Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Jesus.”
“Mm…is that the real reason you called me? Because you wanted to hear that?”
“No. Yes, I…I don’t know.” He bit his tongue, bit his lips, ran his tongue over his aching and throbbing mouth. Fuck. “Say it again. Please.”
“Sweet,” Amani breathed, drawing each sound out, “boy.”
“Fuck. Fuck.” God, that felt so fucking good and so fucking awful all at once—his cock swelling hard as if it had been jerked on a string, trapped against his slacks and demanding in its throb. The response was practically Pavlovian, this trigger he didn’t know he’d had until Amani had pulled it and left him nearly writhing with the kind of need he felt like a secret under his skin, black and smoky sin. “Again.”
And that need whispered to him like a devil in his ear as Amani’s voice chilled, just a hint of delicious disapproval. “Are you giving me orders, now?”
“No, I…” Vic rubbed at his inner thigh as if that could ease some of the pressure that felt like it was choking his cock. “Please. You’ve fucked me up so bad, and I can’t…I can’t…”
“Are you touching yourself right now, sweet boy?”
He curled forward with a shuddering groan. Struck hot as a hammer to a sparking anvil. “No…”
“Do it,” Amani commanded, coaxed, enticed.
Vic’s throat dried, and he darted a glance toward the door. “I…I’m in the office.”
“Are you refusing me?”
“…no.” He wet his lips again, as if that thin cool sheen could soak into his body to extinguish the rising heat chasing all thought and reason from his mind. He was losing his mask, losing himself, all to that hungry, craving need to obey. “No, Master.”
“Lock the door,” Amani purred, “and touch yourself for me, Vic.”
Vic pulled himself out of the chair with a wince, then crossed the room and flicked the lock on the door before returning to his chair. If he closed his eyes, in this quiet shadowed room…he could almost pretend Amani was right there, standing over his shoulder, breathing against his ear, filling his senses with his scent, his warmth. Just the thought sent that throb deeper, and he tentatively curled his hand over his slacks, stroking over the hard rise against the fabric, only to catch a sound in the back of his throat and lift his hips in a tight little jerk as pleasure raked through him with spikes as sharp as nails.
“That was an interesting sound,” Amani lilted in his ear. “Are you doing as you’re told, sweet boy?”
Vic groaned raggedly, stroking his hand over himself again just to feel that flashfire burst wash over him. “I…outside my slacks…”
“No, Vic. I want you to touch yourself. Skin to skin.”
His stomach fluttered. His skin prickled. He darted another glance at the door, then hesitantly unbuckled his belt, unfastened his slacks, dropped his zipper. This felt…clandestine, forbidden, just a little perverted and depraved, sitting here in his office with his hand slipping inside his trousers and his hips lifting to let them slide down enough for him to free himself, hidden under the desk and yet doing something so untoward as touching himself at work with people on the other side of that door, oblivious. With a shaky breath, he wrapped a hand around his cock, only to startle himself with the deep, panting whine that rose as naked skin to naked skin brought back the feeling of tight flesh clutching around him, crushing him, milking him of every drop.
“Amani…”
“Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I…” He swallowed, thick and rough, and let his fingers trail along the underside of his cock in shivers, gathering the dripping beads of clear, sticky-slick precum that pooled at his tip and slid down in rivulets. Every touch made his cock jerk sharply, a hot pulse in his bloodstream, a beating drum in his flesh, pleasure a quiet scream of sensation. He closed his eyes, letting that slickness cover his palm, spreading it over his skin as he stroked in twisting, caressing circles, enveloping himself in a tight grip and thinking of slender thighs and knowing amber eyes and hands that controlled him with the lightest touch. “I’m…I’m stroking myself,” he panted against the phone. “I’m so fucking wet with wanting you, Amani…it’s dripping all over me.”
“So my sweet boy is a messy boy,” Amani taunted, and Vic jolted. “How does it taste?”
“Wh-what?”
“You said you’re dripping. Covered in your own pre. Tell me how it tastes.”
Vic stilled with a shuddering breath, hesitating—but that compulsion ran deeper than his hesitation, and he lifted his glistening fingers to his lips, licking them—then, with a moan, slipping them into his mouth, sucking them clean as his own musky, salt-bitter flavor rolled over his lips, delving his tongue between each finger and wrapping around it until fuck, fuck, he felt like he was sucking someone off and it felt dirty and wonderful and so, so hot.