Page 135 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Damn him and his silver tongue.
My body moves on instinct, grinding against his jaw, chasing the high he’s bringing. His scruff is delicious torture, sharp little bites that send shivers ricocheting down my spine.
He groans into me, and I swear the vibration hits a new nerve. My fingers dig into the headboard. My head tips back.
I’m close. Too close.
When I try to pull away, to regain some semblance of control, his mouth sticks to me like a shadow, never letting up.
“Bryce—Wait—I need—” The protest dies as he adds suction that makes my vision white out.
The orgasm builds and breaks over me in devastating waves, leaving me shuddering and gasping above him. I’m completely undone.
As I slide down his body, boneless and breathless, he wears a grin that saysI won.His face glistens with evidence of what he’s done to me, and he looks utterly triumphant despite being tied up.
“That backfired… spectacularly,” I say in between pants.
“From where I’m lying, it went exactly according to plan. When do we start round two?”
“Oh, you cocky billionaire. Payback’s just getting started.”
He grins. “Great. I enjoy being disciplined by you.”
I snatch my panties and use them to wipe him clean, savoring the stunned expression behind his lashes.
“Last chance to pick a safe word, B.”
“I have no interest in playing it safe.”
He has theaudacityto wink before I stuff the lace into his mouth.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
His eyes go wide as dinner plates. Mine do too—but for different reasons.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I throw on my robe and give the strategic penis pillow a little pat. “Showtime, boys! Next time think twice before turning me into a human popsicle.”
He tries to talk. “Mmfph. Mmmffphhh.”
I dash to his walk-in closet, positioning myself behind the door where I can peek through the gap. From here, I’ve got a perfect view of Bryce—mid silent panic attack. Unfortunate for him. Hilarious for me.
In my lowest, most seriousBryce-with-a-stick-up-his-assvoice, I call out, “Enter!”
Through the crack in the door, I watch as Nigel Featherwick glides into the room in his standard black tuxedo, carrying an elaborate crystal bowl. When he spots Bryce on the bed, he doesn’t even pause—just closes the door with the efficiency of a man who’s clearly handled stranger requests.
“Apologies for the delay, Mr. Sterling,” he says in that stoic,I-scold-you-soBritish accent. “I was informed you wished for me to personally deliver this.”
I bite my lip to contain my giggles. This is playing out better than I imagined when I made the call twenty minutes ago, requesting an antique crystal bowl…
Full. Of. Condoms.
“I do hope the presentation meets your exact standards,” Nigel continues, holding the bowl at a precise angle for inspection. “The crystal is Waterford, circa 1897.”
Bryce responds with an eloquent, unintelligible mumble.
“Shall I temporarily remove the gag, sir?”
