Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I pulled back from the kiss. I could feel how flushed my face had gotten and how brightly my eyes must be shining. I looked up at him with a wanton expression I could feel on my own features: desperate, hungry, adoring, shamed by my own hunger and adoring despite the shame.
“Sir,” I breathed. “Master Paul. Can I… may I please…”
I swallowed. My eyes dropped to his lap. To the shape of him beneath the dark joggers—not yet fully hard, but definitely present. The outline of the thing that had been inside me, that had filled me, used me, come inside me, and made me something I hadn’t been before.
“May I please worship your cock, sir?” The words came out in a rush, breathy and wrecked and so brazen that I felt my entire body flush from hairline to toes. “I want to… I need to… please, can I just… serve you? Please?”
All I knew was that the need to kneel before this man, to take him in my mouth, to devote myself to his pleasure with the focused, reverent attention of someone performing an act of devotion, the way he had taught me to do… that need felt so overwhelming that it eclipsed every other sensation in my body. The soreness between my legs, the throbbing of my welted bottom, the shudder in my thighs—all of it faded to background noise beneath the roaring imperative to do my duty to the huge manhood that had claimed me for my master’s pleasure.
Master Paul’s eyes darkened. His hand stilled against the back of my neck, and for a moment he simply looked at me—looked at my flushed, tear-streaked face and my desperate eyes and my lips that were already parting, softening, preparing themselves for him. I watched something shift behind his expression: the vulnerability of the man who’d just confessed he was falling for me receding, not disappearing but stepping back, making room for the other thing he was. The thing I needed him to be.
“Come with me,” he said.
He rose from the bed and crossed the bedroom in three strides, moving through the doorway into the living room. I scrambled after him on unsteady legs, the robe slipping off one shoulder, my bare feet padding against the hardwood floor.
The living room was warm with late-afternoon light, the amber glow pooling across a worn leather armchair that sat beside the bookshelves. It was the kind of chair that looked like it had been sat in for decades—deep-seated, with wide arms and a high back, the leather darkened and softened by years of use.
Master Paul settled into it. He sat with his knees apart, his back against the leather, his arms resting on the chair’s wide arms. He looked up at me standing before him in the cedar-scented robe, and the expression on his face was one I recognized from the studio—that slow, thorough, proprietary assessment that made every inch of my skin feel like it was being catalogued and claimed.
“On your knees,” he said.
CHAPTER 28
Anne
I sank to the floor. The Persian rug felt soft and a little scratchy against my shins. The motion made the robe fall open further, exposing the inner curve of one breast and the pale line of my sternum. I knelt between his spread thighs and looked up at him, and the geometry of the position—him above, me below, the leather chair framing his body like a throne—made something inside me compress into a single, bright point of devotion.
“Take it out,” he said. “Slowly. Show me what kind of girl you are when there aren’t any cameras.”
My hands trembled as I reached for the waistband of his joggers. I hooked my fingers beneath the elastic and eased it down, lifting the fabric over the shape of him, and he raised his hips slightly to let me work. The joggers came down to his thighs, then I pulled the waistband of his boxer briefs, and his cock emerged—heavy, thick, not fully hard yet but already substantial, resting against his thigh with a weight that made my mouth flood with saliva.
I stared at it. Without the studio lights, without the cameras, without Melissa’s voice directing from beyond the set, the sight of his manhood felt more intimate than anything that had happened today. This was real. This was his apartment, his chair, his body, and I had knelt before him because I had asked to be here. Because I needed to be here.
“Go ahead,” Master Paul said. His voice was quiet, unhurried. The voice of a man who had no intention of rushing anything.
I lowered my mouth to his swollen phallus.
The first touch of my lips against the warm, velvety skin of my master’s shaft sent a current through my body that terminated between my legs. I kissed him there—a soft, reverent press of my lips against the side of his cock—and the intimacy of the gesture made my eyes fill. I kissed him again, lower, where the shaft met his heavy sac, and I felt him stir against my lips, thickening, beginning the slow process of hardening that I knew my mouth could coax from him.