Like an animal.
“Hurts, baby, hurts,” Jack rasps, eyes glassy.
I can relate. I’m still so sensitive from touching myself in his office that when I reach between us and pet my clit, I make a loud mewling noise that turns Jack into a machine. He gets his knees beneath him and leans back, yanking my backside up and down his thighs like a shirt on a washboard. And the shift of positions gives him an up close view of my fingers stroking that swollen bud between my legs. “Daddy,” I sob. “Daddy.”
“Jesus Christ. I don’t have any time left.” His sides heave, sweat showing on the front of his white dress shirt. “You better come on that dick, you hot, little brat.”
Two more rough jerks of his hands and my flesh quickens, the sheer intensity setting my teeth on edge. Dress in tatters around me on the floor, this billionaire man-god groaning above me, our sexes slapping together loudly, I lose myself in the immense pleasure. Let it reach out and twist me in its grip, spin me around, pulling my flesh taut, taut until I’m screaming his name, his hips pumping wildly, trying to milk every last ounce of sensation from his turgid inches, from the blazing hot connection of our bodies.
I collapse onto the floor, wrung out, the ceiling spinning above me.
Ravaged.
I’ve been…destroyed.
I try to say something, anything, because suddenly it doesn’t feel right to find such an incredible release without Jack joining me. But I’m already up in his strong arms, being carried naked through the game room, the den and up the stairs, tucked protectively against his chest. He lays me down on a soft bed, brushes loose hair from my face and kisses my forehead.
“Sleep, angel. I’ll bring you a tray of food in a few hours.”
I reach for him, intending to beg him to stay, but I fall asleep just like that, with my arm extended toward the door and his name on my lips.
8
Jack
After I put Maisy to bed last night, there was an urgent matter at work, so I was forced to spend the evening yelling in my office, instead of feeding her dinner and bathing her, the way I craved to do. I had a member of the staff bring a tray to her room and draw her a bath, however, and once the matter was settled, I checked in on her.
Nine or ten times.
Seeing her in the guest room bed, fragrant from a bath and exhausted from rough sex, filled me with a bone-deep satisfaction. I can only imagine what it’ll be like to see her sleeping in mine. God willing, I won’t have much longer to wait. She’s mine and her beautiful head belongs on the pillow next to mine. My arms are empty without her there.
With a determined wrist flick, I adjust the collar of my shirt and leave my bedroom.
Of course, I put Maisy in the room directly across from mine—and I’m surprised to see the door open now. The maid is inside making her bed, but there’s no sign of Maisy. Ordering myself not to give in to the sudden panic in my gut, I nonetheless fly down the stairs and into the dining room, slowing only when I see her at the table, sipping orange juice and staring up at the chandelier with an expression of wonder.
Oh thank God. Thank God.
“Good morning,” I clear my throat to say, sitting across from her. The Wall Street Journal is automatically placed in front of me, along with a mug of black coffee. Toast and a sliced hard-boiled egg. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, I had cereal with a banana on top,” she whispers, watching the maid hustle around with wide eyes. “Thank you.”
“You slept well.”
She blinks. “Was that a question?”
I give her a glimpse at my obsession. Let it kindle in my eyes until her knuckles are white around her orange juice glass. That’s right, angel. I’m always watching. “No. It wasn’t.”
Maisy takes a slow breath, letting it out unsteadily.
Yesterday when I brought her home, took her down to the game room…we had fun.
More fun than I remember having in a long time. Maybe ever.
The combination of exertion, the challenge and chase, that fizzy giggle of hers…there was no way I could keep my cock locked up. Not entirely. I needed in. Needed Maisy on her back, legs spread, screaming with pleasure. And I got it. Got more than I could ever hope for in a fantasy. But I’m left right on the edge now. Hungry, hard, aching.
How long can I keep myself in check?
Maisy twists her orange juice on the table, appearing steeped in thought, and I find myself eager to pry her apart. To find out what she’s thinking. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says too quickly. “I’m just…” She glances toward the entrance of the dining room. “Won’t my mother be here any minute?”