My eyes close and I lean back onto him, but my blissful state is interrupted when I’m lightly pushed forward and pressed against the cold mirror of the fridge, my modest boobs squished to the glass and my face turning in to rest my cheek on the cool surface.
‘Don’t move.’ He disappears from behind me, but is back within a few seconds, his knee pushing between my thighs and spreading them before he takes my hands, one at a time, and lifts them, flattening my palms on the mirror above my head. I’m spreadeagled against the front of the fridge, pushed up to the glass, and I can only just see him in my peripheral vision. He’s holding the bowl of chocolate, and before I can even stop to consider his next move, he tips the whole contents across my shoulders, the warm chocolate making my shoulders jump up in shock, the sensation of it trickling down my back, over my bottom, and down my legs, making me pray for help. It’s going to take time to lick all that away, and I’ve had his tongue on me before. I’ll never make it through without screaming or turning to devour him. I start to tremble.
I hear the bowl being placed on the worktop behind me, and I also definitely hear the drag of glass on marble, indicating the repositioning of it. He’s just tipped melted chocolate all over me and now he’s worried about the positioning of a bowl?
Lifting my face from the mirror, I look for him in the reflection, finding him approaching me. His penis is solid and bouncing freely as he paces, and he has a foil packet in his hand. I gulp and rest my forehead against the glass, mentally preparing myself for the sweet torture that I’m about to endure.
‘See? Now I really do need to bathe you.’ The warmth of his palms lands on the outside of my thighs and skate over my hips, my waist, my ribs – until his hands are sitting on my shoulders, massaging me, his big hands slipping over the chocolate. My head rolls back, a moan rolls from my lips, and my stomach rolls in anticipation.
Gliding his touch down the column of my spine, his finger slips over the cheeks of my bum and to the top of my thighs, down, down, down, until he’s kneeling on the floor behind me and reaching up to stroke down my body once more. I’m on high alert. I’m docile, but aware – calm but frenzied . . . alive but fading.
‘Livy, I’m not sure twenty-four hours is going to be enough,’ he whispers, his fingertip circling my anklebone. My eyes close and I try to divert my mind from sending the words that I want to say to my mouth. It won’t help. He’s turned on, that’s all – caught up in the moment.
The tip of that damn finger burns a trail up the side of my lower leg until it’s at the back of my knee. My legs wobble.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, my palms sliding over the mirrored glass.
‘Hmmm,’ he hums, replacing his finger with his tongue, licking a wickedly teasing stroke up the back of my thigh and onto my bum. He bites down on my cheek, his teeth sinking into my flesh and sucking . . . hard.
‘Please.’ I’m begging. I’m doing what I swore I’d never resort to. ‘Please, please, please.’
‘Please, what?’ He’s on my back now, working up the centre of my spine, licking, sucking and biting as he makes his journey. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘You,’ I pant. ‘I want you.’ I’m shameless, but that luscious heaviness is building again, heat racing through my veins, leaving no room for shyness.
‘As I want you.’
‘You can have me.’ I turn my head when he clasps my nape and twists his grip, finding clear eyes that could rival the bluest of tropical waters.
‘I don’t understand how something so beautiful can be so pure.’ His eyes skate all over my face, wonder gushing from the heat of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ He kisses me so delicately, his hands roaming everywhere, until they’re spreading chocolate up my arms and encasing my balled fists with his palms.
I know the answer to his question, but he’s not directly asked, so I should avoid enlightening him. That’s not what this is about. For him, it’s fulfilling his fascination. For me, it’s about remedying a problem that I’ve inflicted on myself – I have to keep telling myself that.
‘Turn around so I can see you,’ he says against my lips, helping me swivel. When my chocolate-drenched back is pushed up against the fridge, slipping and sliding, he steps back and gives me an all-over visual assessment. I’m not shy because I’m too busy absorbing the mountain of chocolate-covered perfection before me – wide shoulders, tight h*ps and strong thighs . . . a thick, long column protruding from his groin. My mouth waters, my eyes fixed on that one area, despite the copious amounts of other hard perfection for my eyes to feast on. I want to taste him.