Page 12 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

He steps back half a pace. Just enough to give me space. But his eyes never leave mine.

"You've got three seconds." His voice drops to a growl. "Choose."

My mouth is dry. My legs, still trembling. Every part of me throbs—from the stretch of him, the impact of his words, the promise of what he wants next.

Three choices.

All of them filthy. All of them perfect.

I meet his gaze—steady, smoldering—and find the strength I didn't know I still had.

"I choose all three."

His brows lift. His smile? Predatory.

But I'm already moving.

I drop to my knees on the soft rug in front of him, lifting my chin as I stare up at him, lips parted, voice low and shaking but sure.

"This one first."

His cock twitches. His hand fists at his side.

"Fuuuuck," he growls, voice thick. "You have no idea what that just did to me."

I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock, already hardening again in my hand, thick and heavy, hot against my palm.

He watches me—completely still, like a beast stalking prey—until I lick a slow, deliberate stripe along the underside of him.

He hisses through his teeth. "Shit. Just like that."

My tongue circles the tip, gathering the taste of him. My lips part, and I take him into my mouth, slow at first, savoring the weight of him, the way he fills me.

"God, you look good like that," he mutters, voice wrecked. "On your knees. Lips stretched around my cock."

I hum around him, and his hand snaps into my hair, not pulling—guiding. Just enough pressure to remind me who's really in control.

"You wanted this," he grits out. "You wanted to feel me on your tongue. Wanted to taste me, suck me, serve me."

I moan in response, cheeks hollowing as I slide deeper, saliva pooling, eyes watering as I take as much as I can.

"Fuck, Amelia—messy little mouth," he growls, thrusting shallowly into my throat. "You like it filthy, don't you? Like gagging on my cock while I praise you for being my good girl."

Heat rushes between my thighs. I grind against nothing, desperate and aching.

He drags me back, lets me breathe, just long enough to catch his eye. His pupils are blown, jaw tight, chest heaving.

Then he's back inside—thrusting deeper, harder.

"You're not getting off until I come down your throat," he growls. "And when I'm done, I'm tying you to that fucking bed and making you scream."

Tears sting my eyes, spit drips down my chin, and still I take him—faster, wetter, needier.

And when he explodes, it's with a grunt, hips jerking as hot release fills my mouth. I swallow instinctively, not even thinking—just obedient, wrecked, his.

He looks down at me, chest heaving, cock still twitching in my hand.

"Bed," he says, voice dark and final. "Now."

---