When the ice is almost melted and neither of us can stand a moment more, I envelop her with my mouth. Giving in, giving what she needs, and taking for myself. Her pussy is cold against my tongue, so I lick and lap at her lips to warm them. But inside—inside she’s hot as honey and tastes twice as sweet.

Abby writhes above me and my own hips rotate, fucking air in the same tempo as my tongue. And then she’s mindlessly gripping my hair and shamelessly pressing against my mouth, all stiff and tight and too lost to the sensations to make a single sound.

When she shivers one last time and her fingers loosen and her limbs go boneless, I stand, running the back of my hand across my mouth and cradling her in my arms. She pecks grateful, worshiping kisses across my chest, and I reach into the glass of scotch beside her on my desk and scoop out another ice cube. I tilt Abby’s head back and trace her lips with it.

“Open for me, love.” My voice is ragged and rough, and every muscle in my body is strung tight with wanting her.

When her lips part, I slip the cube inside.

“Suck on it.”

Does she know what I’m thinking? Does she know what’s coming next?

Her eyes are adoring and come-drunk, and her lips are puffy from my kisses. She holds on to my hips with the soundless plea for more—because by now I know Abby relishes my pleasure every bit as much as her own.

I lift her chin. “Now give it back.”

She holds the ice cube between her lips like a good girl, and I pluck it with my fingers and slip it into my own mouth, so I can taste her again.

Because I can’t kiss her—not yet.

Then I turn Abby around and lower her gently, so her back is flat on the desk and her neck rests along the very edge, and her head is angled just off the end.

And her mouth is right there—perfect and waiting.

She can’t stay in this position long and she won’t have to—just seeing her laid out like this for me has me close to bursting.

And then Abby looks up into my eyes . . . and she opens her mouth.

Because she’s brilliant and beautiful and for the moment—all fucking mine.

I grip my cock and press it between her lips, just the head at first. I hiss out a groan and my eyes roll closed as the cool cavern of her mouth closes around me. And it’s like my blood is on fire—the need and want to take her and ride her, fuck her and come for her is this scorching, monstrous, miraculous thing.

Abby sucks as I push in deeper, her tongue still cool but the back of her mouth and throat warmer, hotter against my cock.

And Christ Almighty the feel of it—that she’s letting me have her this way is more stark white bliss than I ever dreamed or deserved in my life.

I’m stripped bare and helpless . . . utterly mad for her.

With harsh breaths and a pounding heart, I brace my hands on the desk and pull out slowly . . . then steadily slide back in. I glide back and forth, fucking her perfect mouth—the raw, carnal gratification ratcheting higher with every thrust.

Abby moans rapturously around me and my vision goes hazy and it’s as if ecstasy detonates in my cells. I pump into her mouth and groan her name as I come hard and long down her throat.

* * *

Later, we need food. Abby slips into my dress shirt and I step into my boxers, and like two starving savage animals we raid the break room. The pickings are slim—a carton of juice, two apples and a bag of nuts—but they’ll do. Out in the workout area, I lean against the wall and pop a handful of almonds in my mouth, watching Abby drift curiously around the room.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

She stops beside the sparring ring and takes a bite of her apple.

“So this is where you work? This is where the magic happens?”

I tilt my head towards my office door.

“The magic happened in there. This is where we train.”

Abby wanders to one of the weighted bags and I walk over to join her.

“And that’s how you relieve your stress?” she asks. “Sparring? Fighting?”

“One of the ways, yeah.”

I lift my fists and lay a hard punch to the bag, rocking it back on its base. Showing off for her just because I can.

Abby smiles. “Could you teach me to fight?”

She lifts her small fist and moves to punch the bag—but I catch her wrist before she can make contact and wrap my arm around her waist, lifting her up and turning her against me.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not ever.”

Tags: Emma Chase The Bodyguards Romance
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