The Interview (The Whittingtons, #1)

by Donna Alam

Women are fickle, you know. And men are idiots. ~ Marc Levy

“I won’t flatter you like the spider,” he murmurs, “but I might let you come when I eat you later.”

Warmth floods between my legs, and I’m pretty sure I whimper. “Such a pretty sound.” I feel the loss of his heat immediately as he leans away again. “Hurry now. Show Daddy what he wants.”

“Oh, I’ve no intention of stopping,” he whispers. “Yes, that’s it. Such pretty fluttering.”

“That’s it,” Whit encourages, and oh my God, I know I shouldn’t be turned on by his praise, but I am. “You’re such a good little slut for me.”

how perfectly she followed instructions and how beautiful she looked as she unraveled,

“I’m not going to shove her anywhere,” I mutter as I imagine her expression as I shove her on—full of?—something very hard and very specific.

The

Dead brother, dead brother, I begin to silently chant as my cock perks up, beginning to pay attention.

“Given time, I think you’ll come to appreciate having me around.” And that’s what I’m worried about.

Inappropriate was when I lifted my skirt because you told me to. Inappropriate was when you slid your hand between—”

Because every time you step into my office, I won’t see you professionally. I’ll be remembering how wet and warm you felt. How your body bent for me. And every time your mouth moves, I’ll hear the sounds falling from your lips and think of how exquisite you are when you come.”

I was right about one thing. Every time I see Mimi Valente, no matter what expression she’s wearing and no matter what she has to say, I see her mouth softly open and her eyes glaze. Hear her soft, tortured breath in my ear. Feel her fingernails digging into my forearm.

Those fucking legs. What I wouldn’t give to have them wrapped around my head. Uncross your legs, darling. That’s it. Press your knees nice and wide. Slide your skirt a little higher. Let me watch you grow wet with my words.

My mouth watered as I’d anticipated the slide of my tongue through her soaked slit. I had fully intended on eating her out until her throat became hoarse and her legs weak. Until pleasure coated her thighs, my chin, and cheeks. I would’ve fucked her then, blind to consequences, blind to everything.

He is so handsome, wild-eyed, and darkly stubbled. And he’s mine. Finally.

Heels. Long, shapely legs. Gossamer fine lingerie. Fuckable tits and a mouth I don’t know whether I want to kiss or defile with my dick. Both, obviously. But which first?

“People who get out of bed with a smile on their face are to be treated with suspicion.”

“Fuck, yes. That’s it,” Whit growls, his body pressed tight and undulating against mine. “Who gets to fuck you, Amelia? Who is it that fucks you so well?” “Y-you!” I whimper as this liquid, hot climax drowns me. I’m aware of nothing else but the soft grunt of his own release against my neck.

What I need is Mimi.

I love her. I love her, and I’m so screwed.

He’d pressed his finger to my lips. “Don’t date anyone else,” he’d said softly. “Just be with me. I promise not to fall in love with you.” I fell. That was all it took.

I love you. I think I’ve always loved you. I think I will always love you.

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.” Want you still. “I know the feeling.” His expression turns soft, and my heart flutters in my chest.

“Mimi,” I say with a chuckle, “hell would freeze over before I could ever hate

He is the best of men, not because he planned a secret trip to Paris, but because he pays attention. Because he listens and he watches, and then he offers not just material things and experiences but thoughts and ideas.

Je t’aime. Te amo. Rakastan sinua. Aroha i a koutou. But the language of love is more than words. As we stand, holding hands, I think of Whit and the many ways he shows affection. His love. I hope his family know how lucky they are to have him looking after them. I think of how he’d stepped up to fill his father’s shoes when so many men in his place would’ve been consumed with their own grief. I think of the time he devotes and how his loved one’s needs are his priority. I think of his thoughtfulness, and I think about the person he is.

I might not be a fan of tickling, but being chased by Daddy gives me the shivers.

Tipping onto my toes, I press my hand to his cheek and my lips to his ear. “Don’t give up your day job, Daddy,” I whisper. And then I kiss him.