Page 62 of The Worst Best Man
Frankie slipped her hands between the buttons of his shirt, her fingers flexing on the fabric.
“You’re rich, right? You can afford a new shirt?”
“Oh, yeah,” he breathed.
It was all the incentive she needed. She yanked, sending buttons flying in all directions. One stroke of his chest, and she sent her busy fingers to his belt.
“Franchesca if you don’t get out of that dress now, I’m going to destroy it.”
“You bought it for me,” she reminded him.
“Right. I’ll get you another dress and me another shirt.”
He didn’t destroy the entire thing. Just ripped one of the straps and ruined the zipper trying to get his hands on her faster.
She worked just as quickly, just as impatiently. She had his belt off and his pants unhooked before he got the dress to her waist.
He’d thought of little else since he’d seen her in that strapless bra and gossamer thin panties before the ceremony. And now she was his for the touching, the taking.
One more shove and her dress pooled at her ankles. She was curvy like a goddess. So different from the waiflike size zeros he usually took to bed.
Her body made him salivate. She was made for sin, and he was happy to oblige.
He wanted to stop, to enjoy the view. Aiden wanted to stroke and kiss his way over every inch of her beautiful body. But his pants were sliding down his thighs, and she was wrestling his throbbing dick out of his briefs.
“Let’s see what we’re working with here,” she said, dropping to her knees.
The picture of Franchesca on her knees in front of him, staring at his cock, nearly leveled him. It was so much more than any fantasy. And if he thought about it for one second longer, he was going to come before her red lips even parted over his cock.
“Fuck.” He needed to reel it in, to take control. He didn’t let anyone dominate him. Ever.
It was a rule.
She was looking up at him, a submissive vixen with fingers curled loosely around his erection. “Nice equipment, Aide,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
He nodded, incapable of words. Every ounce of his focus was on not coming on her face, in her hair.
Jesus.
“You okay up there?” she asked. “You having a stroke or something?”
“You and your fucking mouth,” he groaned. And then she was using that fucking mouth on him.
She knew, had to know, how close to the edge he already was. When she took him to the back of her throat, it was slow and teasing, giving him precious seconds to get used to the drag of her tongue, the glorious wet of her mouth.
Those eyes. More green than blue now, stared up at him triumphantly as she licked and sucked him. She was a witch, and he was her victim. He fisted his hand in her hair and regulated her strokes. Keeping them slow and controlled. But there was nothing he could do about that tongue. Those incredible noises at the back of her throat. He wanted to do this and nothing but this for the next year, watch her like this, feel her like this.
Shecouldbreak him, he realized. With nothing more than that smart mouth, she could break him and make him grovel.
It was that thought and that thought only that had him hauling her to her feet by her hair. She licked her lips and made his cock twitch against her stomach.
“I was just getting started.”
“So am I,” he promised. He stepped out of his pants, kicked off his shoes. “Bed. Now.”
She didn’t move fast enough for his liking. So he picked her up, draping her long legs over his hips. Her breasts taunted his mouth. “Take off your bra,” he said, crossing the living room.
By the time he hit the bedroom, he had one of those caramel nipples in his mouth, and she was begging him loudly to fuck her.
