He sits me on the ottoman in front of the mirror, that entire bullshit spiel halting on my tongue as I stare at the girl from the incident reflected at me.
My brows pinch into a scowl.
She's like a train wreck—I force a smile at the reflection of the breathtaking man towering over me in nothing but his black cotton pants because I can’t trust myself to speak to him right away.
He drops down—the deadliest man in the city on his knees for me—blocking the mirror for a moment with his head. His eyes heat. "Now lean back on your hands, spread your pretty white thighs, and watch me worship you."
He slings my legs over his shoulders and dips his head. The mirror comes into view, the girl in the reflection already painted in the crimson glow of arousal just as his mouth sucks at my flesh.
Instantly, I mewl around, assaulted by my reflection and by the eating motion of his lips.
His touch soothes.
And I’m whole.His.
His tongue presses in through the walls clinging with needy desperation to the steady penetration. I want to squeeze my eyes shut so I can focus on him. Avoid the sight of me. I want to grab his head, but I can't stay upright if I don't brace on both hands.
My backside rocks and lifts, so he slides his hands beneath each cheek to control me as he relentlessly fucks between my folds with his tongue, as he mouths me, as his lips rhythm crash sensation with sensation. Plunging through and out. Then massaging the supple soft lips as he withdraws only to spear me again.
My nails dig into the ottoman.
I do as he commanded, watching myself in the mirror with Clay Butcher on his knees between my thighs.
My eyes grow heavy when he slows down, flattening his tongue and licking up and down, then dipping in, only to lap over that quivering flesh again.
It's meticulous.
Like everything he does. As soon as a part of my pussy wants attention he is there, reading the pulsing muscles like I'm connected to him through tangible waves of sensory information. Like I'm an extension of…him.
I'm so wet; I still shiver with shame for that fact—my response to him will be smeared and dripping from his lips and chin.
He growls into my pussy, his feral enjoyment vibrating for a moment through me as though he is ready to actually bite down and rip off flesh. He's dirty and carnal. This regal man is completely at odds with everything he shows the world.
My mouth goes wide, moans soaring through the dressing room as the sensitivity that has me weeping into his mouth turns into severe heat. My backside clenches in his palms, so he grips the plump globes, spreading them to deepen his kiss further.
I buck again.
He laps his tongue up from my opening to my clit, where he sucks the bundle of nerves between his teeth, clamping on and flicking, igniting fireworks within me.
I whimper.
My legs jolt up.
My body convulses. But his grip on my arse is unyielding, holding me to him.
"Oh. Sir." My eyes roll with dizzying pleasure. "I can't. It's, it's too—" A long moan rolls up from deep inside me as I'm hit with a bat of pleasure, blackening my vision for a dreamy moment.
I tense up as my orgasm continues.
My arms shake under my weight.
I pant his name like I'm conditioned to do, watching my reflection as I begin to come, my hips grinding shamelessly on his face to increase the pressure, to intensify each perfect lap of his tongue.
I bat my eyes until they close under the weight of arousal. The rough bristles around his jaw graze, easing the needy skin as he refuses to relinquish the suction on my clit.
"OhGod!" I cry out, my arms buckling. My back meets the ottoman while my hands fist his crown, my fingers desperately knotting his dark hair for control.
I arch my back as the final waves of sensation swim through me, and he keenly changes his pace to suit the flow of my orgasm.