The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“May I?” I asked, placing a hand over his groin.

He looked down at me, his thunderstorm eyes twinkling playfully.

“Make it fucking good, Roberts. I don’t fuck rookies.”

I lowered the zipper of his slacks. In the decade since the carnival, Sam Brennan had successfully graduated from a guy to a man. He’d ditched the ripped dark jeans and soft tees in favor of Armani slacks and black dress shirts, and now smelled like the decillionaires I knew and brushed shoulders with, wearing a cologne I was pretty sure both my brothers favored, and cost a grand a pop. The only thing to remain of his younger self was the St. Anthony charm engraved with his initials S.A.B. hanging around his neck and those taunting eyes that could look into people’s souls.

I lowered his black designer briefs, my fingers brushing through the trimmed dark hair of his groin. His cock sprang out. Hard as a rock. Thick and long—frighteningly big—with a purple vein running along the shaft.

As far as cocks went, it was beautiful. My mouth watered and I licked my lips.

Instead of going straight to business, I tilted my head carefully, keeping my wig intact, and gathered his balls into my mouth, sucking on them gently.

He hissed, dropping his head back, not expecting the move. I ran one finger around his shaft, teasing him as I pumped and sucked on his testicles, inhaling the musky, earthy scent of his privates.

“Motherfucker,” he groaned. “That’s some move.”

Stifling a smile, I sucked, teased, and licked, almost entirely ignoring his cock that kept jerking and growing more swollen and big, demanding my attention. After a few minutes, Sam grabbed the back of my wig, jerking me to the main event—the star of the show. I gasped, slapping his hand away immediately in a bid to keep my wig on.

He frowned down at me, momentarily taken aback.

“Got anything against dicks?”

“Not at all.” My voice was breathless, pathetic. “Sorry. It’s just that my hair is a mess under the wig, and I don’t want you to see it.”

A raven, blue-black mess you will recognize immediately.

“Are you under the impression we’re about to have our fucking wedding photos taken?” Pleasure twirled in his grey-hued eyes. “Who the fuck cares?”

“No, you’re right, of course not.”

Silly girl, Ms. B’s song tutted in my head. So submissive and easy.

“While we’re at it, why don’t you take off the sunglasses?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Makes me feel like I’m getting head from Stevie Wonder.”

Because you’ll see my eyes and recognize them, too.

My eyes were the kind of blue you didn’t see every day. Father said they were only matched by the ocean in their blueness.

I grabbed his shaft and deep-throated him, making him nearly roar with pleasure.

“Nice diversion, Roberts. Faster.”

I began pumping in and out, still amazed that Sam Brennan’s cock was in my mouth.

My fascination—no, obsession—with him knew no bounds, something even I couldn’t deny. But it was harmless, too. We were both single, of age, and constantly in the same vicinity. He changed my life in ways and shaped it into something different and deeper. Giving him good head was the least I could do to pay him back for putting me on the path I was today.

“All right, let’s see what your cunt or ass is made of. On your feet, Pretty Woman.”

I rose to my full height, euphoria swirling through me like a storm. He grabbed the back of my head and kissed me. A lazy, horny kiss. Full of tongue and teeth and intent. Nothing like the kiss we’d shared on that haunted ride all those years ago. It didn’t unfold slowly like a well-crafted book.

Sam pulled away from me suddenly, frowning at me.

“What?” I asked, panting hard, my underwear already soaked. I clutched the collar of his dress shirt, rubbing my covered tits against his chest shamelessly, already on the brink of orgasm. “What, what?”

“Ginger,” he hissed coolly. “And honey.”

“Ginger?” I blinked frantically behind my shades. “What do you mean?”

“There’s only one woman I know who smells of ginger and honey.”

Me.

It was me.

Me and my stupid French-imported shampoo Ms. B got me addicted to.

Without warning, Sam tore the sunglasses from my face, yanking the wig off at the same time. My long, tar-black hair fell down my shoulders in thick waves, all the way to my butt. My blue eyes widened at him.

So screwed—and not in the way I was hoping for.

I coughed, probably choking on a desperate apology that my body refused to spit out. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me—not physically, anyway—but I had no doubt he was going to punish me.

Revenge was Sam Brennan’s favorite language, and he spoke it fluently.

“Fitzpatrick,” he growled like a beast.

“Sam, I—” I shook my head. Merde! “Please. Just one time.”

“Spare me the bullshit. I’ll deal with you later. First, I’ll give you what you’ve been begging for for over a decade and remind you why you…” he bit my lip hard