Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
“Where is she?” I ask one of the guards stationed at the front entrance door.
“The kitchen.” He confirms what I thought. I hurry toward it and then force myself to slow, to breathe, so I don’t burst in like some madman.
She turns, flour on her cheek, the smell of something warming in the oven, cinnamon. My favorite. Mable gives me a bright smile. I’ll never get used to the way her face lights up when she sees me; it truly does make me feel like a king.
“You’re early,” she says.
“I needed to see you.”
Her smile falters slightly. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing.” I make my way over to her and pull her in, then bury my face in her hair. She smells of vanilla and home. That panic that’s been holding me tightly starts to loosen its grip. “Nothing’s wrong. I just missed you.”
She laughs softly. “You saw me this morning.”
“Too long ago.”
Her hand slides up my chest and then around my neck, her body flush to me. She’s here, and Cordelia’s words dissolve into nothing.
“I made cookies,” she whispers against my neck.
“I don’t care about cookies.” I pull back enough to see her face, searching it. Is she leaving? Is she overwhelmed? Is she performing for me too?
She blinks, confused by my intensity. “Caldwell?”
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. Needing to feel her respond to me, to know she’s still mine, still choosing this, still wanting me despite everything she should run from.
“You need me,” she says against my mouth.
“Always,” I groan. She pulls back, grabbing the front of my shirt and tugging me. I let her lead me across the kitchen into the butler’s pantry. She’s taking the lead, and I want to see where this goes.
Mable pushes me up against the wall. My brows rise. “Gorgeous?”
She doesn’t answer. Just sinks to her knees in front of me, her hands already at my belt, working the buckle with her delicate fingers. I reach for her, meaning to pull her up, but she bats my hand away and looks up at me with a cheeky, playful smile, nothing like the careful girl I first met. I’m fucking thrilled that she feels safe enough to not be so careful when it comes to me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking care of my man.”
I let her, watching as she yanks my belt open, the button next, before the zipper slides down. I know she’s not moving slowly, teasing. No, she doesn’t need to; half a second is too long for me when it comes to her.
Mable’s fingers grip the top of my boxer briefs and tug them down. My cock springs free. She wraps one of her small hands around me, making me groan.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she tells me. She’s trying to kill me with her innocence.
“Beautiful, you can do anything you want to me, and it will be perfect,” I reassure her because it’s true. It’s not as though I’ve had a blow job before.
Tactically, at first, she flicks the tip, a slow drag of her tongue that makes my hips jerk forward. Then the whole world stops as her mouth wraps around the head of my cock. A groan rips from me.
She takes me in deeper, and my fingers tighten in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. The need to touch her is overwhelming. I love all of it. Every stroke, her tongue flattening against my underside, her cheeks hollowing out when she sucks hard. I groan her name.
I can’t not watch her, even if it’s only going to make me come sooner.
The sight of her on her knees for me, eyes closed, dark lashes brushing her cheeks, her mouth wrapped around my cock, pleasing me is enough to bring me to my knees.
She finds a rhythm and starts working me faster. I feel a tingle in the base of my spine, my release coming, approaching the edge.
I jerk back suddenly, and she makes a small sound of protest, a pout forming on her swollen lips. She licks them. “Wells, I wasn’t done, I—”
“Need to be inside you.” The words come out guttural, barely recognizable. “Need to come inside you.”
She doesn’t protest when I lift her and carry her, her body sliding against the island in the middle of the pantry. I sweep aside jars and boxes with one arm, not caring what breaks, set her on the edge, shove her skirt up, and yank her panties to the side. The urgent need I have for her presses down hard on me. She’s soaked for me. My girl is always ready to take me.
I push inside in one stroke, and we both groan, the sound echoing in the small space. She wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, and I drive into her with the same desperation I felt at the office, the same fear that she’s temporary, that I’ll lose her, that I don’t deserve to keep her.