Page 35 of Blackmail
“Ask me,” he grunts. “Ask me for permission.”
Asshole. “Please.”
“Ask me.”
“Please let me come.”
The harsh pants of our breath mix with the soft squeak of his seat as I rock against him. I put a hand on the window to steady myself and realize there’s fog covering the glass.
For a second, he’s silent. Even though I don’t have to, I realize I’m holding back. I can’t believe I’m waiting for his permission.
Simon, what in the actual fuck are you doing right now?
“Sebastian.”
“You haven’t asked yet, Simon.”
For fuck’s sake. “Can I please get the fuck off, Sir?”
Lucky for me, he finds that funny. With an honest-to-God chuckle, he speeds up the hand gripping us both. His other hand plucks at the buttons of his shirt until his belly and chest are exposed.
“Do it. I want you to scream. I want your cum all over me.”
That’s all I need to let go. With a harsh shout, I blow all over his abs, and a few seconds later, he groans and erupts all over his hand.
Without thinking, I grab his hand and clean him off. Lapping up bodily fluids is something I would never ordinarily do with a client. I will blame the confusing and messed-up day we’ve both had.
I find myself slumped forward, practically pressing my forehead against him, knees wide. In all the crazy things I’ve ever done, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more exposed.
Our breath mingles, a mix of jagged puffs and pants, as we stare into each other’s eyes. My brain is trying to tell me how wildly dangerous this is. It’s the behavior that blurs lines with a client or, worse, allows somebody to catch feelings. Still, I can’t seem to pull away.
“I’ll be surprised if nobody calls in a noise complaint,” I say to shift the mood.
Sebastian laughs. “There’s probably nobody within a mile.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Don’t worry.” He laughs again, but how he looks at me is oddly profound. And soft. A look that seems out of place on such a stern face.
“I’m not that worried.”
“Good. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” Then the man who threatened to fucking have me arrested a little more than twenty-four hours ago reaches out and runs his palm up and down my neck.
I can’t suppress my shiver, but I also roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay, mister blackmail.”
He tilts his head. “If you do think of anything that might help me end things with Tony, will you let me know?”
I study his face. Or I try to. For a second, I can’t stop my gaze from drifting down to his chest, which is still heaving as he brings his breathing under control. There’s a chance he’s playing me. That all of this incredible sex and being kind to me is a way to get me to do what he wants, and I need to shut that shit down absolutely.
The silly, childish part of me that misses things like affection and love is buying what he’s selling like a damn two-for-one sale.
“I don’t know.”
This is a shit answer, but it’s the truth. I don’t think I’d care if he were another random client. Experience has taught me that guys like him see guys like me as lesser. They can use us and show us off like purebred dogs or that expensive coffee that comes out of a cat’s asshole.
“I meant what I said before. I’d like to see you again,” he says.
There’s a pulse of anxiety in my chest. I’m confused by why he’d want that, and also a little panicked because I know part of me wants it too. “What would that look like?”
