Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 129427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“And to impress you with my culinary skill, of course.” He looked up, winked at me, and turned his attention back to mincing the garlic. “There’s water in the cooler, or white wine, if it won’t make you too tipsy.”
“What’s wrong with tipsy?” I slid off the chair and peeked around the corner of the island. There was a built-in, glass-front cooler beneath the island’s bar sink, and it was fully stocked with bottled water. Two bottles of wine rested on their side, and I was reaching for one when Neil explained exactly what was wrong with tipsy.
“I’m not comfortable playing with a sub who’s drunk.”
I grabbed a bottled water. “Sounds like you have plans, Sir.”
There was that half-smile again, the one that made me weak all over. I leaned against the counter beside him, willing him to stop chopping up vegetables and just touch me already. Somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter.
We were on more comfortable ground now, I realized. There was no talk about missing anyone, nothing even vaguely sentimental. I was there to be fucked, to continue our purely sexual relationship with a side of unthreatening friendship. This, I could handle.
He laid the kitchen knife aside and wiped his hands on a towel, looking down at me with amused heat in his eyes. He seemed to loom over me; I always forgot how tall he was, compared to five-foot-four me. I felt tiny next to him, strangely vulnerable, but not afraid, even when he caressed the back of my neck and exerted gentle pressure to bend me over the counter.
“I like these stockings,” he murmured close to my ear, bending down to trace his fingers up the dark back seam from my knee to the thick black band at the top. His fingers skated along the curve of one bare cheek, and he whispered in approval, “Naughty girl.”
He hitched my skirt up high, exposing my naked lower half to his gaze. His palm smoothed over my skin and I shivered, waiting for the slap that I knew would come. Eventually. My pussy clenched with the anticipation, but when he lifted his hand, it was to reach for something on the counter, not to spank me.
I raised my head. He held a wooden spoon, and he slapped it hard against his open palm.
“Oh fuck yes,” I moaned. My toes curled in my shoes. I didn’t have to wait long for the first blow, which surprised me and jerked a ragged cry from my lips. It was definitely more intense than his hand, more of a surface pain on my skin than the deep, bruising burn of a hard slap.
“What should you say, Sophie?”
“Thank you, Sir.” And I was grateful with every scorching hot cell in my body.
His other hand slipped around the front of my throat, up to cover my mouth, two fingers forcing past my lips. I sucked on them, tasting the garlic and the peppers he had cut up. I almost laughed at that, at the absurdity of being spanked over a kitchen counter in the middle of dinner prep.
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t really give this my all.” He smacked me with the spoon again, and I jumped. “But I have plans for more... intense activity later. I wouldn’t want you to be too sore to enjoy it.”
I moaned and swirled my tongue around his fingers. My clit ached to be touched, but I had no doubt he was going to make me wait an eternity before I could come.
Honestly, that didn’t bother me as much as it would have in the past. I liked the idea of waiting. I knew that the entire time he was teasing me, making me die from anticipation, I was as much the focus of his attention as he was mine.
He gave me another whack with the wooden spoon, then jerked my skirt back down and pulled his fingers from my mouth. He turned away and washed his hands at the bar sink as I stood up, my head spinning. Then he went casually back to the cutting board to grate some ginger with the edge of his knife.
I stumbled to the chair I’d been in, and he passed me the bottle of water I’d forgotten, smiling pleasantly as though nothing had just happened. “I hope you like sea bass.”
Damn him. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. He was torturing himself, as well; I could tell from the slight tremor in his hands as he worked.
Still, he hadn’t been kidding about showing off his culinary prowess. I’d been somewhat concerned that the whole cooking-me-dinner thing had been for show, to display how “normal” he was despite living in a Fifth freaking Avenue palace. But he was actually a really good cook, whipping up an amazing meal of grilled sea bass on a bed of peppers, bok choy, and shiitake mushrooms in a ginger and chili sauce. We settled down at the nook in the kitchen.