deepens the contact, beginning to make out with my pussy.

My head tips back between my shoulder blades, the sight too erotic for my brain to process.

“Watch me, Amelia.” My name on his lips is whisp soft. “Watch me feast on you.” He owns me with his tiger’s gaze, the hungry longing there echoed in the way my body responds. “I don’t know if I want to lick you dry…” I close my eyes at the sight of the flat of his tongue licking the length of me.

“Yes,” I moan, pressing into his mouth.

“Or swallow you whole. Who makes you come like this, Amelia?”

“Only you,” I whimper. Literally only you. I chance another look, and our eyes connect, the sensation of him watching me like a jolt of pleasure shooting through my whole body. “Please, touch me…” The final word draws off into a plaintive cry as something ice cold swirls around my clit. Ice—he has ice in his mouth. I try to pull away, but Whit’s hands are like manacles around my wrists, his body keeping my knees spread wide.

Panic strikes at the very core of me, self-preservation causing me to thrash. My reactions have nothing to do with the cold press of his mouth and everything to do with my desire for the man he is.

Oh, Lord. This was supposed to be easy—my poor heart can take anything more.

“That’s right,” he says, his glance up my body nothing short of commanding. “No one will ever make you come like I do.” He trails his ice-cold lips across my thigh, warming them in a sucking bite. “Ever.”

This is what I deserve. To be forced. Held. I don’t need tender touches or sensual brushes. I don’t fight him when his mouth returns, or when his cold fingers fill me. My body bows, my muscles taut like wire, my movements chasing his punishment as he licks me again and again, cold becoming warm, warm becoming cold again. It hurts, oh God, it hurts. It hurts to know I don’t deserve him as I submit to this sweet, intense torture.

The clink of his belt. The susurrus of his zipper, the head of his cock, hot and ruddy, pressed to my center. My body offers him no resistance as he pushes inside, the heat and feel of him sending my thoughts spinning.

“Look at me.” I hadn’t realized, but he’s right, my eyes were screwed tight. He slides my damp hair from my face and presses a kiss to my temple, his next words pitched so softly. “Let me in, darling.”

With a mewl, I rock against him and gasp as his pelvis brushes my clit. Whit grunts his approval, sliding his hands under my ass. He drives into me then, so hard and so deep, that the heavy table moves, shrieking a protest against the wooden floor.

“Please, again,” I pant, sliding my hands into his hair. Pulling him closer, I clasp him to me, not wanting him to see my face, to see what this is doing to me. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to get to his.

“This arse,” he growls as he lifts me to him. I cry out as the angle changes, as his big hands tighten on my cheeks. “The things I could do to this arse.”

I whimper as he licks my neck. Bites. “Oh!” It’s such a tiny sound to be so full of encouragement.

“I’m going to send you off on each of your little dates with my cum dripping between your legs.”

I cry out, not just from the possessive picture he paints but because I’m suddenly so full—impossibly so—as he drops to the chair behind him. My hands fall to his shoulders as I adjust to the sensation, pulsing around him. My brain short-circuits as his hands replace the curve of my hips, pressing me deeper, impaling me. My body seems to move of its own volition, undulating over him.

“Yeah, like that.” I rise in response to his coaxing hands, riding him. “You were made for this.”

You were made for him. I screw my eyes shut at the invasive thought.

“Sweetheart.” Whit’s hand cups my cheek. “Open your eyes, look at how you take me.” The awe in his voice prompts my gaze to follow his to where my body accepts him. Holds him.

Oh, that’s too much.

“No, it’s perfect.” I don’t pause to wonder if he read my mind as I rise over him to reveal his glistening cock inch by slow inch before he rocks my body into his again.

“Yes, that’s it.” His thumb swipes my cheek so tenderly. “You’re so beautiful, Amelia. Your cunt feels like velvet.” That word—the base, coarseness of it causes a cascade of sensation through me, the effect written in the pleasured pain response on his face. “Oh Jesus, yes!” His hands coast down my body, his fingers sudden manacles against my wrists. He pulls them to the small of my back, adjusting his hold to one hand. With the other, he slides the tangled hair from my face, cradling my cheek, all dark, tender eyed.

“Move for me, darling.” His words drip through me like honey. “That’s it,” he encourages, moving with me. “Ride me.”

“You’re so big this way,” I choke out a garbled compliment, my insides throbbing at the thick slide of him. “I can’t—” I can’t think. Not as he grips my breast, lavishing my nipple with his tongue, leaving it hard and shining rudely in the daylight.

“Yes, you can. It’s okay to take what you want.”

I begin to rock, tentatively at first, then harder, buoyed on by the way he watches me, watches my face, watches my breasts as they move, observes how my body accepts him.

“You look so beautiful, riding me.” My tempo increases with his compliments, my thighs beginning to sting as I work myself over him. “Fuck yes, fuck me harder. Like that. Fuck me until I tell you to stop.”

“Oh God, stop—stop talking before my head explodes.”

“Don’t stop until Daddy tells you to,” he adds with an unrepentant grin. “Fuck!” He draws the expletive out on a groan as my body bows, my walls react around him. “No denying how much you love the sound of that.”

“Stop talking and kiss me.”

With the slightest resistance, he releases my wrists, allowing me to slide my hands around his neck as I devour him. His lips are faintly sticky from the mango, his breath hot and sweet as I work myself over him again and again.

“Oh God!” The brush of his pelvis is like the cherry on this sexual sundae.

I’ve never felt this way. My skin feels alive to his touch. So alive, so sexual.

His hands slide up my back, curling around my shoulders, his grunt countering my cry as he thrusts up into me. “Come on, Amelia. Fuck Daddy like you want to.

Pleasure radiates through every inch of me, our mouths meeting, messily tongued and panting as we rock and surge like one entity, our moans filling the room.

“I’m so fucking close.” Tense-jawed, he draws his brows together as though desperate to delay the inevitable, and if that doesn’t give me a sense of power, I’m not riding Whit’s cock like my life depends on it. And I am.

“I want it,” I whisper. Knowing he’s close somehow heightens my pleasure, makes me rock harder, makes those pulses stronger. “Give it to me.” I begin to ride him, it’s the only way to describe my body’s motion as I impale myself on him over and over again. From one breath to another, I suck in a sharp gasp, my whole being suddenly electrified. My skin is on fire as Whit chokes out a curse, undulating into his climax. Lost to the pull, lost to his expression, so beautiful and true, my fall follows his.