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this company was my husband’s labor of love. He worked for ten years to build it up from the ground. His dream was to hand it down to his three sons.”
“It’s not like I’m going to make you come so fucking hard or anything.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “It’s not like it would be the best sex of your life or anything.”
“Admit it,” he says softly as his gaze drops to my lips. “You haven’t wondered what I’d be like in bed?” he whispers. “No,” I lie. It’s the only thing I can think about. “Not once.”
“You haven’t wondered how big my dick is?” he breathes as he tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear and steps toward me. Jesus, he’s hung. Only a big man would bring attention to the size of his dick.
His hands run over my thighs. “A little cellulite,” he whispers. His fingertips dust over my stomach. “A few stretch marks.” He grabs the little pouch of fat on my stomach and gives it a tug, and I smile against his lips. “C-section scar.” He runs his finger over the large scar on my lower stomach. His hands go to my breasts, slightly saggy and not full like they used to be before the kids.
“Do I look like a man who doesn’t like what he sees?” he whispers. My eyes lower to his large erection,
“Mr. Miles.” He turns back toward me. “I believe it was you that moaned my name first,” I say sweetly. He rolls his eyes. “That’s debatable.”
My eyes widen. “You stole my key?” I gasp. “Borrowed it, and relax, we swap body fluids. What’s yours is mine.”
He reappears from the kitchenette in my room and hands me a glass of water. “Here you are.” I sit up on my elbow and take it. “Thanks.” “Well, your voice is hoarse from moaning ‘Tristan’ all night.” He shrugs casually. “It’s the least I could do.”
The high of the orgasm she gives me isn’t half as good as the high after it. When I’m holding her in my arms like this, intimacy is running between us like a river, and just for a moment . . . She is mine.
“Why are you awake so early?” I ask. “Been up for hours. Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters as he returns to his phone and keeps scrolling. “Why not?” “All your snoring. It’s like sleeping with a boar cuddling your back. It gives a new meaning to a wild night.” I giggle and rub my eyes
“I’m going to steal your phone, take a shot of my cock, and post it on your”—he holds his fingers up to air quote—“‘private Instagram’ with the heading Paris, hashtag loving-the-cock.”
“Is your mother there making you call me?” “Yep.” “Are you really sorry?” “No.” I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.
sleeping with only you . . . isn’t a problem for me.” His lips touched mine. “However, not sleeping with you is a torture I won’t tolerate.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to believe it. “He put sugar in the gas tank of my Aston Martin.” “What?” “Oh, it gets better. He also put hair-removal cream in my fucking conditioner bottle.”
