The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

The scandal would be decadent.

“Are you close already?” He asked it like he already knew the answer.

I whimpered. “It feels so good.” The wand was easy to hold, like it had been designed with self-use in mind, unlike my generic one at home. Sometimes I got a cramp holding it. “Whatever you paid for this—it was worth it.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I am too.” His voice wasn’t cold or strict anymore; now it was filled with smoke and heat. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

“Language,” I whispered with shock, pretending to scold him. But I drew the pulsing head of the wand away from my clit to stop the orgasm his words nearly brought on.

“Did you think about this all day?” he asked.

“Yes.” The buzzing toy was truth serum. He could ask me anything, and I’d tell it to him, no matter how embarrassing or dark the secret was.

“I did too. I wondered if you’ll make the same sounds as you did last time. Or will your moans be different than when I had my fingers inside you?”

“Fuck,” I gasped again, squirming away from the wand. I both did and didn’t want to come. Last time I hadn’t believed it was possible, and it’d been dark in the room. There was nowhere to hide this time. He’d see everything.

Macalister stood and stepped between my parted legs, looming over me, and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath his suit jacket sleeves. The way he moved was practiced and graceful and deliberate.

“Why do you keep doing that,” he asked, “pulling it away?” He leaned over, using his body to pin the vibrator back against me. “I’ve already shown you this is a battle you can’t win.”

I groaned with pleasure as the vibrator crushed against me. I wanted to submit completely but was also afraid. What if he saw something he didn’t like? Or what if he got what he wanted then cast me aside?

Or . . . what if this was all just a game to him? He hadn’t gotten Marist. Was I her replacement, the consolation prize he was settling for?

His gaze was vicious in its pursuit, determined to see down into the depths of my mind and discover what I was thinking, and I turned my head away, unable to look.

“I don’t know if I can,” I panted for air, “with you watching me.”

“You can,” he said. “And you will. I’m going to make you do it a hundred different times if needed.”

Desire flashed through my center. I liked Macalister’s plan a lot.

“But right now?” His tone was firm, teeming with arrogance. “I’m going to bring you to orgasm with my tongue.”

I groaned and jerked at the idea, my entire body shuddering in acute pleasure. But instead of dropping to his knees as I expected, he clamped his hand down on top of mine, so we were gripping the vibrator together. And then he directed me to push it harder against my sensitive clit, making my piercing rattle.

I arched off the desk as the orgasm gathered like a storm, and Macalister shoved his free hand beneath my neck, scooped me up into his kiss. Lightning cracked across my chest, and flames licked at my legs. The swell of pleasure built, and built, and fucking built . . .

He forced my lips open, and the sliver of his tongue glancing against my own sealed my fate.

A panicked moan ripped from my throat and was gasped into his mouth as I came. Heat blasted up my spine, setting my nerve endings on tingling fire, and I contracted with each pulse of ecstasy as the waves rolled through my body. I had to push the wand away, overly sensitive and overwhelmed, and he allowed it, taking the vibrator from me, turning it off, and setting it aside.

I was still shuddering as he lowered me back onto his desk, my head nearly off the back of it, and I slammed my eyes shut. It was too much, too sexy, the way he examined me in my vulnerable state of post-orgasm recovery. He’d said he was going to bring me to orgasm with his tongue . . . and he had. There’d obviously been some mechanical assistance, but when he’d licked into my mouth, that was what had sent me over the edge.

That connection was the last tumbler clicking into place and unlocked my pleasure.

I wasn’t sure how long I lay on his desk, but once my breathing slowed to a languishing pace, he helped me up onto my trembling legs, lowered my skirt, and folded his arms around me in a reassuring embrace. Or perhaps it was to trap me. Either was possible with him.

His heartbeat was steady, an insistent, reliable drum marching along, while mine was still erratic. There’d been heat in him, but it cooled slowly, layer by layer. I wanted to stay like this longer, but he searched my face, and his eyes went cautious. “I would like to continue, but . . . there is business I don’t believe we can put off any longer.”