Page 116 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
I nod, and he grips my hips, sucking me down again. I make a honking sound like a goddamn goose, flapping my arms. He pulls back again with a wet slurp and an imperiously arched brow.
“Do you really want me to stop?”
Shivering, I shake my head, and he goes after me again. I whine and punch the cushions. I try to pull my hips away, only to have him chase the movement, increasing the suction as he rolls my balls in his hand.
Fuck, I feel like he’s going to burn out the nerve endings with too much pleasure, and I can’t tell if I like it or hate it. Crawling between my legs, he pushes my legs up and back, exposing me because he knows it embarrasses me.
He grins and dives below, licking my sensitive, overused hole. I shout out, then moan again when he traps my head in a tight grip, killing me with teasing strokes as he swirls fingers around my hole. My oversensitive skin is begging for mercy, but my cock wants more pressure, and I’m ninety percent certain I’m about to short circuit.
Squirming, I try to push against his fingers, and he obliges, pressing a finger past the overworked furl of skin.
Pleasure-pain-pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure.
He spits on my cock again and takes it in hand, stroking me with unbelievable pressure. I’m practically sobbing from the too-much of it all, and then I orgasm dry, a shivering drop in my slit the only indication.
“Good boy,” he says, dipping down to tongue the slight ejaculate.
I shiver and roll away from him. “Please, no more.”
“Okay, baby. You did so good today,” he says, his voice soothing my overworked nerves as he hands me a bottle of water.
Still facing away from him, I prop myself up and drink it quickly, relaxing into the chilly sensation making its way down my throat. I take another sip and set the bottle off to the side, curling back into a fetal position.
“Do you want space, or do you want me to hold you?” he asks gently. “I promise not to touch your pretty cock.”
Looking over my shoulder, I snarl at him, my emotions all over the place. His smile is warm, and I roll back into his embrace, smashing the side of my face against his pecs.
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
“Just hold me tight. Don’t stroke my skin. Or anything else,” I grumble.
He kisses the top of my head and winds his leg over mine, cocooning me from the rest of the world. He takes a few deep breaths, and I follow his rhythm, slipping into drowsiness and deep relaxation.
How does he know what I need when I need it?
I don’t know how long we’re in this perfect position, but it’s not long enough.
Grayson, looking horrified, bursts onto the balcony, bearing two robes. “Put these on! Get back inside. There are pictures of you two.”
My stomach clenches. “What pictures?”
Grayson remains tight-lipped as Joe grabs the robes, helping me into mine before sliding into his. “Grayson, what pictures? Where are they posted?” Joe demands, putting his arm around me.
Grayson—ever unflappable—swallows, looking nervous. My head starts to throb as he answers. “They were taken within the last hour from a camera-mounted drone, and they’re everywhere. Page Six, all social media platforms, a byline in the Times.”
I lean over, my stomach clenching. Joe puts his hand on my back, and I blindly let him lead me inside. Once the curtains are drawn, Joe pulls up his phone. His phone’s notifications start to go off, and I wonder where the hell I left my own phone. He taps a message, and his fingers tighten, all but crushing the phone in his grip.
I think of everything we did in the last hour, and a chill runs straight through me. The life he and I are starting to build together after years of feeling so fucking alone…my throat closes when I think about losing the one thing in my life I never knew I needed.
“Edgerton’s on his way up,” Joe says, flat rage at the edge of his voice.
I look up at Joe, pressure rising behind my eyes. “I can’t—no. I can’t face him. I can’t—I can’t.”
He curves an arm around me. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay. I’ve got it from here,” he says, leading me back to our bedroom. Looking over his shoulder at Grayson, he says in a low voice, “I’ll take care of him. Have Edgerton hold off. He’s already chasing this down. Tell him to keep at it.”
“Yes, sir.” Grayson’s quiet demeanor—usually adorned with the tiniest edge of smartass—is uncharacteristically grave.
