24. Stay On Your Knees

Chapter 24

Stay On Your Knees

MEGAN

M y voice is hoarse, and my throat feels deliciously raw from the way he just fucked it. He studies me as if not quite believing me, but then a slow smile forms on his lips.

"Stay on your knees," he orders.

I watch him from the floor as he stands and slowly unbuttons his shirt, folds it, and places it on the back of the chair. The same goes for his pants and boxer briefs.

I'm in awe. Hunter Middleton is a beautiful specimen of a man. He doesn't have one ounce of body fat. His waist is shredded. His chest and arms are defined but not bulky. He is perfect and would be the ideal nude model for a painting class.

A girl can dream.

He sits back down in the chair and pats one of the arms with his hand. "Climb up. Knees on the armrests."

Suddenly, our positions are reversed. I'm high up on my knees, my pussy directly in front of his face, just where he wants it.

"You're dripping wet," he growls, and I whine when he runs a finger over my slit. "You're like a fucking tap. I wonder if you can come for me like that again."

When I don't answer because I don't think I'm supposed to, he easily slides one of his thick fingers into my pussy, and I gasp.

"I think you can," he says, sounding wickedly delighted. "You came from sucking me off, so I can only imagine how you'll respond when I fuck you with my tongue."

I don't get the opportunity to say anything in response because he presses down on my clit hard, and I nearly scream. I'm still reeling from my previous orgasm, and as I shudder, I feel him using two fingers to spread me apart for his mouth.

"Oh, my God." My eyes roll up in my head as a wet appendage forces its way inside of me.

I've never had my pussy eaten. None of my previous boyfriends were interested in that, although it's not like I pressed the matter. They didn't offer, and I didn't ask.

But right now, Hunter has his face in the most sensitive part of me, his tongue flicking my clit back and forth as he alternates between that and pushing it in and out of my pussy. The sensation of being eaten out is overwhelming. I never realized what I was missing.

"Hunter," I moan in exquisite pleasure, wondering why people aren't doing this lewd act all day, every day. I would rather be doing this than eating, sleeping, or painting any day of the week.

His hands are holding onto my ass, and when I try to move, he pulls one of my thighs over his shoulder without breaking momentum, giving him open access to me.

"Please," I plead with him as he brutally fucks me with his tongue, moving in and out at a steady pace. I can't think, the pleasure blinding me. I can hear someone sobbing, but all I can see is white heat.

Is that me begging for mercy?

The sensation of Hunter piercing me with his tongue as he licks and curls it inside of me is driving me insane. I fall forward, my hands against the wall behind the chair, as I grind my pussy against his face. I've never done this before, but it almost comes second nature to me.

Fuck his mouth, Megan.

Fuck it good.

I cry out his name as I beg him to stop, go on, go faster, and slow down. Nothing makes sense as he drags orgasm after orgasm from me. My moans are long and drawn out, and just when I think I can't come again, ever, he pinches my clit, making me come one final time. "Fuck!!!"

This time I go limp, my legs feeling weak, and he pulls away, patting my butt. He gently unhooks my leg from his neck and peels my floppy body away from his.

"On your knees."

I sit back on the floor of the hotel room on my knees, still reeling from the force of my last orgasm. I watch as he opens a bottle of Evian water and pours it into two crystal glasses. He drinks his entire glass in one shot, then hands me mine.

"Drink."

My entire body is flushed with heat, and the water feels good going down my sore throat. When I'm finished, he takes the glass and sets it down.

"You look so beautiful when you come, Megan. Prettier than any picture you could ever sketch. I want to see more." He picks me up and carries me to the bedroom. "We are far from finished."

I doubt I can come another time.

But that assumption about my body is put to the test when he tosses me onto the bed and pulls me toward him by my knees, and flips me over. I'm still trying to get my bearings when I feel him come up behind me, and his hand rubs me between my legs and over my pussy.

It just takes one touch from the man to get me wet all over again, and I let out a needy sound when he sticks those two fat fingers back inside me.

"H-Hunter!"

He chuckles and pumps his thick digits in and out of me, and I clench the bedsheets and raise my hips higher every time he thrusts into my hole.

"I already warned you," his voice is low and husky, making me arch my back. "I'm going to have you all night."

"Please," I look over my shoulder, begging him. "Just put it in!"

"Put what in?" He asks idly, inserting another finger inside of me, and a short cry escapes my lips.

"Your dick! fuck me, already!" I howl, wanting more, my body needing the real thing.

I hear a soft laugh, and when I look into the wall mirror in front of him, I see the hunger in his eyes.

"Since you asked so nicely."

He pulls his fingers out of my pussy and then offers them to me, "Clean them."

When I don't obey fast enough, his hand comes cracking down on my ass. The sudden pain makes my eyes turn wide, and he repeats the request.

"Suck my fingers like you just sucked my cock. If I have to ask again, I won't be happy."

My mouth parts, and I clean my juices off his fingers. His eyes are twinkling with satisfaction, and I wonder why I am enjoying this. Every time he talks to me like this, I want his approval. This feeling of wanting to please someone, to please a man, is so foreign to me that it terrifies me.

"Good girl." He caresses my ass lovingly. "So, you know when to not talk back to me."

I can't reply because I'm obediently sucking his fingers.

"Maybe next time you try to fight me on something or run your mouth off at me in the office, I should feed you my cock," he muses. "I think you like it."

I moan at his naughty words.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Megan?" He whispers against my skin as he presses a kiss in the middle of my back. "Maybe when I've had a stressful day, I'll call you into my office and have you get on your knees and fuck me with your mouth under my desk."

His fingers, on one hand, muffle my answer, and he thrusts two fingers from the other harder into my pussy, which is drenched now.

"You'll stay there for hours, and I bet you'd like it. People partying on the club floor while my dick is in your mouth. How does that sound?"

What is he doing to me? I wonder, dazedly. Why do I find that idea so appealing? Why do I pray that he makes that fantasy come true?

"Maybe we take a risk and keep the door unlocked. Who knows who might walk in and see you on your knees, ass up, sucking me dry."

My mind is growing blank. All I can think and feel is Hunter Middleton. All I want is him in Paris... and after Paris.

He removes his fingers from my mouth, and I lie there, my cheek resting against the bed, feeling hollow. I dimly hear something tear, and then I feel his fingers slide easily out of my pussy, only to be replaced by something harder, something bigger, something hot.

I howl as he thrusts halfway inside me. He doesn't let me get used to his size, but it doesn't hurt much since I'm so wet. I try to hold on to the headboard, but he grabs both my hands, pulling them behind my back as he uses them to control his pace.

"Hunter!" I beg with a sob, his name the only thing I know for sure.

I feel so full right now as he pushes himself in and out of me, scraping against my inner walls, using my pussy as he pleases like it's just another hole to him. The dirty thought of how he's using me makes my pussy tightly contract, and I scream when I come.

"I knew you could come again," he snarls, increasing his pace.

I sob and try to twist away from him and closer to him, lost, wanting more. I hear him groan when he comes, and I mewl his name out with a hoarse sound, coming once again.

My body is limp when I collapse on the bed. I feel so deliciously used, the after-effects of the orgasm running through me. He lays next to me, a little out of breath as well, but he's smirking when I look at him.

"I hope you're not planning on sleeping." He runs his hand along my spine before spanking my ass lightly. "I'm not done yet."

My eyes widen.

It's the sun hitting my eyes, which makes me stir. I groan and huddle into the sheets, my whole body aching. I've just pulled the blankets over my head when I hear the sound of the door opening.

"We have to be at the hangar in six hours, Megan," comes a familiar voice, and I feel the person sitting down next to me. "We still have some things left to see on your itinerary before we leave."

"I'm so tired," I moan. "You're a monster."

I hear a chuckle. "Get up."

"I don't want to." I burrow myself into the blankets.

There's a long silence, and then the voice has a suggestive tone to it. "I can always join you."

"No!" I sit up straight, my sore vagina horrified by the very idea and coming face-to-face with my boss.

"If you touch me again, Mr. Middleton-"

"Hunter," he corrects, his eyes laughing at me. "We're still not at work."

I take a deep breath. "If you touch me, Hunter, I will throw the first thing I can find at you. Everything hurts!"

Of course, I'm messing with him because my body isn't in terrible pain but rather is suffering from an all-over delicious ache. However, my response elicits a look of concern on his face.

"Was I too rough? Should I take you to a doctor?"

"No," I lean forward, resting my head on his shoulder and closing my eyes. "I need painkillers, coffee, and a massage– not a doctor."

His quiet laughter vibrates through his body. "Well, if that's all, that can be easily arranged, but you have to get out of bed first. Go take a shower. You'll feel a little better."

Complaining under my breath, I climb out of bed, not caring about my nakedness. After all the positions this man put me in last night, letting him see me naked is not a problem anymore. The modesty ship has sailed. He's seen more of me than my gynecologist.

I'm about to enter the bathroom when I hear him say, his voice thoughtful, "I don't know why I thought that you would be a little shy this morning or that you might want to avoid me."

I look over my shoulder at him. "What happened last night was my choice, and I started it. Wrong or right, I know how to take responsibility for my own actions. I don't blame you. I was drunk, but not that drunk."

He stares hungrily at my bare ass, and I walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Staring at my naked body in the mirror, I see the marks left all over my body, courtesy of Hunter's mouth and hands. I refuse to feel ashamed because I'm not. I had the best sex of my life, and I'll never forget it. The only thing to do at this point is to enjoy the next six hours in Paris, and when we land in Los Angeles, Hunter will become Mr. Middleton once again.

My dangerous boss.

My smile is forced as I look at myself in the mirror. "Keep it together, Megan. You knew what you were doing. If you want to keep your job, you're going to get your shit together and not treat this like it's anything more than just a one-night stand. It could never be anything more."

As long as I keep it professional, Mr. Middleton has no reason to fire me and I'll get to cherish the memory of this one weekend with a handsome man in the most romantic city in the world.

The hot shower does help some, and when I come out, there's a cup of coffee waiting for me from the cafe downstairs. Hunter is reading an American newspaper, already dressed in a casual dress shirt and pants that probably cost him my entire year's salary.

"I booked you a massage after we eat," he turns the page of the newspaper.

"Oh," I wince as I sit down. "My butt."

He looks over the top of the newspaper to study me. "I've never heard a woman complain so much after sleeping with me."

I glare at him, picking up my coffee. "How would you know? I doubt you keep them around long enough to find out."

"That's true."

His two-word answer reminds me that this was a one-time thing. Casual is what he does.

Wake up, Cinderella.

"Where's my ibuprofen?" I get up and shuffle toward my bag. "Oh fuck, my back."

"Maybe we should get you that massage first," he offers, clearly pleased with his bed acrobatics.

An hour later, I'm lying on a comfortable massage table with a woman named Francine, giving me the first massage I've ever had in my life. She's releasing knots in my muscles that I didn't even know existed. I enjoy listening to her chatter in French about her methodology as I doze off, pleasantly content.

"I forgive you," I tell Hunter when I walk into the café next door after my massage, where he's been waiting for me.

He raises a brow. "I'm sure, however, some context would be nice."

"For nearly breaking my back," I sink into the seat across from him, beaming.

He gives me an amused look. "You do know that every time you say that, you're giving me a compliment?"

I shrug, feeling all loose and fluid again. "Francine fixed every part of me. I feel like a new woman. Your feelings are insignificant to me right now. I have been reborn."

I add the last part with a dramatic gesture to myself, and Hunter's lips quirk up. "Good to know. Order some breakfast now, or at this point, I guess it's lunch. I was waiting for you."

"You waited?" I give him a surprised look. "I was in there for over an hour."

He doesn't respond, sipping his coffee, unaffected. "This place has a very nice selection of pastries. Your roommate likes croissants, doesn't she? You should get a dozen to bring home."

I blink at him. "What?"

"And get some souvenirs, too," he adds. "For both of you."

It takes me a long minute to digest his words, and I repeat my question loudly in an attempt to get clarification. "What?"

"Did Francine damage your hearing?"

"No – I mean," I stare at him. "Why do you want me to get souvenirs?"

"You went to Paris. You should be able to brag about it. You walked into the most famous art galleries in the world. You should have something to remember from your trip."

For a moment, I feel like he's patting himself on the back for taking the poor girl to Paris, but then I realize that isn't it at all. I sink back into the bistro chair and look at him. "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?" He's looking through the newspaper that he brought down from the apartment.

"Why did you really bring me here?"

He pauses and then sets the paper down. "I'm not quite sure, Megan, but I don't regret this trip, and I hope you don't either."

"Do you have business in Paris?"

"Sometimes."

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Go ahead."

"If you have the money to fly us privately to Paris and fast-track us through the galleries like you're some kind of VIP, why did you open a club in one of the riskiest areas of the city?"

"That's a complicated question."

"So, what's your answer?"

"I serve a particular clientele, and they like it there. Just because I'm wealthy doesn't mean I only want to accommodate wealthy people."

"Sort of like you never want to forget where you come from?"

"Something like that."

"Last question."

"I'm waiting."

"Have you ever taken a date to Paris before?"

I can't quite read the look on his face right now. Normally, Hunter is painfully honest, but he's hesitating as if he doesn't want to hurt my feelings. I don't even know why I asked the question. Of course, he's taken women here before.

"Forget it," I say abruptly. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Was this a date, Megan?" He asks, repeating the word I used in my question. His face is unreadable.

I swallow the tears inside of me down my throat like a bitter pill. I can't show any emotion. The very definition of a one-night stand is that it happens one time. That's what adults do. Being emotional about his response would only reinforce what he's thinking anyway, that I'm some immature college kid who doesn't know her ass from her elbow.

"Absolutely not."

"Right, so let's not overanalyze a good time to death." He gives me a quiet smile. "Just enjoy yourself."

His words aren't harsh, but they aren't exactly what I wanted to hear, either. In fact, I guess they were the glass of cold water that I needed to wake up from this Parisian fantasy. At the end of the day, Hunter Middleton is not my lover or my boyfriend– he is my boss. I can't look at him and see potential because there is none.

I can never forget that even if for some reason he favors me, and is attracted to me, Hunter Middleton is a dangerous man and there's a reason for everything he does. He admitted it himself. There's a part of him who's a monster.

A big part.

Picking me to be the manager of the Blue Whiskey was not because he thought I was up to the task but because I was the only one who would even dare step up after firing that wacko, Steve. I'm not exceptional.

Taking me to Paris was a kind gesture to flaunt his wealth and his cache, and it may or may not have been an opportunity he used to sleep with me. I'm not special.

I may not know all of his business dealings, but I know that he's a man who can shoot a man without any qualms and walk away from it. I'm not fucking crazy. I should just do a good job at managing his club and expect nothing more. It's really the best offer a girl like me could hope for and the safest option, too.

The man sitting before me now, with the kind grey eyes, is not the man who was sitting at Table 21 a month ago. In Paris, he's a man who's quiet yet kind, domineering yet gentle, a giver and a receiver in bed, and I'm going to leave that man behind in Paris.

He's not real.

He's a warm, wet dream.

"What're you thinking about with that look on your face?" he asks, retaking a sip of his coffee.

I smile at him, feeling a slight twinge in my chest. "Nothing important, just marveling at how strange life can be."

"Is it strange?" he questions, watching me.

I look around at the busy roadside café and try to memorize everything I see to never forget it. This is a city I want to keep with me for a lifetime. It's just the feelings I want to forget.

"Let's go get those croissants," I say softly, not looking at him any longer.

Hours later, when we're settled on the plane home, and I watch him working on his laptop, I realize that Mr. Middleton is back and our trip is behind us.

I take out my sketchpad and draw a beautiful café alongside a cobbled street, with a couple sitting there. I don't sketch the girl's face, but just a silhouette of her back and relaxed shoulders. Her body language says it all. She's happy. But the man, his eyes, when he looks at that woman, reflect a quiet passion and kindness. It's important that I sketch the man's face in detail so I can remember him.

The man I left in Paris.

Because there's no monster in this picture.