Chapter 11

Is he following me? God, I hope he's following me. Between dancing and Winslow's sensual lips, my panties are soaked with arousal.

Searching for the restrooms, I skim through the bar displaying old-school charm with modern bartenders setting drinks on fire. I notice a random guy wobbling in the aisle with a drink precariously balanced in his hand. I try to avoid him but with one clumsy misstep, he accidentally bumps into me, spilling his red drink on my dress.

The guy blurts a string of slurry words together. "I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you, sweetheart." He takes a napkin and blots my dress, pressing on my chest.

Before I can respond, Winslow jerks his arm. "Touch her one more time and lose your drinking arm."

I touch Winslow's back and whisper, "It was an accident."

"Touching you without permission is not an accident."

Winslow nods to the bartender, and security escorts the drunk guy out of view. Then Winslow pulls me down the hall to the restrooms. He's like a desperate man bursting through the bathroom door. I look around, and we're in the family bathroom.

"I don't like other men touching you," he growls as he kisses me. It's needy and hungry, just how I want it. "I need to know… was excusing yourself to the bathroom your way of telling me you want the same thing I do?"

"If you want to fuck me, then yes."

"The bathroom in a restaurant is risky."

"No risk. No reward," I tease.

The combination of the sinful smirk on his face and his the low rumbling growl produces volcanic activity in my lady parts. He shifts my dress up to my waist, slipping his finger under my panties. He rubs through my folds, as my orgasm builds.

"You're wet for me."

"Yes," I choke out.

He pulls my panties down and lifts me onto the granite sink with a hammered copper bowl, so there isn't much room for my ass. But when he drops to his knees and licks up my slit with the flat of his tongue, I cry out, "Feels so fucking good."

With the precision of a highly skilled surgeon, Winslow Worthington tears me apart. Lick by lick. Suck by suck. Blow by blow.

"Come on my tongue, gorgeous."

My legs quiver and clamp around his ears. I'm desperate to not let this end, trying to stave off the freight train steam rolling through my body. "No, no," I whimper. "I want… more."

"Oh, I'm giving you more," he says in a husky voice.

He inserts two fingers and curls them, finding the right spot that no one has found. Two more pumps, and he pulls his fingers from my hole and replaces it with his tongue. I explode on contact.

My toes curl into my feet, and every muscle in my body is taut as I scream. "Waa… Waa."

It's as if I've lost consciousness. When I open my eyes, my vision is spotted with spectacularly colored dancing stars.

He rises to his feet, and my arousal is pasted on his golden skin. "It's Winslow, Winslow Worthington. Not sure if forgetting my name is a compliment or a sign of early dementia."

I laugh and then pull him by his shirt, so our mouths come together with force, exploring every inch of flesh.

"Do you like tasting yourself as much as I do?"

God, every dirty word that falls from his lips drips with sexuality. Neither of us can get enough. "Yes, better than Enzo's tiramisu. Now, I need to have you for dessert." I wiggle my eyebrows.

"Later. I can't wait one more second to be inside you."

I unbuckle his pants as he sucks on my breast. Swirling his tongue around the peaked nipple, I unleash his erection and literally drool. He takes his knuckle and wipes away the string of saliva with a little laugh.

"I have to suck that thing."

"Not tonight, Bella. I have plans for you."

"Now, who's forgetting my name?"

"Bella means beautiful." He teases my entrance with the tip of his mushroomed head. His dick is impossibly hard as it slips up and down through my folds, hitting my clit each time. The moment he presses into my warm cave, I yelp as he stretches me wide. It's been over a year since I've had sex, and he feels enormous.

"You're as tight and toned on the inside as you are on the outside. So special." With each thrust, he mumbles dirty talk into my ear or mouth.

"You're taking me so deep."

"How full are you?" So full.

"I'm going to fill you with my cum." Please.

"Or do you want me to paint you with it?"

"God, you're special. Why are you so fucking special?"

All these words are rhetorical but for some reason, I want to give this man free rein with my body. The dirty talk forces my orgasm to the edge. "Just a little more," I pant as I squeeze his shoulders.

"There's so much more." His hand skates to my ass and presses a long finger against my puckered hole.

"Oh… Winslow," I draw out in exhaustion as the wave crests hard like it's hitting against a rocky shore. My body goes slack, and my head falls on his shoulder.

When I recuperate, I piston my hips against him. His face tenses. Hard planes, eyes pinched closed. "Fuck," he roars from the depths of his stomach. He jerks out and fists himself until he paints my stomach with ropes of pearl.

Our foreheads rest against each other as I take in the feelings swimming through me. That was hot. We rest, allowing our hearts to return to a slower beat.

He grabs a handful of paper towels—at least they're not the brown ones from a chain restaurant. These are soft and white. Winslow wipes me clean, peppering my neck and shoulder with kisses. Then he cleans himself and tucks in his shirt. Remembering the stain on my dress, he wets another towel and rubs the red stain with vigor. When it's faded, he pulls it over my head and gives me a sensual kiss with his hands threading through my hair.

"You ready?"

Nodding with utter exhilaration, he interlaces our hands and opens the door. Elena, my client from today's excursion, is waiting to enter. She's wearing a red dress and looks like a million bucks.

Winslow's hand slips out of mine and when I look up at him, he looks as if he's seen a ghost.