I nod, flicking my tongue against the bottom of his cock. He presses slowly to the back wall of my mouth. I gag and then swallow it down, feeling the cockhead swell in my throat.
“Open up for me,” he says, moving his fingers down to rub my neck as a little more of him eases down my tight throat. He hisses, “Jesus Christ, bunny. That’s so f**king good. So good.”
He withdraws, flexing his hips, and then slowly glides back in. This time it’s easier. I'm prepared for the fullness and hungry for his taste. This time he slides so far in that the coarse hair of his pubis tickles my nose. His hands are on either side of my face, tipping my hair back. I can feel my hot arousal trickling down my leg, a thicker, more viscous fluid than the water. I’m consuming him, eating his essence, taking him inside me in a way I had never envisioned possible.
With his hands around my face and neck and his rigid length down my throat, I'm entirely his. His c**k drags along the soft tissues of my throat. I feel the ridges against my tongue and his firm grip against my chin. My entire world is his c**k and fingers and the smell and taste of him.
I drop my hand to my clit and start to rub furiously, unconcerned by balance or resistance. Ian has me in his hands. He’s thrusting now, not as deeply, and his movements lack his regular precise control.
“I’m going to come right now,” he grits out. I think he tries to push me away, but I lean forward and open my mouth as wide as possible. I want to drink him down. A shout sounds and then he comes, the thick, ropey jets of se**n coating the inside of my mouth. There’s so much of it that it leaks onto his hand and covers my face, and it is hard to tell where the soap stops and the evidence of his climax begins. I lick as much of it as I can before the water washes it away.
Ian lifts me into his arms and kisses me, uncaring that he’s tasting himself. His slick tongue is devastating. “I want to be inside you. Tonight. I have to have you, Tiny.”
“Yes, Ian, yes,” I moan between kisses.
His fingers slip inside me again, pumping me to the release that had been building the entire time I had sucked him down. It takes only a minute for him to rub me to an orgasm.
“God, bunny.” His eyes darken and his breath quickens, and for a moment I think he’ll impale me right there in the shower. But for that brief moment when I was on my knees before him, Ian’s self-control governs him more strictly than the guards outside Buckingham Palace who never smile. Instead, he lowers me to the ground, kissing me gently, and then shoves me out of the shower. As I’m toweling off, he blasts the cold water and stares at me hotly. I swear the steam rises from the heat of his gaze.
I have to turn away before I’m burnt. He gives me a wry smile and finishes his shower.
“You can leave your bike with the doorman. They’ll store it.” He tells me as he’s dressing. I try not to dwell on the fact that he has a couple of suits in the walk-in closet next to my jeans and spandex. I’m too chicken to ask him what it means—mostly because I don’t know what I want the answer to be.
“They won’t think it’s weird?”
“They are paid too much to say anything but that you look beautiful and that biking is good exercise.”
Ian moves too fast for me. I understood his bedtime story last night. He likes making quick decisions, believes in them. But I’m not a manufacturing company.
“Do you still own the plastics company?” I ask him.
“So you did hear that?” His eyes flick from the mirror to me and then back to the mirror. His collar is flipped up, and he’s wrapping the large end of his tie around the little one in expert, practiced movements. I don’t have the first clue how to tie a man’s neckwear, so his morning ablutions are fascinating. In about thirty seconds, his tie is knotted and his collar is back into position. “Yes, I still own it. It’s a very profitable company. Maybe you’ve heard of it.” And he names a company that I thought made shampoo.
“Wait, they’re a plastics company?”
“They were when I bought it. Now they are a much larger business with many diverse interests. Cuff me?” In his hand he holds out two mother-of-pearl cufflinks. They’re almost feminine in their appearance, but against his masculine hand, they look exotic and a perfect match for his oyster-pink tie.
“Did you pick this tie out?” I flick my index finger against it.
He looks down. “No, personal shopper.”
“She has good taste,” I say sourly—but like all my other feelings involving Ian, I’m confused about this too. The thought of another woman dressing him somehow bothers me, as if she’s got intimate knowledge of him that I don’t have or maybe even a longer, more personal relationship with him.
He taps my nose and says, “It’s a him, but I like your jealousy. Gives me hope.”
As he sits on the end of the bed to put his shoes on, I slip on new panties, spandex bike shorts, a sports bra, and a T-shirt.
“While I’d love to stay here all day with you, I have meetings to run.”
“People to ruin?” I joke.
He pauses in the midst of pulling his laces tight. “People to ruin.”
He gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, which is fast becoming his go-to region. I’ll put a sticker there that says “Ian’s landing spot.” And then he’s gone in a whirl of custom-made superfine wool and hand-stitched shoes.
Mom is still sleeping when I let myself out. I make my three deliveries for Malcolm as he requested, but my thoughts are still in the shower. I’m wet all day and not just from sweat.
Around noon my mom calls diverting my thoughts away from Ian. “Hey sexy momma, what’s cooking?” I say brightly.
“This place is so beautiful, dear. I swear I can see all the way across the park.” She exclaims.
“That Ian boy is so nice.” Leave it to my mom to call him a boy. Shit. I don’t even know how old he is or what his middle name is, yet I’m living in an apartment that he’s paying for and my clothes are sharing the same closet as some of his clothes. I wonder what goes on at the f**kpad down in the Meatpacking District—the one with the cameras that look like live creatures.
“Yeah, don’t get too comfortable,” I warn.
“Did you know that there is a concierge for the apartments? As if we were staying in a swanky hotel!” She continues on gushing about it as if my warning never happened. With each compliment increases my concern about taking her out of there back to the walk up. It’s my own pride that makes me want to leave.