Page 35 of Filthy Mouth
•Large. No, massive. Stretches me in ways that should come with a warning label.
•Knows what to do with it. Uses every inch like it’s his job.
•Gives breakfast in bed—if you can call a mouthful of come breakfast. (Apparently, you can.)
•Beard burn. Which, shockingly, counts as a plus.
•Rich, powerful, annoyingly good at pulling my hair at the exact right moment.
•Filth levels off the charts. Man could degrade me until I’m smiling.
Cons:
•Might actually rearrange my internal organs.
•Gives me bruises in places I can’t explain to a medical professional.
•Has stamina no forty-five-year-old should possess. (Suspicious. Possibly black magic.)
•Calls the shots like he owns me. (…which, let’s be honest, is kind of a pro in disguise.)
I analysed the list in my head and realised with a sinking, shivery sort of clarity: Benedict Lancaster was endgame.
Of course, my brain didn’t stop there. It dragged Edmund into the equation, which was frankly insulting to Benedict’s dick.
Edmund’s hypothetical dick pros and cons:
Pros:
•Um… still attached to his body?
•Might be average enough not to cause lasting damage. (Though honestly, meh.)
Cons:
•Receding hairline so far back it looks like it’s retreating from the battlefield.
•The kind of man who says“lady garden” instead of pussy.
•Would probably need a PowerPoint presentation before attempting foreplay.
•Definitely the type to come in his pants before getting the condom open.
•His biggest sexual fantasy is probably being congratulated for lasting longer than three minutes.
•Only after my inheritance, because without a wealthy woman, he’d be just another bore with a shiny car and middle-aged insecurity.
I smirked at my screen, the design a blur. Compared to Benedict? Edmund didn’t even make the reserves team. He wasn’t even a warm-up act.
Benedict’s cock was a life sentence I was already guilty of and happy to serve. A disgusting, nasty life sentence—and my pussy throbbed at the thought.
He wasn’t just good in bed—he was criminally good. Dangerous. Every filthy word, every brutal thrust, every wicked trick of his tongue had been deployed with lethal precision, like he’d studied the art of ruining women and chosen me as his final masterpiece.
His real danger was in how he treated his come, not as an ending, but as the start of another game. He fed it to me like it was an elixir of life, rubbed it into my skin like perfume, and forced me to taste it until I was dizzy on him. Filthy, degrading, addictive. No man should know how to use his come like that…and yet he wielded it like a weapon I couldn’t fight.
Ugh. This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to get involved with anyone.
Six months, my ass. He’d set me up from the start.
