15. Drew

That came out of nowhere. My reaction was out of shock, not because I don't want?—

Fuck, I don't even know what I want. I barely even understand what I'm asking him for right now. But the fact that his life doesn't revolve around me and our hook-ups when they've rocked me to the core is annoying.

Am I feeling entitled? Maybe. But the thought of that too-pink mouth on someone else has me boiling with rage. I've come as close to saying that as I'm willing to. I have to take this one step at a time, and having his mouth on mine is a step I didn't see coming.

"You're ready to go there, huh?" I ask.

"No. I mean—I don't know. I'm wired, and I haven't slept."

"Maybe you should. Sleep."

"I just said I'm wired," he snaps.

He's been jumpy and irritable since I came in. He's also all over the place. One second sounding truly pathetic and the next imperious and haughty.

I don't know what to do with him, but now that he's put it out there, I have to consider whether I have any interest in kissing him. Any interest in more.

"If you want to work some of that angst out, I've got the perfect way for you to do it."

He glares at me, full of spite. "Yeah, I know you do."

"Don't act like you don't want it," I say, trying to move this back into more familiar, only slightly uncomfortable territory.

"Well, as much as it pains me, I'm starting to realize I can't always have what I want."

"So you're growing up. Good for you. Now be a good peach and get on your knees."

"No," he says, jaw jutting forward.

I take a step toward him. He doesn't move. "You want me to take it from you?"

He snorts. "I mean, you can try. But you might not like what you get."

I hurl my jacket to the side and advance on him, hand on his throat before he has a chance to move out of my arms' reach. I slam him into the window overlooking the park and force him to his knees with a crushing grip.

As he submits, I make quick work of my belt and fly, digging out my growing erection and pointing the tip directly at his mouth. He grabs my choking arm with both hands and uses all his strength, which isn't nothing, to force me back.

I have a rule with choking him. If he pushes me off, I stop. But I have no rules about shoving my cock into his mouth whether he'll say he wants it or not.

He wants it. He always wants it.

But this time, he scrambles to his feet. I slap him, grabbing him by the hair with my other hand and yanking his head to the side to expose his throat. I lean in, close enough for my lips to brush skin and say, "Thought you wanted me to stay."

"I did."

"Change your mind, Peach?"

"No," he grunts.

"Then why are you fighting me?"

His breathing is heavy, and his neck is a thousand degrees hotter than the air in the room. He smells expensive—priceless. He smells like mine.

I lick a stripe up his bruised carotid, and he shudders hard.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"Get your cock out."

I watch his trembling fingers struggle with the drawstring on his fancy joggers, finally shoving them past his ass and letting his erection spring out. He's wet at the tip, and not for the first time, I wonder what he tastes like. Because I really do think it'll be like caviar. And I fucking love caviar. Tangy and alkaline, the way it pops on my tongue. But I've never had the good stuff before—just the kind they put on sushi.

I bet he tastes like the good stuff.

My mouth fills with saliva, and I spit on my palm before taking him in a grip firm enough to make his knees buckle.

He shouts out an urgent cry as I stroke him, keeping my hot breath on his smooth neck.

The only cock I've ever touched is my own, and while that feels good and all, I've never noticed the weight or texture of it on my palm the way I'm noticing all these things about Olivier's. And then there's the heat.

His dick is as perfect as the rest of him. Long, smooth, flushed, and heavier than it looks. Thick like his round, plump ass and his deceptively lean but sculpted chest. He's all man, but like an elevated version of a man. Carefully cultivated with no expense spared. He's sexy without even trying. Beautiful by design. All seduction despite his show of resistance.

An angel mid-fall from grace.

I explore the firm silk of him, slowly jerking the loose skin over his shaft, brushing each new drop of precum I milk out with my thumb. He squeezes his eyes shut and slams his own head back against the window. I briefly wish it were a window washing day—so the men on floating scaffolds could see what The Heir looks like when he's on the verge of falling apart.

But this is all for me. This is mine.

I'm not sure I wouldn't beat the shit out of anyone else who got to see him like this. I worry about myself sometimes. More often lately than not. Whatever it is I'm feeling for him is as powerful and invasive as it is fucked up.

Maybe it's because I've been forced to share everything my whole life. Maybe it's because if I disappeared from this city right now, no one would notice because I haven't left my mark. I don't even own a parking space, but this man—he fucking belongs to me right now. I'm in complete control, and it'll take more than a freaky fiancée to keep me off him.

I vocalize this beneath his ear. "Mine."

"Oh, shit…"

"And that makes you what?" I ask as I give him a few good strokes.

He groans and sags, clutching at my biceps to keep himself standing. "Y-yours."

"All mine," I say again.

"Fuck, Drew…"

I love it when he says my name like that. Like it's breaking him in half. I press my forehead to his temple and breathe into his ear, hungry for his release and his sounds. Hungry for the taste of his flesh, but I need to know he's taking this seriously. Because I'm dead serious. I need this. It's better than Prozac, better than a long run, and far superior to meditation and self-help books. This is my therapy. My coping mechanism. The only thing that makes me feel like myself, although who that is, I'm not so sure anymore. But I've tapped into some part of me that's always been there—something brutal and broken and greedy.

Despite how slowly I'm jacking his cock, he's acting like I'm rushing him to a finish. His hips move, thrusting himself into my twisting fist. "You're gonna make me come," he says sounding both shocked and helpless. "Unh…fuck…so close…"

He leans his head hard against mine, making it nearly impossible for my mouth to resist the urge to suck skin.

But I manage. Somehow.

"Fuck…fuck…"

"Give it to me, Peach. Let me see all that rich, juicy cum."

"Ahh—"

He spasms in my fist, cock bursting with thick ropes of white.

Fuck, it's hot—like, goddamn, have I ever seen anything that hot?

I almost nut on his shirt from how much it turns me on. "Good boy, fuck, that's a good little rich boy."

"Mmm…" he squirms, then says in a pleading voice, "Fuck my mouth. Please. Make me choke on your cock."

He doesn't need to ask twice. Two seconds later I've got him on his knees between my spread legs. I'm bracing my hands against his penthouse window, fucking slowly through tight lips and over a soft, slick tongue, driving deep into the groaning throat of the heir to a French dynasty.

I come after a dozen or so thrusts, pressing my dick in as far as he can take it—which is pretty fucking far—and I weather the stinging thrills of his swallowing my spend while I roar my pleasure, totally, finally, unleashed.

Pulling out after a long, body-quaking moment, I watch some of my cum slide down his chin. I wipe it up and shove past his lips with my fingers. He sucks, dark blue eyes staring up at me.

When he's done, he clears his throat. "The maid's coming today. You might want to sleep in the downstairs bedroom instead of on the couch."

"Am I not good enough to sleep in your bed?"

He blinks those wide eyes up at me. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm not asking to fucking snuggle, but maybe you'll sleep better with company."

"I—"

He's at a loss for words, apparently.

"I share a bed with my roommates all the time. I barely move, and I don't snore." I'm not quite sure why I'm pressing this. I'm sure the downstairs bedroom is great. I just kinda—wanna see his.

"Or snuggle?" he asks.

"Never."

"I mean I wouldn't hate it if you wanted to."

"I don't." I say sharply. Probably because it's a fucking lie.

"Great. Yeah. Sure. Sleep in my bed. Whatever." He gets to his feet and runs his hands over his fucked-up hair before pulling his pants back up. "Undress. I'll send out your laundry."

I do, placing all of it in his outstretched arms. "My room is the whole upstairs. You can't miss it. I'll be up in a minute."

I grab my backpack and head up.

It's like a whole other world up here. While the downstairs is modern, minimalist, and chic, his bedroom is the lap of luxury. The walls are painted a deep red, and there's art hanging in gilded gold frames. Mostly nudes. Naked women, specifically. I don't know much about art, but I'm guessing these aren't the cheap prints you can get from Art.com. Each one has a soft glowing light above it, like in a museum.

Since the upstairs has to be half as big as downstairs, I'm assuming that beyond the large bedroom there's a huge bathroom, and likely an even more enormous closet. I don't explore on purpose. I just need the bathroom.

And Jesus. It's probably the size of my whole two-bedroom apartment. There's a shower, a jetted tub, a vanity that an entire Broadway ensemble could get ready at, and a separate room for the toilet. Wetting a monogrammed hand towel, I wipe myself off and then go to relieve myself.

Afterward, I splash some water on my face, run it back through my hair and scrub at my stubbly jaw while I examine his array of skin care products. There aren't as many as I thought there would be. He has more stuff for his hair than anything, which makes me snort a laugh.

Once I've freshened up, I turn off the light and go back into the bedroom. It's darker up here with velvet shades drawn over the windows, blocking out the heavy gray sky. There's something sort of Old-World France about the vibe. Like I'm in a king's chambers.

It doesn't escape my attention that his bed is enormous. More than capable of handling his threesomes. I lie down on the side I don't think is his based on the contents of the nightstands. I set an alarm and put my phone down before tucking into the sumptuous bedding.

This really is the life, isn't it? Egyptian cotton and velvet down. Even the pillows are perfectly plush, wrapping me up like one of the best hugs I've ever had. I'm about five seconds from drifting off when his footsteps on the stairs force my eyes back open.

"I see you've made yourself comfortable."