The fabric of his dress pants is soft against the soles of my feet, and his breath slides up my leg, over my knee, and along my thigh. His soft hair brushes against my skin, his hands curl around my calves, steadying my legs.

I feel everything and it’s as if I’m made of pure hunger. It’s hot and liquid, filling my limbs and tamping down my patience. Touch me, my body screams. I squirm on the table and Ansel stills me with a firm hand on my abdomen.

“Be still.” He exhales once, a long stream of air blown directly between my legs.

“Please . . .” I gasp. I love this side of him, I want more, want to provoke the sharp edge to his tone, but I want his satisfaction in me, too. I’m torn between trying on petulance and delving further and further into this easy, obedient place.

“‘Please’ what?” He kisses the delicate skin just beside the fabric of my frilly underwear. “Please reward you for being such a good maid?”

I open my mouth but only a low, pleading sound comes out as he noses at my pu**y beneath the fabric, pressing, kissing, teeth bared and gliding over my lips, my pubic bone, over to my hip.

“Or ‘please’ punish you for being so very wicked, putting your hands on my windows?”

Both. Yes. Please.

I’m unbelievably wet, hips pushing up, tiny noises escaping from my throat every time I feel the hot press of his breath into my skin.

“Touch me,” I beg. “I want your mouth on me.”

Hooking a finger beneath the fabric, he pulls my soaked underwear aside, licking me directly in a long, firm drag of his tongue. I gasp, arching up beneath him.

He opens his mouth, sucking, urgent, and

good,

God

so good

licking me with a flattened tongue, fingers pressing into me and curling. He pulls back with a quiet grunt and tells me, “Watch me.” The next four words are spoken into the delicate skin of my clit: “Watch me kiss you.”

His demand is more a preemptive threat than an order because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his ownership of my body even if I wanted to.

“You taste like the ocean,” he groans, sucking, pulling at me with his lips and tongue. The feeling is too intense to be called pleasure. It’s something bigger, pushing all of my inhibitions away, making me feel strong and bold enough to push onto my elbow, run my other hand into his hair to gently guide him as I roll my hips.

It seems impossible that I can feel more, but when he realizes I’m close, he begins to moan against me, encouraging with the vibration of his voice, the solid thrusting of two fingers and the wet slide of his tongue around and around and around . . .

I grow dizzy for a beat before I tumble, floating, shaking through the blissful spasms that feel so good it’s the razor-sharp line of pleasure edging pain. It’s an orgasm so intense my legs want to pull closed, my hips arch off the table.

But he holds me open, fingers pumping between my legs until I’m gasping, boneless, struggling to sit and pull him up to me.

He staggers to his feet, pulling his arm across his mouth. “That is what you sound like when you come.”

His hair is a mess from my hands, his lips swollen from sucking me so thoroughly. “I’m taking you to my bed,” he says, pushing his chair back and out of the way. He holds out a hand to me, helps me down from the table on shaky legs. As he walks, he loosens his tie, unbuttons his shirt, steps out of his shoes. By the time we’ve made it to his room, he’s pushing his pants down his legs and gesturing for me to sit at the edge of the bed.

In two steps, he’s in front of me, hand curled around the base of his c**k as he holds it to me, saying only, “Suck.”

As he leans in, my teeth clench with how much I want to taste him. The pillow I sleep on every night has nothing on the reality of his scent. It’s clean sweat and grass and saltwater. The smell of him is edible, and hard doesn’t describe how he feels when I wrap my hand around his shaft. He’s like steel in my palm, his body wound so tight I don’t know how much longer he can wait.

I lick him, and then again, over and up and down his length until he’s slick and wet and slides easily into my mouth. I’m shaking; wild from the earth taste of him and the way he looms over me. Never before has he looked so strong, almost savage the way his hand slides into my hair, guiding me carefully at first and then holding so he can push deeply, once with a jagged, relieved groan. Otherwise he’s silent, fingertips pressed to my scalp as he lets me take over again, only occasionally pushing deep. In my mouth he feels as swollen as my abused lips do, fat and needing to be devoured. And I do devour him. I’ve never loved doing this as much as I do with him, his thick shaft and smooth skin stretched tight over the engorged tip. I curl my tongue around the ridge, sucking, wanting more.

He releases a husky feral sound before pulling back, wrapping a fist around his cock. “Undress.”

I stand on shaky legs, peeling the stockings off, removing the skirt, the bustier, and finally, the frilly underwear. He watches me, eyes dark and impatient, and growls, “Allonge-toi.” He lifts his chin, repeating quietly in English, “Lie back.”

I scoot farther up on the bed, eyes wide and pinned to him as I lie down and spread my legs. I want to feel him. Just him. Right now—I can see it in his eyes—he knows I’ll give him anything, give him everything. He lurches forward, bracing a hand on my spread inner thigh and entering me in a single, long push.

All the air leaves me and for a few overwhelmed seconds, I can’t get it back. I try to remember how to inhale then exhale, try to remind myself that his c**k isn’t actually pushing all of the air out of me, it only feels that way. I’d forgotten what it feels like to have him inside me like this: confident, commanding. But the feel of his warmth, nothing between us . . . it steals my air, my thoughts, my clarity.