I didn’t know when exactly he’d gotten rid of my underwear—only that I’d gone to sleep wearing a pair, and right now I was naked from the waist down. His engorged shaft was hot and velvety against my skin. Saliva pooled in my mouth.
Yes, please.
“Hunter Fitzpatrick. No means no.”
“No can also mean maybe, if I promise to get you off before your eyes are open,” he murmured, and I felt his breath on my neck.
Minty. He’d already had a shower and brushed his teeth. I bet he was minutes away from dashing to work. He was always the first one in the office. Gerald Fitzpatrick was showing signs of retiring, which put Cillian as potentially the youngest CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company in American history. It also meant Hunter was putting in extra hours at the office. I didn’t mind. We always met somewhere nice after work to try new food.
I was a food critic nowadays. Savory Sailor Sampling Boston was picking up. I was even thinking of starting my own YouTube channel and website. My Instagram (which was checkmarked, something that made Hunter jokingly check off boning a celebrity from his imaginary list), already had over seventy thousand followers, including three high-profile celebrities.
None of them were Lana Alder. She’d stayed under the radar since her banishment from archery, along with Junsu. I heard she was an aesthetician in Albuquerque. And a few years ago, Sam told me he saw Junsu wearing a fast food uniform, walking down the street.
“Give it your best shot, stud.” I rolled to my back, feeling Hunter’s face already nestling between my thighs. I bucked my hips up to meet his lips, groaning when his hot, minty tongue pressed against my entrance. I was already embarrassingly wet.
“Jesus,” I moaned.
“Speaking,” Hunter said, into me. I laughed as his tongue swirled around my clit. “How can I help?” His voice was muffled, as his mouth was on my pussy. He faked an echo, drawling a quieting “Help, help, help.” I felt my body vibrating with pleasure, delight, and laughter.
“My boyfriend and I have the most inappropriate sex discussions. I don’t know what to do with him.”
“Well…” He sucked my clit into his mouth, pumped it a little, then released it, pushing two fingers into my wetness and playing with me. His other hand moved to my breast, flicking my puckered nipple. I shuddered and clenched around him, sighing as my entire body tingled. Currents of voltage ran from my toes to my head.
“Maybe he shouldn’t be your boyfriend, then,” Hunter suggested.
His mouth was now available to talk—he worked his magic with his fingers—and when I popped my eyes open and stared at him in confusion, he was looking at me, his head still between my legs. He straightened up on his knees, not breaking eye contact as he pushed a third and fourth finger into me. I felt full and tight and on the verge of something euphoric. My body was blossoming with an orgasm, but panic washed through me.
“Do you consider this an appropriate time to break up with me?” I asked as evenly as I could, considering my out-of-control pulse and mild hysteria.
He licked his lips. “Is this worry I detect, Miss Brennan?”
My eyes widened. What was his game?
“No. Of course not. I couldn’t care less. Besides, you’d never leave me.”
Over the years, Hunter and I had become a fixture in the tabloids for all the right reasons. We went to charity events together, wearing the best frocks. We were caught canoodling in our swimsuits on exotic vacations with our families. We never caused drama and never had a public feud, and we were the second-best thing since Boston’s most eligible bachelor, Cillian, wasn’t showing signs of settling down.
We were a solid couple, to a point that people had largely forgotten Hunter had been in a sex tape. I felt secure in our relationship, in who he was now.
“Thing is.” He pressed his thumb to my clit, his fingers still inside me. He rubbed my sensitive bud in circles. “That boyfriend gig? Kind of got old for me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” I half-moaned, half-whispered. I was shaking all over, coming hard against his fingers. The rush was insane, gloriously climactic, but also filled with anxiety. “Hmm, do you…want to take a break?”
“I want to be your husband,” he finished, my body clenching tightly around his fingers as the orgasm washed over me. He used his available hand to produce something from under his pillow—a little box—throwing it into my hands.
My fingers shook around it, and I dropped it on my chest, laughing nervously. I picked the box up again, struggling to open it. My heart raced. My breath caught. My chest filled with pure, unfiltered joy I couldn’t contain. I thought I was going to burst.
“Hunter…”
“Open it,” he demanded hoarsely, clearing his throat.