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Something about this man tells me he doesn’t write his name on his luggage. He probably just narrows his eyes at his suitcase, daring it to get lost.
“Dominic Gonzalez.” He closes his fingers around mine. “But my friends call me Dom.”
Forty-one to my twenty-five. A sixteen-year age gap isn’t too much, is it?
“Make me happy, Angel.” I glance back up, finding his blue eyes locked on mine. “Let me feed you. Eat your treat.”
“Is this you leaning in?” I whisper. He smirks. “You’re getting it now, Mama.” Mama. Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
“Keep teasin’ me, see where it gets you.” Pretty please, let it be pinned to his bed.
“I need a taste of you, Angel. A taste of whatever you’ll give me.” My eyes immediately jump to the abstract drawing of a pair of boobs on the wall. Dom groans. “Fuck, Valentine, I’d kill for just a kiss. But I’ll taste those too if you let me.”
Send. Me: Reimplementing
“I’ve done bad things, Valentine.” I brush my lips over her pinkened cheek. “But I’ll always be good to you.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear when I tattooed your name across my fucking throat. This”—I tap the letters—“is so everyone knows who I belong to.” I’ve never given someone this sort of claim over me, and it feels fantastic. “And inking the last words of my vow to you above my fucking dick.” I reach down and cup my hand over the front of my pants. “That’s all for you, Angel. So when you’re ready to wrap those lips around my cock and take me into your throat, you’ll be eye level with my promise to you. Even on your knees, I’ll still be yours.”
