Lily Ibite my cheek to stop from smiling. Within twelve days of turning twenty-one—and within thirty-two hours of landing in LA—I’m officially a woman. Sexy Gage Hollingsworth punched my V card. He was the perfect man for mission Bursting Lily’s Cherry. Nads is going to die. Gage made me feel so desired, and I wanted him so much, I didn’t care if it was going to hurt. The burning lust in his eyes was my undoing. I’ve had it bad for him since the first time I laid eyes on him. I wasn’t pr epared for his massive cock. Long, thick, pulsing, and lined with veins. I guess I should’ve known from his impressive height, large hands, and long feet. I’m not Lily the innocent virgin who’d never seen a cock in her life until an hour ago, but I’ve never gone all the way. The only other cock I’ve seen was half of Gage’s size, and the man it belonged to wasn’t a strapping hunk who stands at least six-four. Gage’s cock is so eye-popping huge, I’m surprised I didn’t run out of the bathroom when he dropped his boxer briefs. Holy enormous appendage. The first few thrusts were so painful, it was a struggle to breathe. It was like being impaled by a tree trunk, but in no time, pain gave into pleasure. Ohmygod, sex is a beautiful thing. After a shower in the luxurious spa-like bathroom, Gage and I are both draped in the hotel’s silky-soft white bathrobes, sitting at the round table in the living area, enjoying a lip-smacking meal. “On a scale from one to ten, that was a solid seven,” I say, meeting wintergreen eyes. His gaze drops to his sandwich before lifting to meet mine. His perplexed expression is priceless. The midnight menu at the Pompadour is irr eproachable. All the meals I’ve enjoyed since I arrived, have been. Gage recommended the lip-smacking pulled pork sandwich. It’s out of this world phenomenal. He’s devouring his second one. I’m still working on my first. The trimmings are also commendable—frites with shaved grana Padano, drizzled with truffle oil and the hotel’s signature Seriously Good Coleslaw. For dessert, I did a mental happy dance when I saw English raspberry trifle on the menu. “This is one of the best pulled pork sandwiches I’ve ever eaten,” Gage says. “Seven out of ten? The Königs will be disappointed. Heck, they might end up firing the chef.” Uh, oh. This game isn’t going like I intended. “I wasn’t talking about the food. I was talking about my first time.” His head jerks back. “A seven?” “Yes.” It’s a struggle to ke ep a straight face. He narrows his eyes. “I can put you flat on your back on this table and turn that failing grade into a ten in a New York minute.” “I was pulling your leg. That was a solid one hundred.” Not that I have anything to compare it to, but I’m certain it was. He drops his half-eaten sandwich on his plate, wipes his messy fingers with the napkin before lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your first time?”
I let out along sigh and mimic him. “Why is that so important?” “A bed would’ve been a good idea—” “I thought you didn’t do predictable.” “Lily.” He purses his lips. “What?” I feign innocence. “That was a little intense for the first time.” I reach out for his hand. “It wouldn’t have been as raunchy on a bed. It would’ve been like so many other first times. So boring. So déjà vu.” “How do you know, if it was your first time?” I read a lot of spicy romance books. “Girls talk.” He nods. “Are you on the birth control?” I grimace. “I’m going to take that as a no.” “I would’ve requested we use a condom,” I say. He considers me for a thoughtful moment. I can’t read his expression. How many women has he been with? Has he been fucking half of LA? I give myself a slap upside the head. Silly Lily. He’s not a monk. No doubt, the drop-dead gorgeous, powerful, billionaire mogul has been with his fair share of women. Men like that wear condoms. “I hope I didn’t disappoint you.” The words come flying out of my mouth before I can catch them. His eyebrows knit together, his lips turning down into a frown. I grow more and more worried under his stare, wiggling in my chair in discomfort. “I’m sure you’re used to women with so much more experience than me. Being with a silly virgin must be a downgrade for you.” “I can’t fake an erection. Neither can I fake coming.” I hope he’s not surgarcoating it. “Okay.” “I’m not bullshitting you.” Is he telling me the truth? My inexperience is shining brighter than a neon sign. “I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, and I wanted you so damn much from the moment I saw you yesterday.” My eyes grow wide. “Oh.” “What happened between us tonight wasn’t about ending the evening with a woman, it was about ending the evening with you. Since yesterday, I’ve been obsessed with kissing you. I didn’t expect I’d need to devour the rest of you. The thing is, once our lives crossed, I couldn’t put the brakes on.” I blink. Mother of God. The man who spent most of our first encounter growling at me, just pulled the rug from under my feet. I’m not stupid enough to think it’s a love declaration, but his confession tugs at something inside me. Gage Hollingsworth is a man of few words, but when he speaks, hold on to your fascinator. “To answer your question,” he says, “I’m not disappointed at all.” He leans into me. Something dangerous veils his green eyes. “Not only are you a hot little thing, but now, your tight pussy has been perfectly molded for my cock.” Did the temperature in the room go up by a hundred degrees? “Next time, I won’t be as gentle.” Holy Jesus. “But before I fuck you again, I need to know why you didn’t warn me? What’s your story, Lily Schuyler?” He deserves an explanation. “Dating is an interesting topic,” I say. “After boarding school, I went to the University of Paris. When I arrived in the City of Light, my father had a long list of potential suitors––sons of his business connections. Some were Parisians. Others were like me, studying in Paris. I didn’t connect with any of them, and the idea of dating someone my father dictated was unappealing. I told him I wanted to focus on my studies. Miracle of miracles, he didn’t push.” “I’m surprised.” “That makes two of us. My father is a bulldozer when he’s on a mission, which is often.”
“Tell me about it.” “Is that how you ended up becoming my bodyguard?” Why else would a powerful mogul agree to be my babysitter? “Yes.” He nods. “But I’m glad I agreed.” I have to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent the smile threatening to part my lips in a huge grin. “For once, hanging out with one of my father-imposed companions wasn’t an excruciating exercise.” “Glad to be of service.” We stare at each other for a beat, the electricity crackling between us. I discovered what sex was a New York minute ago. How can I crave it again so soon? I shake my head, hoping to dissipate the hedonistic haze engulfing me. Bad girl. Bad girl. I continue my story. “I was having lunch at Les Deux Magots Café in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, when a distinguished Frenchman asked me if he could sit at my table. He had a short window for lunch, and all the tables were occupied. I acc epted. My French wasn’t great at the time––I’m still not fluent, but I speak it better now than I did back then––so, I didn’t expect much conversation. My lunch companion surprised me. Jean-Philippe Dutronc had studied in London, so his English was decent. Lunch came and went, and we sat there talking, drinking coffee, and eating pastries. Eventually, he had to go. He asked to see me again. We had a great connection. He wasn’t a pretty boy, and he wasn’t tall —he was only five-seven. Yet, he had that irresistible je ne sais quoi so many Frenchmen have. He was twenty-six and one of the youngest literature professors at the Sorbonne University—” “How old were you?” “I was nineteen.” He nods. “Jean-Philippe was well-traveled and a charmer. I was upfront about wanting to take things slow. He agreed. So, we dated, kissed, and fooled around. Eight months into our relationship, I felt I was ready. He’d been so patient. I figured going all the way would be the ultimate birthday gift for a guy. Well... that’s what an article in a girly magazine told me.” “You got cold feet?” “No.” I close my eyes, reliving the humiliating events. Gage places a hand on my knee, and my eyes pop open. “What did the fucker do?” “After we savored a catered meal at my place, Jean-Philippe suggested a sexy shower to ease me into it. As we were st epping out of the shower, his phone rang. He apologized, wrapped a towel around his waist, and rushed out of the bathroom to silence it. I was taking my time drying my body, thinking he’d come back to join me. After a while, I got worried. When I st epped into my bedroom, he was getting dressed.” “What happened?” “He had to go.” “Why?” “I inquired to find out if a family member got in an accident, had suffered from a heart attack, or worse, died.” “It was none of the above?” “It was the last thing I ever imagined.” “I’m not even going to try to guess.” “His wife’s waters broke—she went into labor early—” “Wife?” “Yup,” I nod. “His sister-in-law was rushing her to the hospital. He had to scamper off so he could be present for the arrival of his son.” “What the fuck?” “Yes. Jean-Philippe was married.” “He never told you?” “No. I asked him if he had a girlfriend, and he assured me, I was his only girlfriend.”
“He never wore a wedding ring?” I shake my head. “No. That would’ve sent me running the other way.” “Motherfucker.” “To my horror and dismay, the guy I’d been seeing was leading a double life,” I say. “Apparently, it’s the French way.” “The French way? What the fuck?” “Right before dumping my ass to run to his wife who was about to give birth to their first child, Jean-Philippe felt it necessary to mansplain how things worked in France. A little vagabondage while you’re married is normal. The French aren’t as uptight as us overly puritan Americans when it comes to affairs. And it’s an equal opportunity thing. Both men and women have petites aventures, aka booty on the side. It’s the best way to ensure a long-lasting marriage.” “Isn’t that an oxymoron?” “Not according to Jean-Philippe. Affairs prevent you from getting bored of your spouse and the day-to-day drudgery of married life.” “Why not be upfront about it from day one?” “He assumed I knew how things ‘worked’ in France,” I say with air quotes. “Un-fucking-believable.” “As the door slammed behind him, I realized when he told me I was his only girlfriend, he meant I was his only side piece.” Gage shakes his head. “Embarrassed, I called my best friend Nadine because I needed a shoulder to cry on. She came to the rescue in record time with booze and loads of desserts. As I was crying my eyes out, she consoled me by reminding me, although there are jerks and assholes in every country who cheat on their wives or partners, Frenchmen who stray are more prone to telling their mistress about their wife—and vice versa—when the situation calls for it. In her opinion, Jean-Philippe expected me to be okay with it.” “Were you?” “Hell, no,” I say. “Nadine also warned me Jean-Philippe would be the type to call me to pick up where we left off.” Gage’s eyes bulge out of his skull. “I thought she was lying. That’s the only reason why I didn’t block his number.” “He contacted you?” “To my utter disbelief, he texted me to share photos of him holding his bundle of joy. He also wanted to know when we could pick up where we left off since his wife couldn’t have sex for at least six weeks.” Gage’s jaw drops. “I was outraged and enraged. Not only for myself, but also for his wife.” “I hate drama.” “Trust me, it’s not my MO.” “You were an unwilling participant.” “I was unknowingly the other woman. Same as Mom—” “No shit.” “Yup.” I nod. “She was also nineteen when my father seduced her. Granted, he was more than twice her age. Since I was born a bastard child, I promised myself I would never look at a married man. Worse, sle ep with one. But there I was, about to make the biggest mistake of my life.” “Jean-Philippe is a fucking cheater.” “Given how I came into this world, that’s one aspect of France’s culture that would never sit well with me.” “Here in the US, cheaters are crucified. The higher your status, the more the public cries out for your balls.” “France tends to turn a blind eye to cheaters. My best friend being the exc eption to the rule.”
“What do you mean?” “My best friend’s mom knew the older man who was overtly flirting with her was married. The whole world knew. She was so much younger than him and a subordinate, so it was easy for him to abuse his power. That’s how she ended up as France’s Monica Lewinsky—” “Your best friend is Nadine Whelan?” “Yes.” Gage’s eyes widen in surprise. “Holy shit.” “Nadine’s mom one upped Monica with a surprise baby. The fact Marciana was American didn’t play in her favor. She was lynched in the media and in the court of public opinion.” “And you and Nadine ended up becoming friends.” “Isn’t it ironic?” It’s a rhetorical question because I ke ep talking. “Nads is like a blood sister to me.” “Doesn’t the former French president have children?” “Yes, Nads has half-siblings, but they’ve never warmed up to her.” “Like your half-brothers.” “Like my half-brothers.” I bite down the bitterness. “We’ve struggled with imposter syndrome our whole lives. Our fathers are powerful and wealthy men, but we came out of the womb labeled as the undesirable progeny. We’ve spent our whole lives feeling less than. For my best friend, it’s worse because her name is splattered all over French social media forever more.” “The American press didn’t spare her.” “True, but she doesn’t live here, so those opinions don’t affect her everyday life. It’s not the case in France. She’ll never be able to es cape the stigma. To this day, many circles in Paris give Marciana the cold shoulder, snubbing her, while singing the praises of former President Laurent Rocard de Vill epin. It’s an unfair double standard.” Gage shakes his head. “The onus is on the person doing the cheating to be on the up and up. In your case and Nadine’s, we’re talking about dirty old men, preying on young, vulnerable victims. Your mom was only nineteen—barely legal. Marciana Whelan was twenty-two—a woman, but still so young. As for you and Jean-Philippe, he’s a royal douchebag. I don’t care if it’s the French way or not, he should’ve made sure you two were on the same fucking page.” The fire behind his words does something to me. So far in my life, I haven’t had that many people in my corner. I respond with a sad smile. “Can I ask you a question about your dad?” Gage changes the subject. I brace myself. “Sure.” “You always refer to Fisher as Father. Never as Dad or Daddy. There’s no steadfast rule, but for some reason, I can’t help but sense in your case, it’s deliberate.” He’s perc eptive. “If I could still get away with calling him Fisher, I would. He put an end to that when one of his business associates thought I was his flavor of the month, commenting how he liked them younger and younger, bordering on not quite legit. I was seventeen at the time, so that guy guessed right. My father always treated me like a dirty little secret, so other than close family, few people knew he had a daughter. That incident cre eped him out. After that, he demanded I call him Dad. I settled for Father. It allows people to know the type of relationship we have, without pretending he’s the doting dad figure you expect to see in a light-hearted romance movie of the week.” Warm and fuzzy are foreign words to Fisher Edgington. Gage nods. The energy in the room has shifted. This conversation is a mood killer. Delving into my past tends to do that. So far, this evening has been such a high, I’d hate for it to end on a d epressing note. “There are a thousand more interesting things to talk about than Jean-Philippe, the former President of France, or my dysfunctional relationship with my father.”
“What do you want to talk about?” I bite my lower lip, my cheeks flushing. “You know,” I say. His gaze drifts down to my chest. “Why don’t you spell it out for me?” Shit. My bravado slips a little. He cocks an eyebrow. “All talk, no action?” He scoots his chair back. A pole is tenting under his robe. Adding fuel to the fire, he parts his legs. Unlike me, he isn’t wearing any underwear. The fabric of the robe slides, revealing strong, muscular thighs, and... Did his cock grow by several inches? Oh, boy. Old Lily would agree with him on the all talk, no action part, aware she’s no match. LA Lily has a decisively more daring and bold approach. Challenge acc epted. I lean forward and allow my hand to drift over his thigh, moving closer to his mighty erection. My pulse quickens as my hand explores his body. He moans. God, I love that I do that to him. His eager hands work on the tie holding the sash at his waist, pushing the robe fully open. I didn’t think I could find tattoos attractive, but he’s proved me wrong. The man is unbelievably well-built and my mouth waters at the sight of him. It’s a struggle to tear my gaze away from his tattooed chest, chiseled rippled eight-pack, and his happy trail that runs from below his bellybutton to the top of his pelvis. And there’s the pièce de resistance... the V-muscle... it makes me want to drop to my knees between his legs and lick it. God Almighty. I reach out a hand. “I haven’t given you permission to touch me.” My eyes fly up. I’m about to laugh, but his expression has me reconsidering. He’s serious. “I give you permission to come and I give you permission to touch me.” I’m baffled. He narrows his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not how it worked with Mr. Cheater Douchebag?” Jean-Philippe was a puppy dog, always eager to roll over for a belly rub. Gage is an Italian mastiff. He’s the indisputable top dog. I can’t explain it, but a frisson of excitement runs through me. I shake my head. “Words, Lily.” “No.” “Everything is different, angel, now that I’ve claimed you.” I’ll have to thank Nads for introducing me to steamy romance novels. I thought alpha males could only be found between the pages of a book. These men exist in real life? Color me surprised. “Are we clear?” The lust-filled gaze he levels me with causes my pussy to pulse. Nope. Not pulse. I’m doing Kegel exercises. I nod. “Yes.” “Now you can touch me,” he says. “My cock needs attention.” I run a finger along his chest, tracing tattooed music notes and stars in a languorous movement, before traveling down his body until I reach the prize. I curl my hand around his impressive length, and stroke him up and down. “You have an eye-popping shaft—” “Cock,” he says. “Dick, is also acc eptable.” His eyes lower. “He’s American. Not European.” I laugh. “Your American cock is cut.” “Mr. Cheater Douchebag wasn’t?” I shake my head. “No. And he wasn’t as big as you. Not that I ever pulled out a ruler, but it’s like comparing a baby carrot to a zucchini.” “Which begs the question. Didn’t you want a smaller cock for your first time?” “I wanted you for my first time. Big dick, big balls, and all.” Gage Hollingsworth bursts out laughing, his broad shoulders shaking. I stare at him, my mouth agape. After several heartbeats, he finds his composure. I’m still in a state of shock. “What?” “You know how to laugh?” I shake my head. “Wow. I
didn’t think it was part of a curmudgeon’s DNA.” “What’s a curmudgeon?” “A bad-tempered geezer,” I say. “Who are you, imposter?” And what have you done with the real Gage Hollingsworth?” “Smart ass.” My grin is epic. He lifts me from my seat, placing me between him and the table so I’m standing in the V of his thighs. Okay, that was impressive. God the man is strong. With rough hands, he rips open the robe I’m wearing, leaving my body bare, save for my blush-colored panties. I gasp. His green eyes lift to meet mine before lowering to my body. He growls, drinking me up. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” I blush. “You ke ep saying that.” “Because it’s true.” My blush de epens, turning my whole face as hot—and I’m sure as red —as a stove burner. He reaches for my underwear and bunches the lacy fabric in a large fist. I expect him to tug aside the strip of material that shields my pussy, but that’s not what happens. Rip. Holy. Hell. “Those were new.” He checks the label. “French Appliqué. Noted. Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ll r eplace them so I can rip them off your sexy body again, and again, and again.” When he puts it that way, who am I to say no? He run his finger down my slit until it glides between my pussy lips. I gasp, folding over, using his broad shoulders for support. “Since I’m the first cock you’ve ever had, I need to fuck you hard, in every position, multiple times so you never forget me. I want to ruin it for all the fuckers that will come after me.” His filthy promise resonates all the way to my clit. “So far, it’s been easy for me to put blinders on my needs—fucking my fist for salvation—that’s until a sexy little thing with raven hair and big, beautiful blue eyes the color of gemstones, came crashing into my life. My cock wanted to come out and play with the sexiest woman on the fucking planet.” He’s not done rocking my world. If I thought I was wet before, now, my inner thighs are turning slick with my own juices. “So, we’re gonna play some more?” I nod, as if in a trance. He leans forward and nips at my sensitive nipple with his teeth. I let out a sound I’ve never heard slip from my lips before. “Words. If I have to ask again, I’ll have to bite harder.” “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “I want to play some more.” “Better.” My whole body is buzzing. As if things weren’t too hot to handle, Gage wraps my shredded lacy panties around his cock. With his eyes on me, he strokes himself up and down in a tight fist. Stunned, my mouth drops in an O. Oh. My. God. For a long moment, I forget to breathe as I stare wide-eyed at him working his cock. When his other hand cups his big balls, I press my legs together, in the hopes of alleviating the aching need. “Did I give you permission to do that?” I stop all movement. “Err... No.” “Then, don’t.” He lets go of his balls and swipes the tip of his fingers over the wet head of his cock. My mind is blown into smithereens at the raunchy sight. “Open up.” Huh? “Don’t make me r epeat myself.” I open wide. “Clean my fingers with your tongue.” My eyelashes flutter in surprise. He cocks an eyebrow. I hesitate at first, but stick my tongue out. I run the tip along his fingers. His saltiness hits my taste buds full force. “Good girl.” He brings my panties to his nose and inhales. “I can’t wait for my face
to smell like your tight little pussy. Have you ever sat on a man’s face, Lily?” I frown. “I don’t understand.” “You sit on my face, and I gorge on your pussy. I might even reward you by finger fucking your ass. If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you ride my face reverse cowgirl style so I can stroke your G-spot and make your pussy gush like a fucking waterfall.” Blink. Blink. Blink. My mind struggles to compute what he said, but my body reacts favorably to the possibilities. “You’ve never tried that before?” That would be a definite no. “Never.” “We’ll have to try it...” Yes, please. He taps his thigh. “Straddle my legs.” I don’t move. I’m paralyzed. His long legs are parted wide. How the hell is this going to work with my short legs? He brings his legs closer together, as if he’s able to read my thoughts. “You’ll use my shoulders for support.” I’m a little awkward, but I assume the position. We’re so close. I’m sure he can hear the frantic beating of my heart. “Lower your hips for me. I want your pussy hovering over my cock.” “Aren’t you going to use a condom?” “I’m not going to fuck you yet. I want your clit to get acquainted with my tip.” Jesus Christ. Jean-Philippe’s bedroom vocabulary extended to a few go-to phrases. “Tu me suces ma bite géante et tu me lèches mes couilles.” Translation: Suck my enormous cock and my balls. His cock wasn’t enormous, but I never pointed that out. “Je veux une branlette espagnole ce soir.” Translation: I want to fuck your boobs tonight. “J’aime jouer avec ta petite chatte.” Translation: I love playing with your pussy. For that last one, he’d add disturbing meowing sounds. Compared to the Frenchman, Gage holds a Ph D degree in dirty talking. Come to think about it, it was all about Jean-Philippe. Selfish asshole cheater. “Is that okay with you?” Gage’s question forces me back to the moment. If my clit getting acquainted with his tip results in me having another core-shaking orgasm, I’m all in. “More than okay.” He places a hand on my hip, positioning me the way he wants. When his slick tip glides over my clit, I let out a long moan. Granted, his head is much wider than the tips of my fingers, I was unpr epared for the flurry of new sensations. I relish them all. He does it again. Good God. My fingers claw their way into his thick, silky hair, and my head lolls back. The lewd sound of his slickness circling my clit is so hot. Round and round. With each re volution, he takes me higher and higher. I curl my arms around his head, plowing my fingers in his hair, drawing him closer. If I don’t, I’m liable to tumble backwards. This is too good. Too sinful. Too hedonistic. All movement stops. “What’s wrong?” “Do you want to come?” I’m a bit taken aback by the question. “Answer me.” “Yes.” The word rushes out of my mouth. “In that case, don’t let me do all the work.” Holy hardball. “I didn’t know I could be turned on by this level of dominance.” “You were waiting for me.” Horror washes over me. My inner voice wasn’t as quiet as I would’ve hoped. I blush from ear to ear. “I wasn’t supposed to hear that?” I shake my head. He drops a tender kiss on my lips. “I’m glad I did.” I smile. I can’t take it back. And even if I could, I’m not sure I would. “That means we’re on the same page,” he says. “You surrendering so beautifully to me turns me on because you trust me enough to let go.” Slap! “What was that for?”
“Back to work, dirty girl.” Gage picks up where he left off. My hips rock back and forth as the tip of his cock grazes my clit. This is beyond naughty. “Please don’t stop. Please. It’s perfect. It’s . . . oh God, oh God, oh my fucking God.” His lips split in a cocky grin. He knows I’m on the verge of delirium, and he’s enjoying every sinful second of it. He inserts a finger inside his mouth and licks it. Without warning, he slides his digit inside my sacred place. A place where no man has ever been before. I’m so stunned, I’m rendered speechless. “Don’t freeze up on me,” he says. “Ke ep working your clit on my head.” My hips sway. Back and forth. Back and forth. My whole body shakes as I chase after my orgasm. The intrusion of his finger is foreign and pleasurable at the same time. My pussy’s practically we eping, desperate for release. “Use my cock.” Dear God. There are no words. Gage alternates between dragging his swollen tip through my slickness and skating his head over my clit. His bare, tattooed chest heaves, a fine sheen of sweat coating his divine muscles. What a sight. My clit hums and it’s a struggle to breathe. “I want you to come so fucking hard all over my cock, you’ll forget how to say anything but my name.” I’m nearly there. He accelerates my climax when he gropes my breast before closing his mouth over my nipple and biting hard. “Oh, Gage—” I dive off the cliff into an abyss of pleasure. I’ve traveled to a distant magical land where men are sworn to oath and face death if they don’t always make their sexual partner come so hard, they momentarily black out. I never want to leave this fairyland. Heck, I don’t even want to leave LA at this point. When I go back to New York, this transcendental experience will only be a memory. What are the chances of finding a lover that matches Gage’s prowess? “You’re still with me, angel?” “I... I’m not sure.” He chuckles. I untangle myself from his body so our eyes meet. Since my disheveled locks are obstructing my view, I brush my curtain of hair away from my face. Gage’s handsome face is almost unrecognizable. The hunger I read in his eyes burns hot and wild and causes my pussy to pulsate. Again? A horrible thought hits me. “You didn’t come?” His huge cock is still nestled between my pussy lips. “I always take care of you first.” A warm smile splits my lips. “That’s so considerate.” His expression changes. “Let me guess. Mr. Cheater Douchebag made sure his needs were satisfied before yours.” I respond with a one-shoulder shrug. “Not with me. You always come first.” I’m at a loss for words. In case there weren’t enough reasons to like this man, he gave me an extra one. Gage Hollingsworth is setting the bar too high. He’s fucked me once so far, and he’s ruined it for all others. The realization smacks me hard in the face. I’m so screwed. A pang catches in my chest. This attraction is ill advised. Dangerous, even. I try to slide off him. His eyes narrow as if he senses my mounting panic, his hands closing around my hips. “Where are you going?” “I should reciprocate. You know... a blowjob.”
“Baby, a blowjob is supposed to be pleasurable for you and for me. You’re as tense as a politician on election day. What happened?” I shake my head. “Nothing.” “What if I don’t want a blowjob?” I roll my eyes. “Every man wants a blowjob.” “How many guys have you been with to entitle you to make such a blanket generalization?” Ouch. “Don’t you dare put me in the same category as Mr. Cheater Douchebag. I’m not a selfish asshole.” I’m stumped. He brings a hand to my face, cradling my jaw, his wintergreen eyes searching mine. “I can’t wait to fuck your pretty little mouth, but only if you want to suck my cock, and not as a way of deflecting whatever it is you’re hiding from me.” Busted. A few long seconds tick by. “You make me feel good.” You also make me feel good about myself. Men in my life tend to do the contrary. “And that’s a bad thing?” Yes, because our time together is limited. “No.” “I didn’t think so.” Gage’s hard mouth crashes over mine, his tongue delving de ep, dancing with my own, quieting my mind with thorough strokes. I let go of my insecurities and give in to the kiss, matching his fervor. A low groan of satisfaction simmers in his throat. When he pulls back, he stares at me with half-lidded eyes. “I’m not done making you feel good, Lily. Not by a long shot.”