Page 65 of Lamb

Marisela lifted an arm, swiping over her smeared lipstick with the backside of her hand, while I adjusted my pants and watched her. Specifically, how her gaze dropped to follow my movements, no matter how much she tried to keep them focused on my face.

“If you didn’t want me to fuck you…” I trailed my eyes over the length of her body, from heeled toe to pursed lips. “…then why did you follow me out here, little lamb?”

“I didn’t follow you. I left.”

“Same difference.” I shrugged. “You came here looking to get my attention. Now you have it.”

“I came here to have a drink,” she threw back.

“My drink. My cigar.” I reached out a hand and pressed it over her clit. Over her clothes with just enough pressure to have her squirming. Marisela might have given up on the prospect of sex, of enjoying it, but her body hadn’t. “My pussy.”

She steeled her spine. I could feel her clenching as shewilled herself not to move. “Pretty sure it’s mine, unless there’s something you want to tell me?” she countered, and I grinned.

“There is so much I want to tell you, show you, do to you… but is there something you want to tell me first?”

“Nope,” she replied, popping her lips. “Nothing that comes to mind.”

I rested a palm on the wall beside her head, using my free hand to brush the loose strands of hair from her face. It didn’t feel the same. Not nearly as soft and wavy. But much like my little lamb’s affections, her natural curls would grow back soon.

“You have a new personal assistant. Pretty little thing, from what I hear…” I kept my focus on the way my fingers twirled around her hair, transfixed by the memory of dark locks sprawled out on bright-white bedsheets, until the grinding of teeth had me shifting my eyes to the right.

“Keeping tabs on me? Or is it her?” Marisela was seething.

“Her who?”

“Emily?”

“I have absolutely no interest in Emily. Or any other woman who isn’t you, if that’s what you’re worried about, Marisela.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even a partial truth. I wasn’t interested in the girl. I was interested in Dr. Michaels’sinterestin her. In what he was willing to do for me to get to her. The same way a fisherman was interested in the worm on his hook.

I didn’t care about guppies when I had a much bigger catch in mind.

Marisela slapped my arm aside, and for a moment, I thought she was going to slap me too. Instead, she gestured for me to get on my knees. Grabbing on to the back of my head until my face was buried in her bare cunt. Nothing separating my mouth from her pussy while the hem of her dress billowed around us like a white flag signaling her surrender. Because she was the only one fighting us. She was the only thing keeping me from where I really wanted to be. Lost between her thighs.

I took a long breath and groaned.

It was normal for nostalgia to sweeten the memory of something. Increasing blood flow to certain regions of the body and simulating a time when you felt your best, altering your brain chemistry so that how it’d had been could never compare to how it actually was. The concept better than the reality.

This wasn’t that. This was far more intense, more mind-altering than nostalgia. Tasting her. Smelling her. Feeling her… The fantasy couldn’t compete. Neither could the images of her I saw in my head every night. The images I used to get myself off in the shower.

She wasn’t sweet. More tangy and salty. But not overpowering. Not spicy but not bland either. It was the perfect balance of wet and sticky that clung to my tongue, tingling along the tip until I sank deeper and slurped down another taste. And another and another. Gorging myself like it wasmy first and last meal. My only meal. Except she was more than that too.

Marisela was a French dessert. Savory and decadent, yet so light and airy you couldn’t stop yourself from eating the whole box.

I’d eat this one too. Suck, lap, eat. Devour. I wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

Each time my neck got stiff or my jaw started to ache, I would hear her whimper or curse or sigh and that serotonin spike kept me from feeling anything but hungry. For her. For whatever her body would give me.

But too soon, she was digging her hands in my hair and tugging me back to my feet. Flipping us around and dropping to her knees. Until only one of us got what they wanted. Until my cock was empty and her mouth was full. And all I could do was watch her leave me behind again.

78

MARISELA

Itapped my nails on top of the conference table as my glare panned across the room. Each face more useless than the next. What I needed was a loophole. What they were giving me were excuses.

I owned forty-nine percent of the company; the board controlled the other fifty-one percent until a successor was named. Which meant I didn’t own shit.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Prescott. But there’s nothing more we can do.”

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