Page 96 of Best Served Cold

But even as he speaks of torment, his touch dips closer to where I need it, to where I’m so eager for him I can barely remember what a flower is, let alone how to arrange it.

I turn my head and brush a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t think I care about the flowers.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” he says, slipping his fingers past the strap of my underwear and brushing them over me. Then I feel him tugging down the fabric, and I lift up for a moment so he can get the underwear past my butt. They drop and get caught on the heels, and I shake them off my feet. “Because I’m only going to put the yellow condom on if you finish.”

He’s playing games with me. He must be able to feel how much I like it, because he makes a sound of pleasure, tightening his grip on my hip, and dips his fingers inside of me under the dress. He moves them so skillfully and with such purpose thatsweat beads on my forehead as I try to trim the flowers to the correct length. I start working with the ribbon.

Almost done.

I’ve done this before, but my fingers feel clumsy and sluggish, as if I can only pay attention to one sensation at a time, and this is not the one I want to waste any brain cells on.

He leans in close as he thrusts his fingers in deep, the palm of his hand pressing against a place that has me writhing against him. His hair brushes my neck before his lips press against the skin beneath my ear. He sucks on the flesh softly, his hand still working me while his other hand pins me down to his lap, showing me exactly the effect this is having on him—and what reward I’ll get if I finish the flowers.

I make almost inhuman noises as I tie a clumsy knot around the flowers. It could, with imagination, be considered a corsage. It’s probably the ugliest thing I’ve ever made, but I don’t care. I’ll wear it. I’ll wear it every day until it wilts if he’ll just give me what I want.

I start on the boutonniere as he moves his fingers, curling them up to stroke a spot I didn’t know existed, his lips still on my neck. Pleasure ripples through me.

I’m clumsy as I fumble with the tape and the pin, but I get it done, and I don’t look at the clock. I don’t even look back at him. I grab the yellow condom and turn toward him, silently pleading.

And the way he’s looking at me…

No man has ever looked at me like this before.

My whole body feels like it’s on the verge of erupting. His fingers move inside of me.

“Take off your pants, please,” I plead.

“So polite.”

He smiles at me as I get up, and I watch, hungry, as he pushes down his pants and underwear. My mouth goes dry as he pumpsa hand up his dick once and then rolls on the condom. “Sit down,” he says, his voice velvet. “Just like before, Sophie. Your back to me.”

As I start to lower down, I feel him position himself, and then I sink down onto him, slowly, the feeling exquisite. His hands reach up to cup my breasts as I move on top of him, my hands gripping the edge of the table for support.

“So beautiful,” he breathes into my neck. “So good at taking my dick.”

No one’s ever spoken to me like that before. Part of me clutches her pearls even as I move more quickly on top of him, taking more of him. Wanting him deeper.

“And you make such gorgeous flower arrangements,” he whispers into my ear before capturing the lobe in his teeth.

I’m shocked that I can laugh right now, with him inside of me like this, at the kitchen table, but it’s such a ridiculous thing to say. The flowers are all at awkward, rushed angles. Because I wanted him too much to be anything close to rational.

“I was on a tight schedule,” I say as I push into him, taking him so deep it feels like my eyes will roll back into my head.

“So am I, Sophie. I only have five minutes to make you come. Do you think I can do it?”

His hand moves between my legs, and the feeling of him stroking me there while I take him in deep, out here in the kitchen, is enough to drive me crazy.

“I believe in you,” I say as I grind into him, his hips bucking up to meet me.

It grabs me all at once this time, and it takes far less than five minutes. Pleasure bursts through me, so fierce it almost hurts, radiating all the way down to my fingers and toes. To the nerve endings on my scalp.

He groans, and I feel him pulse inside me, which only drives my pleasure higher, even more so when he leans in and kisses my neck with an open mouth.

“With time to spare,” he whispers into my ear.

I get up, and he groans before climbing to his feet and taking off the condom.

“Crap,” I say, checking the clock. I have to leave for work in three minutes. I hurry to the bathroom, and he follows me at a more leisurely pace, knotting the condom and throwing it in the trash. It looks so dirty in there, like an accusation. So I crumple some tissues and throw them on top. Then I hurry to run a brush through my hair.

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