Abruptly, I’m reminded of a childhood story about giving a mouse a cookie. He’s the kind of guy who, given an inch, will take a mile, and I shudder at the thought of what he has in store for me.
He brings me back with a kiss, and I moan as his tongue curls inside my mouth. My body is on fire for him, and I can barely contain myself anymore as he pushes my pants off my hips. I’ve made a mess of my panties, and I can feel the wet fabric cling to my body as he removes those too. They puddle at my feet, and I kick them aside, my lips never leaving his.
He lifts me off the ground suddenly—I keep forgetting about those strong arms. Braxton carries me to the plush love seat and lowers me so I’m sitting on it. There, he sets his hands on my knees and pries my legs apart.
“Can I make a confession?” Even with my legs spread, completely open to him, his intense eyes never leave my own.
“Nothing to hide now,” I venture.
A smile twitches on his mouth at that. “You looked so…stiff at that bar…”
“Well, I was working—”
“And I couldn’t help but imagine how you’d unravel if I got on my knees and licked you right there in front of everyone.”
Oh. My need for his lips momentarily overrides my need to knock him down a peg, and I suggest, “Well…only one way to find out.”
He grins, dips his head, and swipes his tongue over my Venus mound. It hits me like a lightning bolt. I arch forward, grinding my pelvis against his mouth, as he coaxes my legs over his shoulders. He has me now, right where he wants me, and I feel his tongue paint wet circles between my legs. The scruff on his chin grazes me, but I barely notice; I’m so rapt by every small flick of his tongue. He licks, sucks, and nibbles on my sensitive skin, sending bursts of pleasure coursing through me.
This is not the first time a man has gone down on me, but it’s the first time a man has gone down on me like this. At best, I tend to get men who just sort of poke at it with their tongue. Braxton is fluent in the language of my pleasure, and his tongue seems to know exactly where to go. He takes his time, so I can savor every deliberate sweep and lick.
I’m completely at his mercy. My heels slip and slide against his strong back, looking for traction, and I grip his hair at the roots. He growls when I grab him, and the vibrations are insane. He licks my aching little petal mercilessly, to the point where it feels too sensitive, and then it feels too good, and then I don’t want him to stop, not ever. My thighs tremble around his head, and I’m half-worried he can’t breathe, but he makes no motion to pull back. Instead, he clutches my rear and dives in deeper, and I feel his tongue inside me as my bud rubs against his steep nose.
I hit the wall. I yelp and explode in an orgasm I never even saw coming. It blinds me with intensity as I ride it out with eurythmic jerks of my hips. Wave upon wave of euphoria crests and crashes against me, and I thrash until my body eventually settles down. He finishes me off with a sweet, lingering nether kiss.
“Holy hell,” I whisper.
He unwinds my legs from his shoulders and glances up at me. “Good?”
“Very.”
He kisses me, and I taste my salt on his lips. He’s hard—I can see the sizable bulge even though his pants—but he is all about me right now, and his warm lips bring me back to earth. I feel incredibly naughty and bizarrely safe. I don’t feel any judgment, not from the man who wears his kink on his sleeve. And maybe there’s some safety in the knowledge that New York City is eight million people wide and I can be as dirty and selfish as I want right now and I never have to see him again.
“That was…amazing,” I stammer when we break the kiss.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he says, “because I’m nowhere near done with you.”
The hunger in his eyes pulls another pulse from my sore sex. Even as exhausted as I am, my body is already gearing up for round two. I have never been this turned on before. There’s a puddle on his couch. Not a mark or a stain—a puddle. I’m half-mortified and half-excited by my own voracious sexual appetite. Who am I and what has he done with Susie?
“I could…use something to drink,” I manage to get out.
He laughs. It’s a genuine laugh, not one of his practiced smiles from earlier. He’s relaxed now, a sated lion licking his chops. “I have a bottle of sauvignon blanc chilling in the fridge.”
I was thinking water, but that sounds even better. I nod and drop my head back against the plush couch. “Yes, please.”
“The queen gets what she wants.” He smiles, hands braced on the couch behind me. “Help yourself to room service,” he adds before he pushes off and vanishes into the kitchen.
He’s charming, I decide. Not really a take-home-to-mama kind of guy, but I’d let him tie me to his bed and have his way with me for days on end if he asked. I’m on cloud nine, my limbs feel like jelly, and I lounge out on his couch. I’m feeling luxurious. I can’t remember the last time I really treated myself like this. I can’t remember the last time I treated myself period. I’m in the most expensive room in the Ritz-Carlton, I’ve already come hard with promise of a second round, and an incredibly handsome man is plying me with what is assured to be an incredible glass of wine. I’m dreaming about a bubble bath, room service, maybe those fancy little platters of strawberries with chocolate on the tips.
“So what’re you doing in New York?” I call out. My fingers tiptoe across the mahogany side table, upon which sits a lamp and a landline.
His voice travels through the room. “I’m here for my sister. It’s an intervention of sorts. I have to stop her from making the biggest mistake of her life.”
That shocks me. He sounds so blasé about the whole thing. “Sounds…intense.”
“My family usually is.”
My fingers finally catch on what I’m looking for, and I lift what I assume is a room service menu. Instead, I find myself holding a frill-laced, off-white letter. The name BRAXTON WEST is engraved on the folded-over edge.
I snort. How obnoxious. The letter falls open.
Inside, in wide calligraphy print:
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Cora and Ray—
Oh. No.
No, no, no, no.
West. Braxton West. As in the relative of Cora West, as in Cora soon-to-be-Cora Dalton, née West. As in Cora, bride-to-be in my current project, West.
I drop the letter, leap to my feet (nearly overturning the lamp in the process), and snatch up my clothes. I can’t find my panties in time, so I hike my pants up my legs, shove my arms through my shirt, and hop from one foot to the other as I pop into my heels.
“Hey, so, I’ve got to run!” I call out. “But thanks for…you know. Everything.”
I stumble toward the door and nearly run straight into Braxton. Christ, his muscles are a problem. He looks like a Greek god in nothing but fitted black pants. It’s enough to make me cry with frustration to know I got this close to unzipping those pants to get to the package underneath. When he sees me caught in a tornado of my own clothes, his eyebrows hike up his forehead. “But I just opened the bottle,” he says, a glass of wine in hand.
“Ah, great.” It’s just what I need, to be honest. I take the glass of wine from him, tilt it to my lips, and drain it. It’s smooth, probably expensive, but I barely taste it. When I hand the empty glass back to him, Braxton looks a mix of worried and impressed.