Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (the false prince .TXT) 📕

“Yeah,” I answer breathily, and we both push to a stand.

All the tension we've slowly whittled away comes crashing back to the moment. His voice is tight when he says, “Thanks, for all of this.”

I just nod, mechanically leading the way to the door. As I swing it inward, something snaps, a trauma trigger I thought I had buried. And all my reckless abandon comes roaring from the deep. I turn back to him, and he's so close. I demolish the space between us and press my lips to his.

For a moment, he doesn't move, and I believe I have caused irreparable offense. But then he groans, and one hand cups my face gently, and he's kissing me back. His touch hardens, and he pushes me against the door, slamming it shut. My eyes slip closed when he presses his body against mine. My fists ball into his dress shirt and hold him there.

His tongue parts my lips, tequila and weed and heat, and his free hand creeps between the door and my ass. He squeezes, and pulls my hips against him, so there's no mistaking his arousal pressing against my thigh. He drinks the whimpers that escape me, and presses his leg against the wet heat below.

He pulls away from the kiss, and my eyes flutter open. He's staring at me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. His voice is gruff when he says, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He hesitates, but his hand is still on my ass, and he's still hard against me. Then the hand that was on my face wraps around my wrist, and he pulls me away from the door.

I let him lead me back to the kitchen. We stop near the table, and he turns back to me and lets me go. He watches me as he circles me. I feel like a piece of meat at a market, but the thought crumbles when he steps up against my back.

His lips are in my ear when he says, “I had completely forgotten about this shirt. I've always loved you in it.”

Both his hands slide beneath the hem of my t-shirt, and I remember that I didn't put on a bra. His touch moves infuriatingly slow up my belly, over my ribs, and finally he takes my tits in his hands. He nips my earlobe and he rolls my nipple between his fingers, and I arch against him.

I push one hand between our bodies, reaching to touch him back, but he says, “No, no,” and abandons one breast to grab my wrist again. He holds that arm behind me as he fondles me. Then he steps back, pulls the front of the shirt over my head, and twists it so that my upper arms are confined – and both arms are trapped behind me.

He leaves a trail of soft bites down the side of my throat, triggering a muscular collapse, and my head falls back against his shoulder. His touch returns, hot fingers sliding along my collarbone, down over a breast. He pinches my nipple hard, soliciting a gasp, then continues his southern course.

I squirm, but he holds me firmly in place. The bites become gentle kisses across my shoulder, and his hand crosses the threshold of my shorts. He teases me through the thong with ghost touches that make me shudder. My hands are behind me, and he presses his hard dick against them. From this angle, I can do nothing but cup my hands, massaging tiny circles on his balls.

He grunts again and shoves the panties aside. I'm so wet, his fingers slide, and I cry out as he puts some real pressure against his rhythm. It's been so long since anyone has touched me that I'm at his mercy. It's been so long since anyone but me got me off that my very soul cries for release.

It doesn't take long, not under this siege, and soon my voice is tearing out of me as every muscle tenses, and I'm coming all over his hand. I lift my head a few inches, look around the spinning room, but I can't hold it. I fall back against his shoulder with a glance at his face. He's staring down the plane of my body, watching himself play my pleasure as he might play his guitar.

Eventually he rips the shorts and panties down, lets them fall to the floor as he continues to assail my body with pure pleasure. He persists until my body is shaking and my voice is hoarse.

He stops abruptly, leaving a wet trail as he wraps his arm around my waist, and lets me heave against him. The moment doesn't last, though, and he pushes me toward one of the metal dining room chairs.

He makes me sit by the grip on the shirt that binds my arms, and he hooks said shirt over the chair back to further detain me. I'm rendered too complacent to fight by the soul-shaking orgasms he just forced upon me.

He pulls my face up to look at him with the same sticky fingers. I'm entranced as he slowly slips the suspenders over his shoulders, and begins to undo the buttons of the white shirt. This restraint in him stokes the flames of my desire impossibly higher. And this commanding lover, who is he?

He doesn't rush the process. No, I believe he means to draw it out. And goddammit, he's got me hooked. I watch the progress, wait with chin held high as he reveals his delicious cut. When he finally shrugs out of the material and lets it fall, I'm about to make an escape attempt. I can't stand it anymore.

He smirks, the son of a bitch, and puts an almost lazy hand against the base of my throat. He pushes, just a little, and says, “Impatient, aren't we?”

I glare back, and he laughs – a low wolfish sound I've never heard from him.

He undoes he belt with one hand, then