‘I’m going to come,’ he says, warning in his voice.
I flicker my eyes to his, a smile on my lips.
His eyes narrow. ‘You’re sure?’
In response, I take him inside me with a fevered intensity so I feel the beginning of his spasm, the urgency of his movements as his hips lift a little so he thrusts into my open mouth, his hand on my arse, his fingers digging into my flesh as he begins to spill his seed. I keep him deep, I take him all, I hold him while he loses his control, and he holds me, his hands on my body as if he can’t possibly take them off.
It is the hottest thing I’ve ever done—and it’s just the beginning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘THE ORVILLE-GREENS ARE COMING, and the Weissinghams too.’
My father lists two families who have daughters a few years younger than I am. ‘The Sinclairs, Morialtos, Lyons.’
I grip the phone more tightly, telling myself not to react.
I’ve been expecting this.
‘It’s going to be a New Year to remember. A new beginning.’
I expel a harsh breath, reaching for my coffee. It’s a bleak, grey day, and I have more to do than I can put into words.
‘Anyway, we can go over the details at Christmas. You’re still planning to be home for Christmas?’
I hear the apprehension in his voice and a fissure of sympathy opens up inside my impatient chest. Because at the root of all his bluster, my dad is worried. He’s worried about the family’s future, he’s worried about the fact they’re getting older and have no grandchildren, and he’s worried about me—that I’m going to waste my life with a string of different women, never doing the ‘responsible’ thing and taking up the reins of the Rothsmore estate.
‘Great.’ It’s too curt. I soften it slightly. ‘Yeah, I’ll be there. How’s Mother?’
‘Planning the party, you know.’ My father’s tone is a little weary. ‘In her element.’
It’s true. My mother is never happier than when she has a social event looming, particularly in the grounds of Becksworth Hall. I can just picture it, strung with fairy lights, marquees set up with braziers of fire to keep guests warm; an orchestra serenading people as they arrive; a field given over to cars and helicopters; the guest rooms full to the brim.
And this time, a bevy of eligible women for me to choose a bride.
The thought bothers me more than it should. I’ve known this was coming. I’m almost thirty—how long did I expect I could put this off for?
Out of nowhere, I think of Saffron, of how against our union I was at the start, how much I resented being set up and pushed into a relationship by my parents. It had felt wrong at the start, but we’d been well matched. They’d been right.
Well, half-right.
Saffy hadn’t seen the appeal, evidently.
That was five years ago and I’m different now. I have no intention of getting involved with anyone I don’t feel I’m compatible with. I’m not looking for love this time. That’s where I went wrong with Saffron; I see it clearly now. I bought into a fairy tale, a myth, where I should have simply seen it as a dynastic union, just as Imogen said.
Imogen.
Out of nowhere, my storm clouds lift and I’m smiling, my eyes sweeping shut so all I can see is her pale blonde head descending on my cock, feel the sweeping warmth of her mouth around my flesh, the flicker of her tongue, impatient and hungry, teasing me to a desperate release.
‘Dad, I have to go.’
‘But—’
‘Later.’
I disconnect the call and surrender to the memory, pushing back in my leather chair, staring at the ceiling of my office, my body harder than black diamonds. Imogen is everywhere—my memory, my mind, my senses, my soul.
The blow job in the cockpit was just the beginning. Neither of us was sated by that release, as fucking amazing as it was. I reach for my phone on autopilot, flicking open our chat window.