Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(30)

I did.

He popped the morsel inside, placing it on my tongue like a priest giving sacrament, and I closed my lips on his fingers, giving them a good, long suck. Blood darkened his cheeks and his pupils dilated at the sensation. "Very nice," he murmured. "Now push your panties aside and put your fingers on your clit."

Almost as if I were in a trance, my fingers went to the apex of my thighs and slid the crotch of my panties over my vulva. I was wet and aching, the flesh of my pussy burning hot and soaked with my juices. I wanted very much for him to touch me there again, but doing it to myself under his supervision was somehow just as good, if different.

"Don't forget to keep your hand moving on my cock," he said. I swallowed. I'd already forgotten, so enraptured was I by the thought of him fingering me by proxy in public. I gave his cock another gentle rub, and his intake of breath and fluttering eyelids told me I'd hit on something he liked. He fed me another morsel of food, and I sucked at his fingertips again. The spices mixed with the taste of his skin, making him sweet, savory, a delight in and of himself.

"Using only your clit, bring yourself to orgasm," he said. I scratched my nails over his cock, feeling the contours of the bulbous head and the veiny shaft through the fabric, but I did as he ordered. I spread my lower lips with my hand, and, using only one finger, I began to gently circle my clit. It was so small, but it still stood at attention, as erect as any penis and just as needy for release.

I flicked it, circled it, faster and faster, struggling to keep my activities a secret above the table while I tried to simultaneously keep a strong, steady pace on Malcolm's cock while he fed me. Slow, fast, eat, suck.

I watched his eyes flicker as I brought him closer to release, his hips nudging up into my hand in tiny thrusts. He started leaving his fingers in my mouth, just for a moment, and then a moment more, and when a bit of savory sauce escaped, he dabbed it away with a napkin. "No worries," he told me, and his voice was deep and husky, thrilling me to the core. When at last my orgasm came, I had to bury my face in his shoulder—large, warm, solid—as I gritted my teeth and rode it out. My whole body clenched and released, and underneath my hand I felt his cock jump as he came, too. A bit messier, to be sure, but probably no less satisfying.

When I took my hands away, I found the meal had been finished, and I was just getting my first sip of wine when the waiter brought our check. Malcolm paid, and together we exited the booth, he donning his long coat first, and I couldn't help but be a little satisfied that I'd given him some pleasure in return. And he hadn't run away this time. I'd have to count this as a victory.

As we meandered back toward the subway in silence—not exactly comfortable, but not tense or awkward either—I realized he had been right. It had been the best meal of my life.

Now if only I could remember what any of it had tasted like.



We stopped in front of Malcolm's mansion. We still hadn't said a word to each other since the restaurant, and now I was starting to feel a bit awkward. It's not every day that you feel yourself up at your companion's insistence on the first date. It's not every day that your date comes in his pants. It's not every day you do both of those things out in the open, like a couple of subway perverts. I'd once asked Felicia if Anton's semen contained some kind of mind-altering that made her just go along with whatever he wanted to do and forget why she agreed to do so, but now I was beginning to wonder just what kind of hold Malcolm Ward had over me.

I mean, hell, I wasn't even his wife. And his cum hadn't even touched me yet. I had no excuse. None at all.

"I'm not running away again," Malcolm said suddenly.

I started. I hadn't even gotten that far in my thinking. "Are you saying you're not running away and then running away and saying you didn't because you said you weren't going to and therefore what you are about to do is not running away?" I asked him.

For the first time, I think I'd left him speechless. Although it had less to do with my shocking libido or scandalous thoughts than my improperly organized brain. "What?" he said, confused.

I shook my head. "Nothing. Never mind. Okay, so you're not running away. What does that mean?"

He looked up at his ridiculously huge house. Why would a single man need such a huge house? I had to wonder. I mean, aside from storing boxes full of eight-track tapes and incomplete collections of the Encyclopedia Britannica. What is a house if not a storage unit, I ask you?

"I think it means I would like to continue to explore our artistic relationship," he said at last. "I believe a union     between us could be quite fruitful."#p#分页标题#e#