Page 154 of Obey

She kisses me harder before pulling back, fingers tightening on my shirt. “You are so fucking hot when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you barely raise your voice and somehow make a grown man question every decision he’s ever made.” Her fingers drag down my chest. “I can argue with Preston all day, but you stood there, let me say what I needed to say, and then tore him apart with business vocabulary.”

“That’s what did it for you?”

“Nate, you called his character a due-diligence problem and basically told his father to reconsider employing him.”

“I made an observation.”

“You ruined his night with an observation.” Her mouth finds mine again, hotter this time. “That was insanely attractive.”

Before I can answer, she slides off my lap and settles between my knees. I catch her wrist as she reaches for my belt. “Sola. What are you doing?”

Her smile turns wicked as her fingers trace me through the fabric. “Showing my appreciation, Sir.”

Wanting to see just what my little spit fire is capable of, I release her, and her fingers work my buckle with deliberate slowness.

When she finally frees me, her eyes don’t leave mine; a direct challenge. The first touch of her tongue is a flat, slow lick from base to tip that makes my abdomen clench. Then her mouth closes over me, wet and warm, and my head falls back against the seat.

She hollows her cheeks, bobbing with a rhythm that makes my fingers knot in her hair. Her tongue traces a specific path along the underside; on every retreat, there’s a focused pressure just beneath the head that has my hips lifting off the seat.

Her nails dig into my thighs. When she pulls off with a filthy, wet pop, her lips are swollen and her chin slick. “You’re not as put together as you pretend to be, Mr. Blackwell.”

The little brat.

Before I can answer, she swallows me again.

Her rhythm becomes a relentless, steady tempo on my dick. She chokes slightly, then angles her head to take me deeper without breaking pace. A thin strand of spit escapes the corner of her mouth, tracing a hot, glistening line down my shaft.

The car fills with the raw, wet sounds of her; each gasp for air through her nose, each muffled groan vibrating against me, the slick friction of her lips stretching around my length.

“Fuck—” The word rips from my throat, ragged and involuntary.

Did I just fucking whimper?

Her eyes flick up to mine, gleaming with triumph. Her hand cups me, rolling my balls with a firm pressure that makes the edges of my vision go soft and hazy.

“You are in so much trouble when we get home, Sola.”

In answer, she seals her lips tighter, pulling back just enough to swirl her tongue over the head before she fucking winks at me. My control frays like old rope as she sinks down again, taking me fully until her nose brushes my skin.

Her throat constricts once, and that does it.

Pleasure erupts up my spine, seizing every muscle. I come in violent pulses down her throat while she milks me with ruthless suction, drawing out each shuddering wave as if she really is trying to snatch my fucking soul.

When she pulls off and licks me clean, the smug satisfaction on her face is a provocation. A dare.

“Christ,” I rasp, blood roaring as I haul her up by the throat and crush my mouth to hers. I taste myself on her tongue—salty, intimate, claiming.

“Trouble,” I growl against her swollen lips. “So much trouble, Sola.”

She hums, pleased, fingers twisting into my lapels. “Then take me home, Sir.”

I like to think of myself as a man who has mastered self-control, but even I have my limits.

Sloane lies across the center of my bed, wrists bound above her head in cuffs of deep crimson leather. Matching restraints encircle her thighs, holding her open and still. The six-inch gold heels I had delivered to her this afternoon remain fastened at her ankles, catching the low light. A faint, knowing smile plays on her lips even now.